Page 12 of Meet A Rogue At Midnight
“Finding anything I should know about?” she asked.
He slanted a grin at her. “Yes. This old wood is telling me I should work on it.”
“You? Pardon me, Jonas,” she said to his profile. “But you don’t know one jot or tittle about Roman antiquities. Your offer is generous, but I’m not sure it’s wise.”
He chuckled, examining the upper arch. “Your Roman chair, it’s furniture. Don’t forget, I come from generations of furniture makers.”
“Which you turned your back on ten years ago. This isn’t a practice piece.”
His hands grazed the back rest’s upper curve, pausing to push a spot as if he tested a wound. “I’m aware of the gravity here. You forget. The Captain apprenticed me when I was eleven years old.”
Hugging his velvet coat, she couldn’t argue with his experience. While she spent time with tutors, Jonas had learned the cabinetmaker’s trade at his grandfather’s side. He tilted the chair into the hearth’s light, his forefinger tracing knobby carvings. Jonas checked wood flecks on his finger. He even sniffed the wood.
“Some rot here, but the rest of this arch is intact. If you won’t let me work on it, you’d better have a care how deep you work the grain or you’ll split it in two.”
“You see that in the grain?”
“I do.” He stood up and dusted off his hands.
She passed back his coat. “You really think you can save it? Even the hinges? After the ivory legs, those hinges and the carvings will be what collectors inspect the most.”
Jonas slid into his blue velvet coat. “You’re selling this to collectors?”
“One collector. He has a number of interested buyers, if the chair remains intact.”
“I’ll need to borrow some of the Captain’s tools, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, collecting his heavy coat and hat and gloves.
She folded the ends of her shawl over her chest amused at her refusal of Jonas’s help turning into a discussion ofhowhe would help. “Your working on this chair would free me to write the next book.”
“In your father’s name? Or yours?”
“My father’s. No one will accept my name on a manuscript.”
“Why not? You were spouting facts about Londinium and Roman generals when you were ten years old.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Irritating, wasn’t it?”
“Endearing.”
His lone word, said in his deep rumble of a voice, satisfied her to her toes. Fragile threads of friendship strengthened on his singular affirmation. The truth was Jonas understood her. He always had.
“I’m afraid it will be my hand on the manuscript and Thomas J. Halsey on the book.” She fixed her shawl again, pulling the wool tighter. “Once the book is done and the curule chair restored, I plan to put this all behind me.”
Jonas rubbed gold trim on his tricorne, a gentlemanly smile ghosting his mouth. “We’ll have a few weeks. We can manage it together.”
Firelight shined on his tall, black boots. Jonas was handsome but not in the conventional sense. He was big, his size akin to braw Highlanders. Town gentlemen were tame by comparison. Jonas would never spout flowery phrases or write poetic letters. But, he’d keep a secret and be the friend to catch you if you fell from an adventure that went awry.
And her heart ached that he’d not be around to catch her again.
This was all she’d have. A few weeks with Jonas.
The hat rotated in his hands, a sluggish end-over-end circle as his gaze locked with hers. “Well, I expect the Captain and his cronies are impatiently awaiting my return.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice quiet. “You should get back to your grandfather and his guests.”
Jonas stepped around the Roman chair, his broad shoulders seeming to take up the room. She followed his blue velvet-covered back as he picked his way through the relic-strewn floor to the stairs. He slipped on his black frock coat and black tricorne in silence. Her palm pressed her stomacher. Butterflies camped there.
“You will be back tomorrow?” she called out. “To fix the chair.”
