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murmured. “I suspect you never betray your advantage.”
    He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I suspect the same of you, Miss Weston.”
    “Touché,” she allowed with a small smile.
    A quick glance at Madeline showed that she yet reclined on her pillows with eyes closed. Catherine doubted she was asleep, and wondered if she simply played at slumber as a means to avoid conversation with her cousin. She pondered an appropriate way to ask him to leave, and stumbled upon none.
    A faint rattling announced the arrival of a maid carrying a tray laden with a silver teapot, cups, and a plate of small cakes. The girl paused, stared down at the tabletop, still marked with dust, and hesitated with the tray hovering above the surface.
    With a sound of impatience, St. Aubyn took the thing from her and set it down himself. She gave a nervous squeak, bobbed a quick curtsy, and departed in quiet haste. Behind her came a footman with a tea caddy, hot water urn, and a heater. After putting these in place, he followed the maid, closing the door behind him with a soft snick, leaving the room gloomy and silent as it had been a moment past.
    A crypt would have more warmth and cheer.
    St. Aubyn rose with lithe grace, stalked to the door, and flung it open once more. Startled, Catherine wondered what it was about closed doors that distressed him.
    “I dislike the scent of old liniment,” he said as he resumed his seat. But she thought that was not the reason he had opened the door. She suspected it was a dislike of the closed door itself. No, not suspected …she was certain of it.
    No longer feigning slumber, Madeline made a mewling sound of distress and wriggled back on the bed, as far from St. Aubyn as she could. Shadows hugged the corners and fell across her face, accentuating angles and hollows until she appeared a ghostly incarnation of herself, with blue eyes burning in a chalk white face.
    Her patience frayed, Catherine gestured toward the single candle that battled the gloom, turned to St. Aubyn, and said, “Oh, do light more candles.”
    He blinked.
    “Please,” she added as an afterthought. ’Twas a word she despised, but polite conversation could not be had without it. Ask nicely, my cat. Say please.
    She suppressed a shudder at the memory, reminding herself that he was gone. Dead. She was free of him now, and she would never again allow herself to be in a position where she would be forced to plead.
    St. Aubyn rose from his seat and did as she bid while Madeline made soft sounds of dismay that were merely noise without form. The tiny, freshly lit flames did little to ease the dimness. They only served to make the dust more apparent and lend the stacks of books a faintly menacing cast.
    Taking his seat once more, St. Aubyn leaned forward and warmed the silver pot with hot water, his actions competent and sure. He had done this before, and that in itself amazed Catherine, for it was a hostess’s duty to brew the tea, not a host’s. But then, Madeline did not appear up to the task, so perhaps St. Aubyn had had some practice. She found it both unsettling and oddly appealing to watch him make his selection from the tea caddy, discard the water from the pot, and pour fresh boiling water over the leaves.
    Catherine made several attempts to engage Madeline in conversation, but they only earned her monosyllabic replies and hasty glances. In the end, they sat in stilted silence as the tea steeped…five minutes…seven…an agony of uncomfortable quiet. And all the while, St. Aubyn’s gaze was fixed upon her. Catherine suspected that he orchestrated this fraught interlude to elicit her response. Perhaps he wished to see her squirm. He would be disappointed, then. Awkward silence was a mere inconvenience when measured against so many other possible trials.
    “Shall I pour, Sir Gabriel?” Catherine offered when the tea was steeped, choosing not to wait for him to make the request, preferring to take control of the