She shook her head and straightened her spine. “I’ve seen enough. Your building will suit my purposes perfectly.”
Reese chuckled. “I’m afraid this place isn’t available to let.”
Miss Kendall’s face crumpled. “Why not?”
“As I’ve already explained,” he said slowly, “I use it.”
“But you haven’t even heard me out,” she countered. “I only require the use of the room one evening each week—and I’m willing to pay a fair sum.”
“How much?” Lord knew he could use the money, but the real reason he asked was because the amount she offered would provide a useful measuring stick. Give him an idea of how badly she wanted to rent the space—and what she could afford.
She paused, probably unaware that her forehead crinkled. “What do you think would be reasonable?”
The slight tremor in her voice said she was just shy of desperate—and that her coffers were nowhere near full. But she wanted to know his price.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin, idly wondering when he’d last shaved. When one rarely slept, the days melted together like pats of butter on a hot skillet. “If I were willing to let out my building for one evening a week—which I’ve already indicated I’m not—I’d have to charge ten pounds.”
“Per month?” she asked hopefully.
“Per week.”
“I see.” For an interminable, golden moment, she searched his face, then stood regretfully. “If I thought you might reconsider, I might attempt to negotiate, but I can see that you’re quite…” She paused, searching for a word.
“Pigheaded?” he provided. “Mulish?”
The grim line of her mouth softened into a half smile. “I was going to say ‘adamant.’”
“Of course you were,” he said smoothly. “But pigheaded fits better.”
“Thank you for your time.” Her eyes shone with a kindness that was damned disconcerting. Especially since he hadn’t been particularly charming. In the short time since she’d arrived, he’d done nothing but swill brandy, behave like a boor, and crush her dream of renting his building. To top everything off, he must look like he’d staggered out of a pub just before closing time. He dragged a hand through his hair, which was already standing on end. And he had no bloody idea where he’d left his jacket or cravat.
He supposed he should say something gracious, maybe walk her to the door. But he didn’t want her to go. Didn’t want to be alone with his dark thoughts and insidious visions. So he continued to sit there morosely, the portrait of an arse.
She took a step toward the door, then turned back. “May I ask you something else?”
He shrugged as though he were indifferent. But on the inside, he was more like a stray dog, embarrassingly starved for a scrap of attention or compassion. “Ask away.”
She tilted her head and frowned. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Last night,” he answered reflexively. It was true enough—he’d drifted off on the sofa in his study for nearly an hour before bolting upright, drenched in sweat and shaking like he’d gone for a midwinter swim in the Thames. Afterward he’d immediately vowed to avoid shutting his eyes again for at least a week.
She leveled an assessing gaze in his direction before asking, “How long did you sleep?”
He thrust himself out of the chair, crossed his arms, and paced the ancient wood floor in front of the counter. “I don’t see why that’s any of your concern, Miss Kendall.”
“You’re right,” she replied—with more gentleness than he deserved. “It wasn’t my intention to pry. But my mother is prone to sleeplessness, and I recognized some of the signs.”
He muttered a curse. Why should he give a damn that this young woman, a complete stranger to him, had just lumped him in the same category with her dear mama? “And what are the telltale signs?” he asked, his tone dry as dust. “What gave me away?”
To her credit, she didn’t shrink in the least. “The shadows beneath your eyes, the slight tremor of your hands, and a general state of…” She hesitated, again perusing her mind for the correct word.
“Irritability?” he offered. “Cantankerousness?”
“I was going to say ‘anxiousness,’ but your suggestions are also apropos.” Her words might have stung, if not for the playful twinkle in her eyes. A bit more soberly she added, “A lack of sleep can take its toll on a person.”
He shrugged as though he had only the vaguest sense of what she was talking about. As if his life weren’t a wasteland of paralysis and remorse. The last thing he wanted from Miss Kendall was pity.
She pursed her lips in consternation, then looked up at him and beamed. Her wide, genuine smile was almost blinding, and he recoiled from the unexpected brilliance like a man emerging from a dark cave at high noon.
Oblivious to the effect she had on him, she began rummaging through her reticule. “I may have something in here that will help.” At last, she withdrew a small pouch and held it up, triumphant. “Here we are.”
“What is that?” he asked, not bothering to hide his cynicism.
She held the herbs an inch below her nose and closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. “Valerian root for your tea. It’s a remedy for sleeplessness.” She naïvely thrust the dainty muslin pouch into his hands like it was the antidote to all that ailed him. She couldn’t possibly know that he was way beyond help—so far beyond it that he might as well have been in another realm.
Reese sniffed the herbs and found them pleasantly earthy and fragrant. Idly wondered whether Miss Kendall’s skin would smell the same and simultaneously chastised himself for the errant thought.
“I don’t drink tea,” he said curtly, handing the pouch back to her.
She looked appropriately appalled. “Well then,” she said slowly, as if still coming to grips with this diabolical confession, “I suppose you could sprinkle some in your soup.” She held out the pouch with a brooking-no-argument expression. The same stern face his own nanny had used when she expected him to swallow a spoonful of castor oil—except that Miss Kendall was approximately one hundred times more lovely.
“I appreciate your concern.” He shoved his hands in his pockets so she couldn’t force the bloody herbs into his palms again. “However, I have no use for quackery.”
She narrowed her eyes at that—as if he’d issued a challenge. She tucked the pouch under her elbow and began tugging at the fingers of her gloves, pulling them off. The sight conjured all sorts of wicked thoughts, which only proved how demented he was.
“Have you a kitchen, Mr. Peabody?” she asked briskly.
Reese blinked. “Here? No. There’s a small stove in the back room.”
“That will do,” she said brightly.
He trailed after her as she strode past him, toward the room in the rear of the shop where he’d been lurking before she’d arrived. He’d lit a fire in the stove a few hours earlier, and when Miss Kendall spotted a kettle on a shelf above it, she turned toward him and arched a mildly accusatory brow.
“I don’t use it,” he said.