They reached the second-floor landing, and she led him along a corridor to the right.
“I hardly think these other notes are worth examination, but do what you will.” She opened a set of double doors to reveal her moderately sized sitting room with an open door to the adjoining bedchamber.
“This is the family wing?” he asked.
“No, the family wing is on the other side. Once the twins decided they needed separate bedrooms, someone had to move to the guest wing.”
He raised a brow. “I should think one of them would move to the guest wing, as your room was already established.”
She picked up an envelope packet from a side table and kept her reaction carefully neutral. “Lysette expressed absolute dismay at the prospect of being so far from Madeline. By that time, I was happy to have some distance from everyone.”
He accepted the packet from her with a light frown. “This feels like more than a few notes.”
She shrugged. “Please do not make it more of an issue than is necessary. Isla discovered them during a recent visit and insisted I keep them. She even conducted some preliminary investigations into their origins, but they resulted in nothing.”
“I certainly hope they are still nothing of consequence. You must understand the necessity of pursuing all clues.” He half smiled. “Forewarned is forearmed.”
“Yes, well, then.” She made a motion with her hands, feeling tears of exhaustion threatening, and that would never do. “Off you go. Tomorrow will arrive before we know it.”
Irritation finally showed on his face. “Miss O’Shea, I am not a flea or a child or a ’ton. We needn’t be friendly if you do not wish it, but I expect a measure of professional courtesy. I apologize if you do not care for my methods, but I will not shirk my responsibility simply because you either find it an inconvenience or do not wish to face the severity of the facts.”
She released a quiet sigh and closed her eyes. “Detective-Inspector . . . Oliver . . . apologies. You are absolutely right. I appreciate your kind thoughts and apologize for my”—she twirled a hand meant to encompass everything that had happened that day—“rudeness. You are performing a task required of your position as a detective, and tonight I am feeling very much the self-absorbed person you initially thought me to be.”
He looked at her for a moment. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll endeavor to respect your customary sense of independence and try to stay out of your way.”
She shook her head, feeling herself blush. “You have behaved as one would hope or expect you to in this situation. You have not offended me, and I shall adapt to my circumstances as would a responsible adult. This state of affairs is certainly not of your doing.” She took a deep breath and tried to find a sense of lightness. “There is a silver lining to the day. Because we’ll be in Edinburgh, I’ll not be forced to fabricate excuses for missing the house party at the hunting lodge.”
Oliver tucked the packet beneath his arm and slowly made his way to the door with her. “Is that a common problem?”
She grimaced. “I abhor hunting, and they are gleeful with it. They do not hunt to provide food; they do it for sport, and I cannot understand that. Even with all the additional activities that accompany a house party, things I enjoy, when we are at the hunting lodge, I am unable to fully relax.”
“Silver lining, indeed. I am useless at any house party. I am unable to fully relax regardless of the location.”
“You are not one for holidays, then.” She stopped at the door and leaned against the frame, folding her arms, but loosely this time. Comfortably. She would never have admitted it aloud, but something about his solidity, his calmness, was soothing.
“I am not. Much to my sister’s frustration. I have an open invitation to visit with her husband and two children in their home on the coast. They are all delightful, but while I am there, I always feel a sense of urgency to return to work. I am certain such an attitude is unhealthy.”
“We have that in common,” Emme said with a wry smile. “Besides, people’s auras are always muddled during the holidays. Too much stress, I suppose.”
He paused. “People’s . . . auras?”
She sighed and muttered, “Never mind.”
“No, no. Are you telling me, Emmeline, that you read auras?”
She frowned, her brows creasing. “And if I do? It is not unheard of, I’ll have you know, nor does it make a freak of me.”
He shook his head. “I am suggesting no such thing. My mother read auras, so I’ve a healthy respect for it. I am . . . surprised. I think I understand the workings of your brain only to realize I do not. You are an enigma.”
She studied him for a moment, chewing on her lip. Soft light from the Tesla torches lining the hallway glinted off his thick, dark hair. His brown eyes were warm, and for a fanciful moment, she imagined he could see through her.
“How does an ability to see auras conflict with whatever interpretation of me you had formed?” she asked.
“You are practical, logical, efficient. Such personalities are often removed from outbursts of emotion.” He paused.
“Continue.”
He tilted his head. “Seeing you protesting at events, leading activities for the organization, one might assume you are a creative sort, very much an emotional sort. But in casual conversation, in the general ebb and flow of daily activities, you are structured, well-ordered. Efficient, tidy. Little use for fluff.”
He paused as if waiting for her response. She looked at him for a long moment, weighing her words and trying to decide what to tell him. She finally sighed.
“I am, by nature, efficient and well-ordered. I prefer a day free from chaos. But I have inside me”—she paused, her voice low, and gestured with her hand—“so many feelings. Some of them are my own. Many of
