Arguing directly against her wasn’t going to work.

“Lydia.” He glanced down at his hands clasped on the table, marshaling his arguments, controlling his tone-hiding all evidence of the primitive response her “plan” evoked-then he looked up and met her eyes. “You cannot go waltzing into Barham’s house and search for that letter-not now, while he has guests there. After they leave…it might be possible, but you’re going to have to wait until then.”

She held his gaze; he could read very little in her eyes or expression-no hint of how she would react. But there was that same calmness, a cool, serene steadfastness that he recognized from long ago…for the first time in many years he let himself wonder what she was seeing, what she was thinking, when she looked at him like that.

Then the curve of her lips deepened; she looked down as she pushed back her chair. Then she looked up and met his gaze.

“Tomorrow I’m going to start searching Upton Grange for Tab’s letter.” She tilted her head, studying him still. “If you wish, you can help me.”

She rose, still holding his gaze. “But what you can’t do, Ro, is stop me.” She paused, then added, “That I won’t allow, so please don’t try.”

With a nod, she turned away.

Ro pushed back his chair and rose.

Reaching the door, she waved him back. “No-stay and have some brandy and get warm.” She paused, the door open, looking back through the wavering firelight at him. “Good night. Perhaps I’ll see you in the morning.”

Stepping through the door, she shut it gently behind her.

Ro stared at the wooden panels, then dropped back into his chair, scrubbed his hands over his face, and groaned.

After a moment, he lowered his hands, sat back; spreading his arms wide, palms up, he looked up at the ceiling. “Why?”

No answer came. Disgusted, he reached for the bottle Bilt had left, poured an inch of brandy into his goblet, then pushed his chair around and leaned back, sipping, his gaze on the dying flames.