"All right, Thompson. Let's have your report. I hope you've made significant progress."

The brawny man sitting in Marshal Bill Fallon's chair leaned forward with both arms resting on the desk and narrowed his eyes into a glare definitely intended to intimidate subordinates.

"Where's Fallon?" Having grown up clerking in his father's law offices, Deputy US Marshal Michael Thompson was not easily intimidated. Wealthy in his own right, W. G. Thompson's clientele included some of the most powerful men in Illinois.

"On assignment."

The man making himself right at home in the cramped Springfield federal courthouse office that housed the district's Marshal's Service raised one eyebrow as he appeared to size up Michael. After a minute he relaxed his shoulders and his glare softened. He stuck his hand out over the stacks of paper bundled together on the desk. "Name's Ben Taylor."

The Marshal Ben Taylor? Benjamin Franklin Taylor's reputation was legendary in the service. Will had regaled Michael with long accounts of the older man's exploits which he'd in turn shared with his classmates at Harvard Law. They'd all envied Marshal Taylor's ingenuity and bravery.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," Michael pumped the outstretched hand. "My brother told me quite a bit about your career."

"Only believe half of what you see and less of what you hear. Especially if it's colorful or scandalous." A smile edged up behind the man's bushy mustache despite the warning in his gruff tone. "And most stories worth repeating are usually one or both of those. Have a seat."

Michael settled on one of the wood chairs Taylor indicated across from the desk and rested his hat on the worn knee of his stained work pants. He scrubbed his hand along his unshaved chin. After getting a cryptic summons from Fallon, he'd hopped the midnight freight arriving in Springfield without even a change of shirt or a shaving kit. Choosing not to seek those items out, he'd headed straight to his boss's office.

"You sure don't dress like you're the son of one of Chicago's most powerful men." The veteran marshal gave him a thorough once over, not bothering to hid his displeasure over the deputy's unkempt appearance. He shook his head. "As long as I'm playing nursery maid to Fallon's charges you'll report to me. I expect you dress like you were coming to court, not a barn raising. You never know when a commissioner or judge might walk in."

"Yes, sir." Michael nodded. Not only was the man correct, but any explanation he might offer would sound like a weak excuse at this point.

"Good." Taylor eased back in his chair a little. "I believe in plain speaking. I read your service record. And your brother's. I don't give an owl's beak how many court commissioners or federal judges your old man knows. Sorry as I may be that your brother bit it on the job. I'm interested in results. Period."

He steepled his fingers and favored Michael with another cockeyed look. "Even with that time you took off to sip champagne with the folks recently you've been in Warm Springs for the past month without gathering any further information. That's a damn paltry showing for your time there."

Now was the time for explanations. Michael wouldn't let anyone halt his investigation. Not when he was so sure he was closing in on the last of the gang who murdered his brother. "There have been complications--"

"Yes-yes." Taylor's wave cut him off. "The commissioner told me about his friend's untimely death. Sheer foolishness, if you ask me, a man of his years taking such a young wife. Bound to lead to disaster."

Disaster indeed. Amelia Mitchell's mass of black silk hair, her haunting ice-blue eyes and her lips that fairly begged for regular and thorough kissing sprang far too readily to mind.

"It's because of the little widow that I summoned you here."

Michael's attention snapped back to his superior who was shuffling aside one of the stacks of papers before him. "If you're concerned about my status, I can assure you she as accepted my position in her late husband's household without question sir."

She might be uncomfortable about his presence, but she had not ordered him out.

"Although that is gratifying to affirm," Taylor paused in his pursuit of whatever file he was seeking. "especially given my concerns over your qualifications, it is not why the Widow Mitchell is of interest to the US Marshal Service."

Michael's concern deepened. "What about Ame...er...Mrs. Mitchell has drawn your attention, sir?"

"Fallon has been assigned to a protection detail for Senator Douglas. At the senator's request. Seems those debates he engaged in with Mr. Lincoln elicited quite a bit of attention throughout the entire Union."

What could Amelia have to do with the recent Senate election? "I had the pleasure of hearing both Mr. Douglas and Mr. Lincoln when they were in Jonesboro in early September. There was quite a crowd there. Both men made good points."

Taylor snorted as he lifted up another stack of papers and frowned. "Damn fool waste, if you ask me. Too many gawkers, too little control. They could just as easily write things down and deliver them to the voters by post."

Taylor dropped the papers and fixed Michael with his cockeyed stare. "Thing is no one asks me. No one ever asks the marshals. It's just our job to keep 'em safe. Seems a group of abolitionists down Kansas way think the nation would be better off without Mr. Douglas now he's won re-election. Stopped just short of actual death threats. But they're none too happy, particularly with the speculation Douglas might run for president in two years."

"So Bill's off to see to the senator's safety?" Michael still did not see the connection to Mitchell's widow.

Taylor nodded and patted his waistcoat pockets. "Bill's stuck with the senator until he returns to Washington at the New Year. Can't have the next president assassinated in his prime, you know."

"What does this have to do with Mrs. Mitchell?" Michael swallowed hard against the sinking feeling in his gut. He'd wondered what could have drawn a woman of Amelia Lawrence Mitchell's obvious breeding to travel across the country to marry a stranger. Especially a stranger like Robert Mitchell with little to offer her beyond his honor and a rag tag collection of strays in his ramshackle home.

"Your hostess arrived in Chicago by train in the company of Regina and Paul Johnson from Rochester, New York. Mr. Johnson is actually a compatriot of that radical John Brown. They are currently in residence at their elder daughter's home in McLean meeting with Illinois abolitionists who feel Douglas did not go far enough in his defense of state's rights."

"So you think Amelia...Mitchell could be part of a plot to murder Senator Douglas?" Michael could not credit this assumption no matter his own suspicions over the young widow's hasty move to Illinois.

"She hails from Boston does she not?" Taylor pronounced this last as if it put paid to any further discussion. "Ahhh, here it is. This was the first. Others have arrived almost weekly and they get much more ugly."

Michael took the folded papers the marshal pulled from his jacket's inner pocket. First he read the post-mark on the envelope. The packet had been mailed from Boston. The crumpled letter warned the senator to... beware the furor you encourage lest it bring ruin on your house.

"Still." He handed the letter back to Taylor. "This hardly makes a connection to Mrs. Mitchell."

"Quite right, Thompson." Taylor shrugged. "But you are to keep a close eye on the woman. Befriend her. Know who she meets with. Who she corresponds with. Chat her up, flatter her, flirt with her--that sort of thing. Should help you fill in the time since your other investigation appears to be going no where fast."

Befriend the widow? Normally, with a woman as beautiful as Amelia Mitchell he would have had few qualms about an innocent flirtation no matter how pointless he thought the pursuit would prove. But for some reason the idea of deliberately deceiving the woman who already haunted him did not sit well. Especially when he doubted he had the strength of will to keep any flirtation with her innocent.

"Now, how about you fill me in on your progress in the apprehension of the remaining scoundrel who shot your brother and got away with that $50,000 of the government's payroll."

An hour later Michael headed back to the Springfield train station his mind spinning with the information he'd just gathered from Ben Taylor and humming with possibilities that had nothing to do with his real reason for being in Warm Springs. He raked a hand through his hair.

He doubted Amelia Lawrence Mitchell had anything to do with any political plans or possible assassination attempts. Someone in Boston might be mailing the threats. But it wouldn't be her. His gut told him that. She could probably plan a damn decent soiree without too much thought, but political intrigue? He leaned his head back against the car wall and let the train's rhythmic motion soothe some of the tension out of him. He was certain to have plenty of opportunity to watch her in the next few weeks.

He'd felt honor bound to see her to Mitchell's attorney's so she could fully face her circumstances. The summons to Springfield had almost prevented him from fulfilling that commitment. Luckily, he'd learned that the lawyer was out of town himself until the next day. He'd scribbled a message for Festive to deliver in the morning and hopped his train to Springfield. Now he chafed at the delay. How far had his brief note of explanation and disappearance sunk him in her graces? Especially in light of her softly worded question last night.

Do you often make promises you have no intention of keeping?

A day's delay would make no difference in what old Salzburg had to say. He could only hope the attorney would at least be able to bring that point home to her. Time would change none of the facts. There was no money.

Despite her assertion to the contrary he had a strong gut feeling money was exactly what she had been expecting from her precipitous union. Her manner and her speech marked her as someone who would be only to comfortable cavorting in the same social mediums Eugenia loved to indulge in. Taylor was right in that assessment. Amelia was entirely out of place in the Grand Estate of Warm Springs, Illinois. Very out of place.

Visions of Amelia Mitchell in black on the Chicago platform, of her fainting in his arms and fancying him as a dashing lieutenant or some kind of angel in her fevered state, of standing in her nightdress and quilt with her hair tumbling over her shoulders and her bed behind her revolved through his dreams as the train sped through the Illinois countryside.

He arrived back in Warm Springs well after dark, not feeling the least refreshed for having slept. He entered through the back door of the quiet household the pantry and into the Grand Estate's roomy kitchen.

As usual, Clara Brown had left a plate for him warming on the banked stove. After pulling off his boots and leaving them on the mat in the back pantry, he ate the meat and roasted potatoes and the baked apple as much to express his gratitude for Clara's thoughtfulness as from hunger. Whatever became of the suppers he never touched on the nights he had not come home? He scraped the remains of tonight's meal into the slop bucket and washed his plate and cutlery.

A lawman on a quest had little control over his hours. Especially when no one knew he was a lawman. Clara Brown might not know or understand what he was doing, but she was steadfast in seeing to his welfare without question, whatever his activities or how ever odd the hours he kept might seem. The rest of the occupants of the Grand Estate had followed hers and Roberts examples. The big question plaguing him was if Amelia would prove as understanding and unquestioning as the people she now shared this house with?

Over the weeks since his arrival he had narrowed his list of suspects to two men, but it had taken a great deal of checking and cross-checking to get this far. He was sure he was close, Marshal Ben Taylor's skepticism notwithstanding. He couldn't afford to let anyone or anything interfere with his original warrant. So how was he going to manage keeping a close eye on the pretty widow, gaining her confidence and learning her secrets, yet keep her at arm's length.

Michael sighed and ran a hand over the back of his neck as he climbed the back stairs to his room, his mind turning over the possibilities Taylor had presented him and the probability of his having any success in his dealings with Amelia Mitchell. He padded down the hall, past the room she occupied even now. Glad the room was dark and silent and he would not have to face her until morning.

He awoke early the next day after a restive night. His dreams a continuation of those on the train. He grabbed a cup of Cora's coffee and strode out behind the house to the Grand Estate's barn after she informed him that dear Amelia would be ready to go with him to Mr. Salzburg's as soon as he brought the wagon around.

He surveyed the rickety building with a shake of his head. He'd made some early progress on this hopeless project when he first arrived, "hired" by his uncle to do repair work on the place in exchange for room and board. The number of loose planks then had made it seem more a building that was once a barn, rather than a working structure. His amateur efforts at least made it serviceable, if far from pretty. He hadn't gone to Harvard Law School to study carpentry that much was evident. He hitched the one carriage horse left to the wagon that served as a conveyance for the household.

Robert Mitchell had been a very good man. Just not a wealthy one. He had been man interested in justice and willing to do his part, even if it meant inventing and harboring a nephew for his dear departed wife in order to conceal a United States Marshal tracking the last of his brother's killers.

The true crux of the matter that had pursued him through the night was the juxtaposition of his two jobs here as a marshal. He was in Robert's debt for the man's unswerving determination to follow through on his promise to Michael, and by that promise enable Michael to fulfill his own to his father, and to his brother.

That meant Michael was indebted to the people Robert cared about and had left behind. Including his widow. If she were embroiled in a radical abolitionist plot, could he turn her in?

It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that Amelia might have married Robert under some false assumption, or worse, for some nefarious reason that might even bring harm to the odd assortment of friends and boarders Robert had collected beneath his roof.

He pulled the wagon around front with a mixture of guilt and impatience. How could he demand Amelia Mitchell's deepest secrets and yet keep his own? How could he risk his original mission in this area by offending the woman who could carry his continued welcome in this house in her slender fingers? But if she were guilty of some plot...

The door opened at the top of the steps and dear Amelia came out onto the porch. Pale and lovely, covered in black, she stepped onto the porch that wrapped the front and side of the house. Somehow the color seemed dark and mysterious on her, instead of evoking the sad melancholia it was supposed to effect.

She swept down the short flight of steps toward him and he found himself fascinated by the picture she presented. The sway of her skirts, the placement of her hand on the banister, the haunted look in her eyes-she was an odd mixture of grace and anxiety, refinement and fear. But fear of what?

He swung himself to the ground to meet her as a fresh breeze whipped over the lake and sifted dark tendrils of black hair loose from her sedate coiffure, despite her bonnet. She grasped his hand as her skirts tossed.

"Good morning" He leaned toward her and she glanced up, meeting his gaze at last.

Her mouth was parted, full and soft, and her cool blue eyes grew wide and uncertain. She was very lovely indeed. The flare of anxiety in her eyes reminded him of Katie. Somewhere deep inside him this woman had ignited a desire to protect her from the very beginning, when he had first seen her in Chicago. Despite his growing suspicions about her motives, he couldn't seem to dislodge idea that she needed sheltering, cherishing. He fought the urge to pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be all right.

"Good morning." She moistened her lips when the greeting came out raspy.

He watched the tip of her tongue, all too aware of the sudden tightening in his groin and a desire to taste those moist sweet lips beneath his own. Did she have any idea of the effect she was having on him?

"Are you ready?" she said asked.

It took him a moment to realize she was speaking of their departure and not his base need-induced confusion. The urge to kick himself soundly followed quick on the heels of his unwelcome desire. How could he stood lusting after Robert Mitchell's widow in the full light of day. He didn't even want to glance at any of the Grand Estate's many windows to see if any of the inmates were watching.

He could only too easily picture the avid interest and speculation playing across Cora's and Clara's well-meaning faces.

"Yes." He bit the word far too sharply, grasped Amelia by the waist and placed her on the wagon seat, unsure whether he was more angry with her for attracting him so strongly or with himself for his reaction to the feel of her slender waist in his hands.

She sat with the prim decorum of a young lady alight in a proper carriage. He climbed up onto the seat beside her and urged the one horse left in the her possession to a trot. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Horace Salzburg was the town solicitor and had been in Warm Springs nearly as long as Robert and Betty. He handled their legal business affairs. He handled everyone's legal business affairs. He'd been married once, even had a son who had left town years before never to be heard from again, and had loved the law alone once his wife passed away.

They accomplished the ride to Salzburg's home and office in relative silence. Several towns people paused in their errands to greet him as they passed, all really craning their necks to get a glimpse of Robert Mitchell's pretty young widow.

"How lovely," Amelia exclaimed as they rounded the bend in the road at the far end of town.

"Wait until you see the inside." Michael had to smile. Salzburg had a lovely home modeled after the tall Southern Mansions of his native Virginia with a wide portico and tall Georgian columns. The attorney had been able to provide only the best for his wife. With her passing, Robert said the house had no longer mattered to him.

Michael pulled the wagon to a halt and jumped to his feet.

"Don't go anywhere now, Becky." He patted the horse, who blinked at him with large black eyes, and circled the wagon to reach for Amelia. He braced himself. Her waist fit his hands so perfectly and she smelled of tart apples with a hint of cinnamon.

He set her on her feet and released his hold of her.

"This way." He lead the way across the portico's wide slate tiles to the heavy walnut front door inlaid with thick glass. He raised the polished brass knocker and let it fall once.

"Come." Salzburg's sharp greeting rang out from the depths of the house.

Michael opened the door and walked into the relative gloom gesturing for Amelia to follow him. He turned to watch her face as she entered. Her eyes widened and she pressed a hand to her mouth. The interior of Salzburg's home was wall to wall, floor to ceiling books, papers, ledgers, boxes and files. Getting from one room to another was accomplished through a series of rabbit warren like alleyways, which changed on a regular basis, according to the work currently holding Horace's attention.

"Oh my." The anxiety in her eyes had sharpened as she viewed the disarray. "Are you certain this man is a competent attorney?"

"Robert had faith in him." Michael watched her as her eyebrows rose and she paled at the magnitude of overflowing paperwork, newspapers from across the country and massive tomes.

She took a deep breath and turned back to him with an expression of resolute determination. "Where do you suppose he is?"

Michael tilted his head back and called toward the ceiling, to enable his voice to be heard over the piles. "Mr. Salzburg? It's Michael Thompson and Mrs. Mitchell."

"Of course it is." The rather snappish reply came without hesitation. "Meet me in my study."

"Where do suppose that is?" Amelia was busy trying to keep her skirts from brushing the various dust laden piles around them.

"When Robert brought me here, it was this direction." Michael pointed to their left. "But I must warn you there may be detours along the way."

"You lead."

"As you wish."

True to his warning they ran into two changes to the pathway he trod the week before when he'd come to see Salzburg after hearing Dr. Walker was interested in buying property in the area. At one point he was quite certain they had passed the study altogether and were on their way out the back door when the path turned and led them directly to their destination.

"Ah, there you are, at last." Satisfaction laced their host version of a greeting.

"Michael." He shook Michael's hand and turned to peruse Amelia. "And this must be Robert's bride."

"Yes." Pink washed her cheeks as Salzburg continued to study her, but, as she had done the night before when Michael had held his silence, she did not squirm beneath the solicitor's soundless appraisal.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mitchell." Salzburg offered at last, extending his hand toward her with firm formality. "Robert was a good friend of mine. His Betty and my Elvira had been great friends throughout their lives. I'm sorry your chance at finding happiness with him ended so abruptly."

"Thank you."

"Now, come, sit." He gestured toward two chairs free of stacked papers and awaiting their arrival.

Amelia took her seat gingerly, managing to keep her skirts as close to her as possible while keeping her attention fixe on the attorney. Michael hid a smile as he took the seat next to her.

"Now, Mrs. Mitchell, I understand from the note young Michael sent me that you have some questions. I will be happy to go over the provisions of Robert's will with you."

"Please, Mr. Salzburg." She reached out and placed one slender, black-gloved hand on the solicitor's firm knuckles. "Since you were a friend of my late husband's, call me Amelia."

"Thank you, my dear." He patted her fingers. "Amelia. A lovely name. Now, I have Robert's will right here."

He drew out the long piece of vellum he had originally uncovered for Michael a few days previously.

"According to Robert's wishes, the care of his boarding house the Grand Estate along with any other items he possessed at the time of his death were bequeathed in total to his beloved wife."

"That's what I had been told, Mr. Salzburg--"

"Horace, please."

"Thank you, Horace. But I also believe this will was written before his first wife, Betty, passed away."

"Yes, that's true, Amelia. But it in no way invalidates the will."

"Even if there are other relatives available? Relations of long standing?" Amelia was staring intently at the hands she had folded primly in her lap.

So that is what was troubling her. Michael leaned forward. Robert's young wife was concerned that his nephew might step forward to challenge her claim.

Salzburg glanced over at Michael. The old solicitor was the one person Robert had suggested Michael take into his confidence about his true identity. He had done that when the need presented itself and blessed his host for his foresight.

"I understand your concern, Amelia." This time it was Horace who covered her hands and gave them a reassuring squeeze. "Let me reassure you, Robert came to visit me before going to Chicago to meet you. I knew his plans. We discussed this will among other things. He did not want anything changed. So you see, he knew if anything happened to him, his wife, you, would inherit his household. That is what he wanted."

Her brows knitted and she turned a troubled gaze to her escort. "Michael, are you sure there nothing--"

"I do not plan to challenge Robert's will, Amelia. The Estate is yours free and clear. My relation to Robert is through his first wife and technically ceased with her death."

"Well, there are several matters that need attention." Salzburg shifted in his chair and the papers beneath him crackled faintly. "The Grand Estate is not in the best repair. There are debts owed against it and taxes due in the not too distant future. As the new owner, Amelia, you will need to settle those debts as well as see to repairing what you can. Roberts finances have suffered several reversals in the past years. Unpaid loans and losses in business ventures."

Amelia swallowed as the solicitor's words echoed through her head.

Debts owed? Taxes? Losses?

She shuddered at the thought. The words were all too familiar. She and her mother had suffered through enormous embarrassment and struggle after Jonathan absconded with what little wealth they had and left them to face the debts and obligations he had abandoned. Would she now be faced with the same choices her mother had? Marrying any man with funds in order to cover her indebtedness? The fact that her mother claimed to be happy with her choice did not matter.

She closed her eyes and pressed a hand over her mouth.

Michael's hand touched her shoulder and she looked at him.

"I had so hoped there would be enough to see me back to Boston. I...I..."

What more could she say? I understand now why Jonathan ran away rather than face his responsibilities because I'm tempted to do the same thing? I don't care about the debts left by my husband? I don't care about those people in the boarding house who nursed me back to health and obviously meant something to Robert? A man I barely knew?

The man who thought she had a good heart.

The self-pitying tears that had welled behind her eyes refused to come. She had brought Robert home because he was her husband. She had given her word to honor him. She would see what she could do to help his Grand Estate and the boarders living there who had made him happy. She might not succeed, but she would try.

She drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

"Very well, Horace." The solicitor's gaze had never wavered from her face. "Thank you for your candor. Would it be possible to procure an accounting of matters to do with the Grand Estate or whatever funds there might yet be available?"

His eyebrows twitched just the tiniest bit and a flicker of approval showed in his eyes. "I'm quite certain that can be made available to you in very short order. I'll send them along by way of my assistant later today."

There was an assistant hidden in these piles? The look she caught on Michael's face betrayed similar astonishment at the notion.

Horace Salzburg reached for her hand, his grip firm and steady. "Robert made a wise choice. Never doubt that."

His words tightened her throat as warmth crept over her skin. She would never have imagined that the approval and acceptance of a man whose home was a rabbit warren of legal papers and books would affect her so. But his belief that Robert had done the right thing in marrying her made her want to weep.

"Thank you."

She felt like a sham as she and Michael stood to leave. Yes, she was trying desperately to do the right thing. To honor the husband she had for barely a day. But somehow she'd made these people believed she was...she was...something she was not.

"Thank you, Salzburg."

"Anytime, Michael. You know my door is open to you should you require any assistance."

She paid little heed as they made their retreat through the precarious hallways of paper and books. Her throat was tight and her mind was awhirl with the information just given her. Robert Mitchell had known if anything happened to him the Grand Estate would fall to her. He had known as they said their vows in the little anteroom in the courthouse.

Surely that meant this is what he wanted.

Tension throbbed between her brows and she wanted nothing more than to get home and rest. A few moments to think.

With a start she realized she thought of home as the tall manse that was the Grand Estate. Home was now a boarding house. The thought choked a laugh from her as she reached the front door of Horace Salzburg's home.

"You find something in this business amusing?" The censure in Michael's voice was barely contained.

"No." She waited for him to open the door for her. "Nothing is funny. Ironic perhaps."

"Really?"

"Yes." She swept past him out into the cool air and bright sunshine.

"Anything you would care to share with me?" His hands circled her waist and he prepared to lift her onto the wagon seat.

His hands were warm, reassuring. So strong and capable. Utterly unlike hers. For just a moment, the thought of all the things she could share with this drifter, with Robert's nephew, sifted through her mind. The memory of wanting him to kiss her in her bedroom. The feel of his arms.

Her guardian angel.

She shook off the urge to lean against him and reached for the seat edge.

"I own a boarding house." She fought back the urge to laugh again as he climbed up beside her.

And I am in Illinois with no prospects of getting back to Boston. And I'm not sure what to do next.

"Indeed it would appear so." He shook the reins and clicked to the horse. Her horse.

I own a boarding house.

She had finally said the words aloud. Now they echoed in her mind.

What did one do with a boarding house?

She hadn't a clue beyond the fact that the people living in one paid some kind of...fee...for the privilege of living there. Perhaps the accounting Horace Salzburg supplied would provide some direction.

"How long have you been here?"

Michael started at her question and turned his steel gray gaze in her direction. He never answered a question without perusing the person asking, she realized. How odd. For a ne'r-do-well drifter he had amazing self-possession.

"You mean at the Grand Estate?"

"Yes, and in Warm Springs."

He thought about that for a moment before answering. "A few months. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you are one of my...boarders...are you not?"

He smiled that lop-sided smile he gave when he didn't quite agree with her. "Well yes, I suppose you could say that in a manner of speaking."

"In a manner of speaking?"

"Yes. My...arrangement...with my uncle was a simple one. I stay at the Estate and in return for my room and board I provide repairs and do odd jobs around the house."

"Oh." She hadn't considered that there might be arrangements with anyone other than a financial one. She had been wondering what the fee was that her boarders paid and what did that entitle them to? But then as Michael was a relative perhaps that explained it.

"Will that be a problem?"

"A problem?" She echoed, caught up in her own considerations and not sure what he meant.

"Yes, will there be a problem continuing that arrangement now that the house belongs to you?"

She considered the discomfort he had managed to put her through in the short span of time she'd known him against the need to do what repairs she could around the house. "Is your time spoken for in any other way?"

"My time?"

"Yes." She bit her lip and considered how best to put the question about his tendency to disappear or to keep odd hours. Cora had told her it was so and his disappearance yesterday was timely example.

"You seem to be somewhat ...unsettled...Mr. Thompson. As I understand from Cora and Clara there is little you actually do other than help around the house. If such is the case, does that mean you are fully at my disposal for whatever I need you to do?"

"You mean, is that the arrangement I had with Robert?"

"Your Uncle Robert." She corrected, suddenly aware that he never addressed his uncle with the respect due him.

"Uncle Robert." He repeated without any particular inflection as those steel gray eyes held hers. "If that is your question, than yes, within reason, my time is at your disposal."

She wasn't sure she liked the addition of within reason and she was certain she wouldn't like him disappearing and reappearing at will, but knowing assistance would be at her disposal would help enormously as she tried to come to grips with what to do.

"Then your previous arrangement is acceptable to me."

"Good. Welcome to the family, Auntie Amelia." He turned his attention back to the horse and the progress they were making through town, but she could have sworn there was a ghost of a smile curling the corner of his lips. She wasn't quite sure if she should be outraged or pleased with his teasing.