yourself,” Mitch said.
“Don’t I always?”
“No.” Mitch pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and peeled off several bills. He held them out to Leo. After a moment’s hesitation, Leo took the money and shoved it deep into his trouser pocket.
“These people can tell you where to find me if you need anything,” Mitch said, nodding toward the house as he returned his wallet to his jacket.
“Try not to yack when you first lay eyes on the Branford’s ugly-duckling daughter,” Leo said with a smile.
“Good advice,” Mitch said, letting Leo have his fun.
He put on his bowler and climbed out of the hansom. The waiting driver accepted Mitch’s fare and tip, then climbed up top again and headed out of the driveway, leaving Mitch alone.
He turned and gazed up at the house. Huge. Expensive. So spectacular that Mitch’s stomach knotted again.
Once more he shoved down the old feelings. He wanted no part of them. Would tolerate none of the memories.
And the Branford’s ugly-duckling daughter? He wouldn’t give her a second look. All he wanted to see was the flash of green when he received his fee.
An old gray-haired butler opened the door when he rang, relieved Mitch of his bowler and gave him entrance.
“You’re expected, Mr. Kincade. This way, sir.”
Mitch followed the butler across the foyer, past the twin staircases that swept up to the second floor, and into a sitting room.
“Refreshments for you, sir,” the butler said, gesturing to a small, round table near the settee. “The others will join you shortly.”
Mitch glanced around the room as the butler’s footsteps faded. A lady’s sitting room, he guessed. Pale pink, flowers, ruffles. On the little table sat a maroon-and-ivory-colored tea service, trimmed with gold. Thin plates, cups and saucers. Trays of miniature cakes. The room smelled of food, tea and cleaning polish.
How many servants had worked to prepare the tea, the cakes? How many had labored to clean this room? Mitch wondered. How many hours of work? How much sweat? How many aches and pains?
He walked to the tea table. He wasn’t usually received in the homes of his clients. They met in bars, restaurants or offices to discuss business. Seldom in their homes. That’s the way Mitch wanted it. Clients, desperate for his help, always did it his way.
He picked up one of the teacups. Thin. Light. Delicate. Where had the set come from? How long had it been in the Branford family? Someone with exquisite taste had selected it. Someone who knew about such things, had access to them. Someone used to having money.
Returning the cup to the saucer, Mitch gazed around the room. Everywhere he looked he saw fine, expensive things. The sort of fine, expensive things he had been allowed to look at a long time ago, but not touch. Not own. Not have for himself.
The house, for all its grandeur, seemed to close in on him. Memories surfaced. Hiding under tables and around corners. Peeking out. Watching, afraid of being caught.
Mitch gave himself a mental shake. His fee just went up.
Rachel hiked up her dress and dashed down the staircase, her mind whirling. She’d heard the door chimes and was relieved to escape her younger sister’s bedchamber and her latest crying fit, yet distressed to think that the visitor might be the accountant Uncle Stuart had hired, and that he’d arrived early.
Early. And she wasn’t ready to receive. Rachel touched the back of her dark hair as she hurried across the foyer. She hadn’t checked the sitting room to ensure the servants had set it properly. She hadn’t yet selected the floral bouquet from the garden to scent the room. She hadn’t had time to think of appropriate topics so that she could make conversation with the dull, boring bookkeeper who awaited her.
Rachel cringed inwardly. What would her mother think of her?
She paused near the entrance of the sitting room, smoothed down the front of her green skirt and drew in a breath to calm herself. It certainly wouldn’t do to rush into a room short of breath and lacking in composure.
Rachel had been alarmed when Uncle Stuart had reported that this Mr. Kincade—her knight in shining armor, her uncle had called him—insisted upon meeting with her and the family before making his decision on accepting the job. So much was riding on this meeting. She had to make sure everything went well.
Rachel called upon each and every hostessing skill her mother had ingrained in her since early childhood, lifted her chin and walked calmly into the sitting room.
Then stopped. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit stood with his back to her near the tea service. Her gaze swept the room, then landed on the man once more.
Where was the accountant? This wasn’t him.
Alarm filled her once more. Had Mr. Kincade been insulted that she was late? Had he left? Had her best chance of saving her family’s financial future simply walked out because of a lapse in her hostessing skills?
The man turned his head, saw her, then came around slowly to face her. Rachel’s heart thudded into her throat, setting her pulse to pounding. A jumble of emotions swept her, all too confusing to name.
Except for one. This wasn’t her accountant. It couldn’t be.
This man was huge. Tall. Muscular. Square everywhere—jaw, shoulders, knuckles. And he was handsome. Thick brown hair and blue eyes just short of being beautiful.
This couldn’t be her Mr. Kincade. Never in her life had she seen an accountant who looked like this.
He studied her for a moment, seemingly as lost as she, then came forward. “Miss Branford? I’m Mitch Kincade.”
“No, you’re not.”
He paused and his brows drew together. “I’m positive that I am.”
“You’re Mitch Kincade?” Rachel’s gaze swept him from head to toe, then landed on his face once more. “You’re my knight in shining armor?”
Rachel’s cheeks flushed. Good gracious, had she actually said that aloud?
Mitch’s lips twitched. “You probably don’t recognize me because I left my white steed out front.”
Then he smiled and the most glorious warmth welled inside Rachel, making her smile in return.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” she said, her voice little more than a breathy whisper.
They stared at each other for an awkward moment, then Mitch asked, “Are you Miss Branford? Rachel Branford?”
“Oh, yes.” Rachel felt her cheeks warm. “And I’m so pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming.”
He kept looking at her—studying her, actually—until Rachel realized she suddenly couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“Would you care for some refreshment?” She blurted out the words, thankful that something intelligent had finally floated through her mind, and walked to the tea service. “I have—”
Rachel stopped, frozen in horror. This was the wrong tea service. Here it was mid-April and the servants had put out the winter service.
She pressed her lips together, holding in a gasp and silently berating herself. She should have checked it herself, should have made sure the table was properly set. This simply wasn’t done. No wonder Mr. Kincade had been staring at the tea service when she walked in.
Rachel turned to him, sure her cheeks had grown even more pink. What could she say? How could she possibly explain this social insult?
“Is Mr. Parker here?” Mitch asked.
A few seconds passed before Rachel realized what he’d asked. “Not yet. But I’m