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smell of dust and ink and moldy paper. They should be spidery men, all arms and legs and bulging eyes, like Papa’s man of affairs.
    They most certainly shouldn’t be constructed of solid steel, sleek and hard as her ancestor’s sword. They shouldn’t smell of woodsmoke and leather orhave eyes so blue that even with spectacles they’d be intoxicating.
    She sank onto the bed and absently stroked the jade green damask, only a shade less bright than the stripes of the dress she wore today—her favorite. Mr. Brennan’s rakish air and deft ability to disarm her made her wonder. Could he be one of Mr. Knighton’s smuggling companions, brought here to tally up the estate’s valuables before Papa was even in the grave? Yes, that must be it.
    Yet how odd that he knew Shakespeare. It seemed unlikely that a smuggler would read A Midsummer Night’s Dream . On the other hand, as Shakespeare wrote, “the Devil can cite scripture for his purpose,” so why couldn’t the Devil cite Shakespeare?
    There was also his skulking about to consider—she didn’t quite believe his tale about the cigars. What if he had indeed been searching for Papa’s private papers?
    Sliding to the foot of her bed, she opened her wooden trunk to check on the strongbox. Thank God Mr. Brennan hadn’t had time to find it last night. As she studied its heavy padlock, her curiosity blossomed. Its contents certainly seemed important to both Papa and Mr. Brennan’s employer, who no doubt had put the man up to searching the desk in the first place.
    Well, if finding the box was Mr. Brennan’s task, she would prevent him from succeeding. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight, no matter what the consequences. Even if he wasn’t looking for it, knowing her enemy couldn’t hurt her. Mr. Brennan might unwittingly provide evidence of his employer’s poor character that she could use in convincing Juliet to defy Papa. Surely Papa would never force Juliet into marriage if the girl truly didn’t wish it.

    She shoved the trunk lid shut. Yes, that would be her plan—to unravel the men’s secrets and thus win this battle.
    With renewed determination, she rose and swept toward the door. Let Mr. Brennan say what he would at breakfast. She’d counter every accusation with one of her own. He wouldn’t best her—no indeed.
    Hurrying from her room, she nearly collided with Juliet, who was coming up the hall. As Juliet’s gaze swung to her, the girl blanched. “R-Rosalind?”
    “Good morning, dear. Headed down for breakfast?”
    “Yes.” Juliet eyed her anxiously. “Y-You aren’t furious at me?”
    “For what?” She paused. “Oh, yes, for locking me in Papa’s room.” Her encounter with Mr. Brennan had blotted it right out of her mind.
    “I’m so sorry I did it,” Juliet whispered, pleating the skirt of her lemony satin gown with nervous fingers. “Are you very angry?”
    How could she rail at the girl when the poor dear looked so remorseful? “Not anymore. You thought you were doing the right thing.”
    “I did! Truly, I did.” Turning, Juliet lifted her skirts and walked toward the stairs. “I know Mr. Knighton’s past concerns you, but it isn’t as if he were a smuggler himself. And anyway, Papa says it was a long time ago. There are worse things he could have been—like a drunkard or a rakehell or a friend of that awful Lord Byron.”
    Rosalind rolled her eyes, but Juliet did have a point. Mrs. Inchbald’s letters hadn’t mentioned any character traits that would make the man a poor husband. Nonetheless….
    “You won’t rail at Mr. Knighton about the smuggling, will you?” Juliet went on.

    “Really, Juliet, I’d never be rude to a guest.” Not rude enough to send him running to Papa, in any case. She didn’t want to earn another evening locked away.
    A sunny smile transformed her sister’s features. “I’m so relieved to hear you say that. I don’t like it when we’re at odds. It’s quite vexing.”
    “Yes, it is,” she