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Wolfe's possession, Edgar must have knocked the key out of his hand.
    Rose reached down for it at the same time Mr. Wolfe did, and they
nearly bumped heads. She straightened, holding out the key, and smiled at the
humor of the situation. But all amusement died when she looked into the face of
the man before her. For a moment all she could do was stare at him.
    He looked like a pirate—that was the only way she could
describe him—with his scarred face, shining black hair and sardonic slash
of a mouth. But this pirate wasn't laughing. In fact, his dark brown eyes
studied her with a guarded intensity that unnerved her. He had a prominent nose
with a narrow bridge—a nose some might call too sharp—and she had
the distinct feeling that he was looking down that nose in disdain at her. A
strand of black hair fell over a forehead crossed by a scar. Another scar
paralleled the line that stretched from cheekbone to chin on his lean face. His
jagged wounds branded his good looks with the mark of a brigand, compounded by
the ebony fire that smoldered in his unusually dark brown eyes. But even more
unsettling to Rose was a sudden flare of familiarity in his features, as if she
had seen him before.
    "Do you always stare?" he demanded. “Or do you have
something to say about my face?”
    "No. Pardon me." Chagrined, Rose dropped the key in his
outstretched hand. "And sorry about Edgar. He usually isn’t so mischievous."
    "Edgar?" The man’s long hand snapped around the key.
"I can't believe a wild animal is loose in the house."
    "Edgar isn't wild. He's quite tame. And once you get to know
him—"
    "I have no intention of getting to know him." He turned
away and limped to the doorway of the drawing room. Her reaction to his face must
have upset him. Rose surveyed Mr. Wolfe as he walked. She hadn't noticed the
cane when she had first met him in the study a few hours ago, but he hadn't
been walking around then, either. And the library had been too dark to see much
of his face.
    She studied him as he walked away, wondering at the queer feeling
of deja vu she had felt a moment ago, and how differently he appeared to her in
the light. His hair glinted blue-black and was neither straight nor curly, but
full of lights and body where it curved over the tops of his ears. His
shoulders were wide and straight, which she assumed was the product of the
expert tailoring of his leather jacket. He didn't look much older than his late
twenties, but even with the limp, he moved with the confidence of a man who had
seen a lot of the world and usually got his way, no questions asked.
    “You are Mr. Wolfe,
aren’t you?” she ventured.
    “Yes,” he said over his shoulder. “But apparently no one got the
memo about my arrival.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Puzzled and annoyed by his gruff behavior, Rose stood at the foot
of the stairs, her arms stiff at her sides. Mr. Wolfe glanced down the central
hall, which led to the parlor, morning room and the kitchen, and then pivoted.
His jacket creaked softly. "Where is Mrs. Jacoby?"
    "She has retired for the night." Rose wondered what had
happened to his earlier mood when he had told her she was beautiful. Now he was
looking at her as if she were an interloper.
    "And Mr. Jacoby?"
    "He hasn't been here for quite some time."
    "Obviously. The lawn is overgrown. And the outlying gardens
look like a jungle."
    "We have done the best we could, considering."
    "We?" he quipped. "And who might you be?"
    She knitted her brows in confusion. What kind of game was he
playing?
    "Well?"
    "Have you forgotten? Rose."
    "Rose what?"
    "I told you before. Rose Quennel."
    He paused for a moment and glanced away, as if running through a
mental list. Then he looked back at her. "I don't recall seeing your name
on the list of people employed at Brierwood."
    "I'm not exactly employed here. The Jacobys are my
guardians."
    "Guardians?"
    "Yes." She wondered why he was questioning her again
after he had already told her that she could