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  And there it was. Another calculated move.

  Imperial. Demanding. Turning the tables back on her.

  Interesting that he had decided not to use charm, which she was confident was another tool in his arsenal. Likely he didn’t consider her to be enough of an opponent to warrant a more laborious plan of attack.

  The thought . . . burned.

  Just once she would like someone to understand that her gender and poverty were not synonymous with ignorance and passivity.

  Which probably made her reply sharper than normal.

  “Yes, I do accuse you, my lord. You have trespassed into my home, stolen my ideas and then taunted me with them. At least I admit my duplicity in regards to the Society and my gender.”

  “Admission alone does not exonerate one’s guilt.”

  Grrr.

  “You are attempting to muddy the point with logic puzzles, my lord.”

  “Perhaps. But a sin of omission is still a sin.”

  That shot rankled. “Are you to be my priest then? My judge and jury before God?”

  A beat.

  “Of course not, Miss Lovejoy.” Lord Whitmoor half-perched on the back edge of his desk, humor flaring in his eyes before fading just as quickly. “But your admitted prior behavior does not engender confidence in your future trustworthiness.”

  Oh!

  “If I were a man, Lord Whitmoor, you would have readily accepted my status within the Society of Mathematicians and answer to your theorem as proof of my capabilities. No further questions needed.” Against Fossi’s better judgment, her voice rose, tone heated.

  Emotion would only give Lord Whitmoor ammunition with which to attack her.

  She swallowed. Stay calm.

  “You posted the notice in Scriptis Mathematicis to taunt me . . . to draw me out for some reason,” she continued. “Now that you have done so and find that I do not fit into the neat boxes with which you label things, you are hardly in a position to cry wolf.”

  Silence.

  His expression retreated.

  Had she struck true then?

  She had to keep him on the defensive. Press her case. “Furthermore, your outrage over my gender is disingenuous, my lord. How did you learn of this formula’s existence without also apprising my sex? Either you are sloppy in your current argumentation or sloppy in your intelligence gathering.”

  Lord Whitmoor’s eyes narrowed. Finally, the man decided to view her as a true opponent, not simply a pawn to be brushed aside. Though given the weight of his glacial stare, she wasn’t entirely sure this was a positive development.

  Lord Whitmoor’s face froze, becoming steel. Hard and obdurate. She could practically see ideas flitting through his brain . . . clearly recalibrating his strategy.

  He would not make the mistake of underestimating her again.

  Su coraggio!

  He called to mind an ancient castle Fossi had once visited on a rare trip to Weymouth—stone walls held together by enormous iron brackets. Rigid and unbending. A granite fortress. Impervious and constantly defended against intrusion.

  She wondered if his granite-steel extended to his core or if it was instead a sort of armor, a mask. Were Lord Whitmoor’s insides like hers? A shell holding all the color in? Like a turtle, keeping all the squishy bits safe from the carelessness of others?

  Or was the man stone and steel through to his core?

  He cleared his throat. “I am not at liberty to discuss how the information regarding your theorems came into my possession.”

  Fossi barely stifled an angry huff over his non-answer.

  “Forgive me, my lord, if I do not accept such a dismissive explanation.” Show no emotion. “Is the Crown of England so pressed for excitement that they must resort to pilfering the papers of an unknown female mathematician of small reputation and even smaller circumstances?”

  Lord Whitmoor stood and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Perhaps this was a test?” His face remained impassive, giving away nothing now. “Perhaps we needed to measure the depth of your mettle?”

  Fossi tilted her head. A test? That made no sense.

  Lord Whitmoor was hiding things.

  No surprise there.

  “The numerical odds are not in your favor, my lord.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I give this interchange only a one in four hundred and sixty-three chance of being a test.” Fossi waved a hand, indicating the space between them. “And more to the point, test my mettle to what end?”

  “That I can answer.” He straightened further. “Your mathematical mind is needed. I wish to offer you employment.”

  It was Fossi’s turn for surprise. She blinked.

  “Employment?”

  “You needn’t say the word as if it were tainted, Miss Lovejoy.” That faint amusement danced across Lord Whitmoor’s face again. “I am prepared to pay handsomely for your services.”

  “Pay?”

  “Also not a foul word.” Another flash of humor. “Payment and employment are usually joyously welcomed terms.”

  Lord Whitmoor clearly did not understand her position in the world.

  She was a lady, despite her poverty. And employment for a lady . . . particularly one with a father such as hers . . . it was simply not done.

  No.

  It was impossible.

  “If you have gleaned anything from your espionage efforts, you would know that employment is not something I seek.” She nodded her head. “I thank you for your offer, my lord, but I must respectfully decline.”

  Chapter 5

  Miss Lovejoy’s words hung in the air between them.

  I thank you for your offer, my lord, but I must respectfully decline.

  Daniel found himself feeling nearly . . . flustered.

  Miss Foster Lovejoy unsettled him as no one else had in . . . forever. Was it because so much depended on receiving her help?

  She faced him down with quiet poised confidence, asking perceptive questions that he could not answer.

  Anger, frustration, fear, outrage . . . those were emotions he could work with. But Miss Lovejoy gave him little to latch on to.

  Instead, he was left to deal with his own sense of . . . what? Disbelief? Startled bemusement?

  Daniel backtracked and regrouped.

  Miss Lovejoy had yet to understand that refusing his offer was not an option.

  She would do this task for him, even if he had to kidnap her and chain her to a desk. Too much depended upon it. Of course, the task would be more pleasant for them both if she helped willingly.

  “I can well imagine your concerns, Miss Lovejoy, and my offer of employment to a lady such as yourself is certainly irregular. However, I am faced with a singular problem, and I fear you are the only person who can help me.”

  It was a calculated move, revealing his desperation while simultaneously appealing to her vanity.

  She was the only one who could help him, and he was happy to meet whatever demands she would have of him. He would prefer not to have to chain her to a desk.

  He smiled. It was one of his polite smiles, the one that said, You can trust me as your friend.

  Miss Lovejoy raised her eyebrows. I am hardly so easily persuaded.

  “I am sure that a man of your resourcefulness, Lord Whitmoor, will easily find another to take my place. My answer remains the same.” She placed her words like cards, fanned before her. Challenging him to up the ante or fold.

  Daniel clasped his hands tightly behind his back, mostly to stop from running his fingers through his hair in a most agitated fashion.

  Had he considered her terribly plain only a few minutes ago? With her intelligent eyes and classic facial structure, she had a sort of porcelain beauty. Not flashy or ostentatious but steady. She was a woman who would only become more beautiful as she aged, not less.

  She regarded him with that same irritating serenity, living out his earlier comparison to a Renaissance Madonna—those unruffled, elegant
women who gazed upon painted horrors with calm tranquility. Was she this staid on the inside too? Or was Foster Lovejoy’s interior life more chaotic?

  “Come, let us stop with this game.” He faced her. “You are clearly no naive debutante. You understand the world.”

  Fire snapped in her eyes, but she remained silent.

  “Surely you have a price. I am willing to meet it,” he continued.

  Miss Lovejoy’s brows raised further. “You are quite misinformed in this matter, my lord. Neither my person nor my mind are for hire. And more to the point, you still have not addressed my question regarding your procurement of my theorem research in the first place.”

  This woman.

  He had to give her points for tenacity. But he could hardly tell her the truth—

  Well, you see a time portal in Herefordshire has malfunctioned due to an earthquake two years past, and I need a mathematician to reconcile wave mechanics with wormhole theory. I remembered your theorem from my university studies around the year 2012 and voilá, here you are . . .

  “I am afraid that my initial explanation is all I am at liberty to give, Miss Lovejoy. But I find your stubborn refusal to help confusing. Everyone has dreams they wish to achieve.”

  Miss Lovejoy clutched her reticule more tightly. The poor bag was near to being strangled.

  Had his question struck true?

  “Dreams are a fanciful luxury for the very wealthy and a necessary escape for the very poor.” That elegant jawline of hers nudged higher. “I am neither of these things.”

  Clever. Very clever.

  Daniel cleared his throat.

  He admired her, damn it all.

  Hmmmm.

  He could be clever, too.

  “I think, Miss Lovejoy, that you are . . . afraid.” He said the words softly, letting them hang between them.

  Given how her brown eyes widened and her breath hitched, she was not entirely unaffected.

  “Afraid, my lord?”

  Daniel walked slowly toward her, crowding into her space. Not enough to make her bolt, not enough to threaten . . . but sufficient to get her attention.

  “Yes. Afraid, Miss Lovejoy. A woman with mental gifts such as yours, a woman who has the gumption to pretend to be a man in a man’s world . . . well, such a woman has obvious depths of courage and does not give a fig for what the world will say of her.”

  Miss Lovejoy pursed her lips, clearly uncertain where he was headed with this tactic.

  “Thank you?” It was a question.

  “You may wish to save your thanks until I am finished, madam.”

  Daniel continued to walk, circling around her, forcing her to pivot with him if she did not wish to give him her back.

  She pivoted.

  “I think, Miss Lovejoy,” he continued, “you hide behind the mask of your own anonymity, protected by parchment and words. With my request, I am asking you to move into the light, to step in front of the curtain, prepare your lines and become an actor on the giant Stage of Life, as it were. That is why I call you afraid.”

  “Oh.” The exhalation left her in an abrupt rush.

  A direct hit.

  Daniel pressed his advantage. “You are possessed of courage of mind, Miss Lovejoy. But thus far, this courage has not manifested itself upon your outward life. You hide behind equations and ideas and call that living, but I call that cowardice. Reducing life to analytical musings is nothing more than avoidance.”

  See? Clever.

  “Gracious!” Color flooded her cheeks, brown eyes snapping, chest heaving.

  She was mentally preparing to give him a magnificent set-down.

  At last. Emotion he could use.

  Daniel stopped in front of her again, forcing her to look up, up into his face.

  “Within you is a woman of incredible mettle and verve. Someone who wants to seize the reins and take her life to unknown heights.” He paused for effect. “When you finally let that woman free, please return to me. That is a woman I wish to know. That is a woman who could turn the world on its head.”

  Those brown eyes continued to snap at him, something fiery and hot blazing just beneath their surface.

  Miss Lovejoy was so very . . . alive.

  Unwillingly, Daniel found himself intrigued. His little speech had intended to get a rise out of her—which . . . mission accomplished—but perhaps there was more truth than he knew to his words.

  What would happen if Miss Foster Lovejoy did indeed seize the reins of her own destiny?

  Her mouth opened and closed. She swallowed.

  And then, just as quickly as it appeared, all that lovely fire drained away. As if she had pulled the plug and allowed it to flow off. Her eyes returned to flat brown and the militant hauteur of her head relaxed.

  Daniel felt . . . disappointed.

  She took a deep breath.

  “Your uninvited assessment of my inner life is duly noted, my lord.” Voice prim. Controlled. “As we are clearly at an impasse—you will not answer my questions and I will not agree to your demands—I will trespass no further upon your time. I trust you will cease to pilfer my equations for your own . . . nefarious purposes.”

  “Nefarious, Miss Lovejoy?” Daniel nearly snorted in bemused disbelief.

  Did this woman think to dismiss him so easily?

  She turned to leave. Paused. And then rotated back to face him, head tilted.

  “I fear your game was somewhat off today.” Soft brown eyes met his. “You opened with intimidation. You would have done better with respect and charm.”

  “Pardon?” His head reared back.

  She clicked her tongue. “Allow me to clarify. You have attempted to engage me in a sort of chess match, have you not?” She gestured at the space between them. “You are playing some grand contest on a board with players I cannot see, and you wish me to join the game. In this particular salvo, you opened with the equivalent of a Greco-Counter Gambit.”

  Daniel’s mind struggled to follow the chess analogy. How had she grasped the upper-hand again?

  She continued, “Such a chess gambit is bold but risky, as it signals contempt for your adversary. It implies that only the loosest of strategy will be needed to win your battle . . . that you can charge in recklessly, overwhelming your opponent with flashy moves and seize the field. I am not interested in such a game and respectfully decline your invitation to play, my lord.”

  “Well . . .” was all Daniel managed to say.

  “You should have trusted my skill as an opponent and gone with something more venerated, like a King’s Gambit. Or better yet, dispensed with the games altogether. I prefer to be treated as a person, not merely an obstacle to be beaten.” She cocked her head at him. “I would have responded better to respect.”

  Daniel blinked, words astounded right out of his brain. How had she seen through him so easily?

  He swallowed. Regrouped his thoughts. Daniel Ashton had arrived at his station in life by being relentlessly scrappy.

  “If I had, would you have said yes?” he asked.

  “No,” said with matter-of-fact honesty, “but I would have liked you more.”

  Miss Lovejoy shrugged, giving him a sad smile. She curtsied, precise and proper.

  “Good day, my lord.”

  A few minutes later, Daniel stood at his study window, watching as Miss Foster Lovejoy waited on the steps below for a hackney cab, her shabby bonnet now atop her head.

  Patience, he whispered to the ever-present guilt, eager to blast through him. We will win her over.

  Miss Foster Lovejoy.

  He could scarcely remember the last time someone had caught him so off-guard. He felt positively . . . nonplussed. Which, given his career in both business and espionage, was the equivalent of experiencing his own personal earthquake—everything going cattywampus (as a friend from North Carolina used to say).

  I prefer to be treated as a person, not merely an obstacle to be beaten.

  Far too astute, that observati
on.

  It was a sport to him.

  How long had he been doing this? Engaging with other human beings as if they were part of a game he was determined to win?

  And given the stakes at hand, was it necessarily a bad thing? She was an obstacle to be surmounted. His very sanity depended on it.

  He twisted his mouth, drumming fingers against a thigh.

  Mmmm.

  Charm would have been a better option. He should have had a tea tray brought up; treated her more like a debutante than a recalcitrant business partner.

  Why hadn’t he done that? Had she so unmoored him that his very manners failed?

  Would you have said yes?

  No, but I would have liked you more.

  Daniel frowned. He could be quite charming when the occasion merited it.

  And why should he care what Miss Foster Lovejoy thought of him?

  The problem, of course, still remained. Miss Lovejoy was the only one in this current century with the mathematical agility necessary to solve the riddle of the portal.

  She didn’t know it yet, but their conversation had just begun.

  This had only been the first volley of what promised to be a long, pitched battle. ‘No’ was not an answer he would accept. Not with this. Miss Lovejoy would soon discover exactly how stubborn Lord Whitmoor could be.

  Daniel had no doubts as to the eventual outcome. Everyone had their price.

  Even Miss Foster Lovejoy.

  And if she steadfastly refused to accept payment . . . well, money wasn’t the only coercive tool in his arsenal. Chains and a desk still remained an option, though Daniel shied away from the thought.

  As he watched her peer up and down the street below, he didn’t think that Miss Lovejoy would respond well to such duress.

  The door opened. Daniel did not turn around, knowing who had entered.

  “Follow her, Garvis.” Daniel gestured with his chin toward the lingering Miss Lovejoy. “You are not to lose her. It is critical. Take your notes, as usual.”

  “Don’t I always, W?”

  “Yes, but this one is exceptionally important.”

  He sensed more than saw Garvis bow and exit the room.

  Garvis Samuelson had been in his employ for more years than Daniel could easily recollect. Aside from the cheek of calling Daniel a simple letter, W, and being excellent muscle when the situation required it, Garvis had an uncanny ability to blend into the woodwork no matter his locale. A useful trait for a spy.