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let the empty silence of the place ease him, push him further away from the turbulence brought on by his sister’s distress. Yet her words echoed in his mind. She accused him of hiding? He snorted, thinking of Mairi’s histrionics and Hardwick’s manufactured, forbidding aspect. There were ways and ways of hiding.
    And suddenly it was Hardwick’s image filling his head and making inroads on his carefully maintained borders. Her earlier words sprang to mind. She’d been irritated—because he had not known of her preference for the sea? He tried to recall if he’d ever before seen Hardwick irritated. She was always calm, competent, serene. He’d grown used to—hell, he’d come to count on—her silent efficiency.
    Damn Mairi anyway, for her outlandish suggestion. Of course he’d wondered about his assistant. Occasionally he had surprised a delighted laugh out of her, or caught a glimpse of her hard at work, her lips pursed in concentration and her hair falling in tendrils about her face—and he’d known that there was something there. But he hadn’t looked too deeply. All these months he’d tucked away his curiosity, banished the occasional urge to know what Hardwick was hiding beneath all that severe tailoring and daunting effectiveness. The more he’d come to value her skills, the less inclined he’d been to meddle. Now his interest had been piqued again and it had brought along the image, lush and vivid, of him starting with those damned buttons and peeling her layers away, one by one.
    Flushed and hot, he banished the vision and headed for the workroom and the blade he’d abandoned there. He grasped the hilt and lunged, stabbing a thrust through an imaginary opponent. What he needed was a bit of practice to conquer such wayward thoughts.
    And that was why Mairead was wrong. He’d no need to hide. He’d faced war, both at home and abroad, he’d swum through the murky waters of diplomatic intrigue and he’d survived social manoeuvring that made politics look like child’s play. And he’d yet to meet the obstacle he couldn’t conquer with determination and a damned good weapon.
    He glanced over at Hardwick’s empty desk. Surely this one would be no different.
    * * *
    It had taken a couple of days, but Chloe had at last tracked down the hint she needed regarding Skanda’s Spear. She clutched the table in relief. She needed to maintain her usual impeccable work performance, for her attempts to attract the marquess’s attention in other ways were resulting in mixed success, at best.
    She’d thought that seeing him outside her usual sphere might be a good beginning, so she’d ‘arranged’ to run into him in different spots about the house and the grounds. Lord Marland had looked intrigued, the first time, and then increasingly resigned, but in each instance, he’d merely nodded, exchanged a brief nod and moved on.
    So she’d tried bringing up other topics of conversation. He’d followed easily when she’d asked about the estate, talking with enthusiasm about the improvements he was undertaking at his bailiff’s advice. But then he’d caught himself and cast her a measuring glance. Later he’d resisted speaking of his sister and flatly refused to discuss the weather, each time turning the conversation back to the collection or, repeatedly, the Spear of Skanda.
    Yesterday, though, she’d experienced a greater measure of success. She’d eschewed her usual, severe
chignon and worn her hair loose down the back of her neck. She’d gone about other business as usual, but several times she’d looked up to find him staring intently from a distance. Near the end of the day they’d been debating the merits of open and closed cases for a set of ancient flint knives when his argument had stuttered to a stop. She’d glanced up in surprise to see his gaze fixed on the curl that had fallen forwards over her shoulder. Without another word he had stood and stalked from the workroom.
    She had grinned for