Mouse could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears.
She’d lost Thistlemarsh, even after all Thornwood’s help. Even after everything she had bargained away. What would Roger do now? What wouldshedo?
She was in shock, she knew. Still, she tried to battle against it and the rising desperation that threatened to choke her.
Mouse stood. She had to do something. There had to be a way to salvage the situation.
“Please, if only you would look again, I’m sure you’ll be satisfied. We can bring back the taxidermy. We’ve made significant structural repairs—”
Beckett clicked his briefcase closed. “I am afraid that your uncle’s will was very specific about the taxidermy.”
“If you would not mind, I would like a private word with you, Mouse,” Carlyle cut in. Mouse held back her flinch at the nickname coming from his lips, and she saw Thornwood tense. Beckett’s lips pursed, and she was not sure if he would count it against her further if she refused Carlyle. She knew she had to tread carefully, but she was not sure how to do so.
“It’s all right,” she said, her hand landing on Thornwood’s shoulder. “I will hear what he has to say.”
“I will be outside, should you need me,” he said quietly, then turned to Carlyle. “This is not over.”
Carlyle snorted.
“I will call,” Mouse said, clutching Thornwood’s hand.
The door closed behind him, and then it was just Mouse and Carlyle, a mere five feet between them. He stood, closing the space quickly, stretching toward her like a spider closing in on its prey.
“How crushing this must be for you to stumble at the last hurdle over a technicality.”
“Did you keep me here to gloat, or did you have anything interesting to say?”
“Forgive me. The last thing I would want to do is waste your valuable time. After all, I am keeping you from packing.”
Mouse bit her cheek, trapping the words bubbling up behind her teeth. Carlyle slunk closer to her, pinning her between thebookshelves and his body like a butterfly on display. She could not move if she wanted to avoid touching him.
“I will say that I enjoy seeing you squirm more than I expected. You barely look related, but in your eyes, I see glints of Bertie spitting back at me.”
“I will do more than spit at you if you come any closer,” Mouse hissed.
Carlyle laughed; the sound slithered over her skin and made her flesh crawl. She could feel the brush of his breath against her face, warm with brandy and tea.
“Why are you wasting both of our time?” she said around the knot of fear tightening her throat. “Say what you want to say and be done with it.”
“There is something strange about this house and how quickly you repaired it. I’m not sure what it is, but it is not honest. You may try to fool old Beckett, but you cannot fool me,” he breathed, leaning close to her again. “It will come out, somehow. And even if it doesn’t, you’ve lost. How does it feel to be completely powerless?”
“You should know. I understand that Roger taught you a bit about the feeling when you were at school. I see that your nose is still crooked.”
Fury flashed through him, and he lifted his cane as though to strike. Unbidden, Mouse’s hand flew up to protect her face.
“You need to learn when to hold your tongue,” he said coldly, regaining his control before following through with his threat. His cane snapped back to its position at his side, then tapped as he prowled to the desk. Carlyle sat in her uncle’s chair, then languidly began to open the drawers, inspecting the contents as one might examine a horse bought at market. Mouse watched, violent fury and despair warring in her chest.
“Roger was right,” Mouse said at last.
Carlyle glanced at her before he focused back on the papers. “What are you muttering about?”
“Roger was right,” she repeated. “You are nothing more than a coward.”
As she expected, the word “coward” got his attention, as it would for any Eton boy.
“I am an officer,” he said.
“An officer who would lift a hand to a lady. A coward who would blackmail someone who thought they were your friend. Who ruined boys whose only real crime was defending themselves from you.”