Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online

simply waited, unperturbed by her scrutiny, Pippin made her decision and beamed and piped, “I’m Pippin—like the apples.”
    Glendower’s smile deepened. Gravely, he inclined his head. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Pippin. And please, call me Thomas.”
    “I will,” Pippin assured him.
    Glendower’s gaze moved on to Rose; before it reached her, she made a show of studying what he had brought in on his tray. “Do you have everything you need there?” Raising her gaze, she met his hazel eyes.
    His easy expression in place, Thomas held her gaze for a long moment, but she gave no sign of wavering. No first names between them, it seemed. Glancing down at the tray, he nodded. “Yes, I believe so.” It wasn’t in his best interests to annoy or irritate her. He started to lift the various platters and plates from the tray, setting his plate before him and spreading the platters along the table, clearly inviting Homer, Pippin, and the curiously haughty and reserved Mrs. Sheridan to partake of the dishes.
    Everyone returned their attention to their plate.
    Thomas waited. The little girl, Pippin—six or seven years old?—had the same color and fine texture of hair as her mother, and similar eyes, too. The girl’s features were younger echoes; between the two females, the resemblance was strong. The boy had darker hair, more sable than walnut, and dark blue eyes, somewhat differently set in a broader face, but while his features in general were stronger, the resemblance to his mother was there.
    Thomas had had very little to do with children, yet he did remember what being a boy was like. His money was on Homer, and the boy didn’t disappoint.
    “Did you really live in a monastery for five years?” Homer’s big blue eyes overflowed with curiosity.
    Mrs. Sheridan opened her mouth—no doubt to quell the imminent inquisition.
    Thomas spoke before she could. “Yes. It was up by the Bristol Channel.” He’d long ago learned that the best way to invite confidences from others was to offer information first.
    “Was it old and ruined, and were there ghosts?” Pippin asked.
    Thomas smiled encouragingly. “No—it was only built about thirty years ago. The monks came over from France during the . . .” Terror. “ . . . upheavals there, about fifty years ago now.”
    Now the gate had been opened, both children came barreling through, posing question after question about life in the monastery; both possessed what Thomas considered healthy curiosities, and he was entirely willing to indulge them.
    Still alert, still wary, Rose watched her employer charm the children, but there was nothing in his manner that struck her as worrisome; indeed, time and again, he stopped and thought before he answered. She’d already noticed that about him; his responses were, more often than not, considered.
    As for the children, as he’d all but invited their questions, she was content to let them pose them—so she, too, could learn the answers.
    She was as curious, if not more so, than they.
    When she’d first opened the door to him, she’d instinctively catalogued his clothes, his hairstyle, his deportment, his manners, his diction, and all the rest—all the telltale signs of class—and had pegged him as upper-range gentry, perhaps with a knighthood or a baronetcy in the family. That also fitted what she’d gathered about Thomas Glendower. Now, however, as the conversation between him and the children continued, steady and unforced, and she had time to study the clothes he’d donned for the evening and his more polished appearance, had time to note his precise diction delivered in that faintly raspy voice, and the manners and assurance that seemed an intrinsic part of him, she had to wonder if his origins weren’t a rung or two higher.
    Somewhat to her surprise, the meal passed in unexpectedly and uniformly pleasant fashion.
    And at the end of it, he set the seal on her approval by offering, and then