The ride back to the estate was silent. The rain had started, drumming against the roof of the Rolls Royce.

"Name your price," Ingram said suddenly.

Elmira looked away from the window. "Excuse me?"

"You saved her. You proved my mother incompetent. You solidified my position." Ingram looked at her. "The million-dollar settlement is off the table. You have leverage now. What do you want?"

Elmira's mind raced. She touched the signet ring. She had the key. Now she needed the location.

"I want access to the library," she said.

Ingram's eyes narrowed. "The library? Why?"

"Your grandfather's private collection," Elmira lied. "It contains legal and financial archives from the Gilded Age. First editions. I want to study them."

It was a risky lie. The library was also where the safe was hidden.

Ingram studied her. He was calculating risk.

"Fine," he said. "But there is a condition."

"What?"

"You report to me every night. On Victoria's health. In person."

"I can email you."

"No." Ingram leaned back. "I want to see your face when you report. I want to know if you're hiding anything."

He was keeping her on a leash.

"Deal," Elmira said.

Ingram reached into his briefcase. He pulled out a tablet and handed it to her.

"Also, we need to fix your public profile."

Elmira looked at the screen. It was a press release draft. It had her photo. It listed her as a reclusive prodigy, a former recipient of the Holmes scholarship who had continued her postgraduate research in private, under the family's direct patronage.

"My PR team drafted it," Ingram said casually. "It explains your sudden appearance. If anyone asks, you didn't just read books. You were a private scholar, focused on your work."

Elmira stared at him. He had just handed her the perfect cover. He thought he was protecting his reputation. He was actually protecting her spycraft.

"You're packaging me like a new asset."

"I protect my assets," Ingram said. "I can't have the press thinking I associate with unknowns."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said, the word dripping with sarcasm.

"You're welcome, Ms. Moran."

The car turned through the massive iron gates. Holmes Manor rose out of the mist, a sprawling gothic beast of stone and ivy.

Elmira swallowed. She was inside the fortress.

The staff was lined up in the foyer. A dozen people in uniforms.

Mrs. Landers, the housekeeper, stood at the front. She was a round woman with a stern face and eyes that were cold and assessing.

"Welcome home, Mr. Holmes. And the... guest."

Ingram helped Elmira out of the car. He kept his hand on her lower back.

"Mrs. Landers," Ingram said. "Is the room ready?"

"Oh, yes sir!" Mrs. Landers said, her voice devoid of warmth. "I prepared the Master Suite. I moved the young lady's things in."

Elmira froze. "The Master Suite?"

She looked at Ingram. My contract will stipulate separate rooms.

Ingram leaned close to her ear. "Landers reports to my grandmother. If we sleep apart, Victoria will know by breakfast. The trust will be contested again."

Elmira gritted her teeth. She smiled at Mrs. Landers. "Wonderful."

They walked up the grand staircase. The house smelled of lemon polish and old money.

Mrs. Landers opened the double doors to the Master Suite.

It was enormous. A fireplace. A balcony.

And one bed.

It was a four-poster King, draped in heavy velvet. But it was definitely just one bed.

Mrs. Landers closed the door, leaving them alone.

Elmira immediately stepped away from him. "I'll take the floor."

She looked around. There was no sofa. Just two stiff armchairs by the fire.

"I'm not sleeping in a chair," Ingram said, taking off his jacket. "And neither are you. It's a King. Stay on your side."

He walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The shower turned on.

Elmira went to the closet. She needed anything familiar.

She opened the doors and gasped.

Her clothes were gone. The jeans, the t-shirts-vanished.

In their place were rows of silk. Lace. Sheer chiffon.

Mrs. Landers had "unpacked." And apparently, she had decided the newest acquisition needed a new wardrobe.

Elmira pulled out a slip. It was black lace and practically transparent. She pulled out another. Red silk, backless.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out.

Ingram walked out. He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest hair. His abs were defined, hard ridges of muscle.

He stopped. He saw Elmira holding the scrap of black lace.

His eyebrows went up. "Trying to live up to the morality clause?"

Elmira threw the lace back into the closet. Her face burned. "Landers took my clothes."

Ingram smirked. It was the first time she had seen him look almost... human.

"Well," he said, walking toward the bed. "You have two choices. Wear the silk. Or wear nothing."

Elmira spent forty minutes in the bathroom.

She found the most conservative thing in the closet-a navy blue silk slip. It reached her knees, but the back plunged dangerously low.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

The room was dark. Only a small lamp on the bedside table was on.

Ingram was in bed. He was wearing reading glasses, looking at a file. He glanced up when she entered.

His gaze started at her face, traveled down her neck, over the silk clinging to her hips, and back up.

He didn't say a word. He just took off his glasses, set them on the table, and turned off the light.

"Goodnight."

Elmira scurried to the bed. She lifted the duvet and slid in. She stayed on the absolute edge of the mattress, terrified that if she moved, she would touch him.

"Goodnight," she whispered.

She lay in the dark, listening to the rain. She could hear him breathing. It was slow, rhythmic.

Hours passed.

A crack of thunder shook the house. The windows rattled.

Suddenly, the hum of the central heating cut out. The power grid had flickered. The room began to cool rapidly. The stone walls of the manor sucked the heat out of the air.

Elmira shivered. She curled into a ball. The silk offered no warmth.

She was asleep, or half-asleep, when a nightmare took hold. The eviction notice, the cold sterility of the clinic, Ingram's face.

She rolled over. She moved across the expanse of the mattress.

She hit something warm. Solid.

Ingram was awake. He suffered from chronic insomnia. He had been staring at the ceiling for three hours.

He felt her cold body press against his back. He froze.

She mumbled something incoherent and threw an arm over his waist. Her face pressed into the space between his shoulder blades. She shuddered, a sound not of contentment, but of fear.

Ingram should have pushed her away. He should have woken her up.

But the involuntary tremor in her body was a vulnerability he hadn't anticipated. The scent of her shampoo-vanilla and something sharper-filled his nose.

His heart rate, usually a steady drum, skipped a beat.

He slowly, carefully, turned over.

She didn't pull away. She flinched in her sleep, her head finding the crook of his shoulder. Her hand rested on his chest, right over his heart.

Ingram looked down at her in the flashes of lightning. She looked young. Defenseless.

He lifted his hand. He hesitated. Then, his fingers brushed her shoulder, intending to push her away.

He closed his eyes. For the first time in years, the calculations in his head stopped. He felt the warmth of another human being, a liability that was now his responsibility.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, a possessive, restraining gesture. And he fell into a tense, dreamless sleep.