Anne Barbour by A Talent for Trouble Page B

warm greeting formed on his lips as he was ushered into Richard’s study, but it froze there, unspoken, as he beheld Tally standing at the workroom entrance. Her expression was that of a particularly annoyed avenging goddess, and he cautiously closed the door behind them.
    “Good morning, my lord,” she said distantly.
    Jonathan was bewildered by this sudden about-face, and somewhat affronted. He bowed slightly.
    “And good morning to you, Lady Talitha.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What have I done to deserve a return to the status of ‘my lord’ ?”
    He made as though to hand Tally the envelope he had brought with him, containing another installment of Town Bronze , but she pushed his hand away furiously.
    “What in God’s name       “ began Jonathan, but Tally interrupted him.
    “I’m afraid I must inform you, my lord, that I will be unable to assist you in your—your little project.”
    “What?” His voice was a blend of astonishment, disbelief, and anger.
    “I would have you know, my lord, that I am an avid reader.”
    This apparent nonsequitur caused Jonathan to frown in blank puzzlement.
    Two of my favorite authors,” Tally continued in a rapid monotone, “are gentlemen who write under the names of Christopher Welles and Clement.”
    Jonathan stiffened, and his features assumed a rigidity that matched Tally’s own. “I am familiar with their works,” he said warily.
    “That perhaps explains,” finished Tally, whose throat was now so tight that she feared she might not get the words out, “why the prose of those men bears such a marked similarity to your own.”
    Jonathan remained perfectly still for several moments. Tally stole a look into his face and found that his eyes, now the color of glacial rock, were boring into hers as if they would peer into her very heart.
    “What are you saying, Lady Talitha?” The words were uttered softly, but there was no mistaking the menace in them.
    “I think my meaning is perfectly plain, sir.” Tally’s heart was beating in great panicky thuds that she feared must be audible.
    “Not quite plain, my lady,” Jonathan said. “Please tell me exactly what you mean. Why do you find it impossible to provide me with illustrations?”
    Dear God, why must he make it more difficult than it already was? Tally knew an urge to simply flee from the room and let the man draw his own conclusions. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and stared coldly back at him.
    “Because your talent is a lie. You have stolen someone else’s words to cover your own inadequacy as a writer, just as a thief would purloin a coat to conceal a threadbare suit. I cannot work with one who would stoop to plagiarism.”
    There, she had said it. She released her breath in a sound that was almost a sob and looked once more into Jonathan’s face. To her astonishment, his eyes had returned to their customary shade of autumn smoke, and his lips were curved in a rueful smile.
    “Bravo, little spitfire. Spoken like an avenging angel. I cannot think of another woman of my acquaintance who would dare face me so.” He turned to pace the room for a moment before he stood before her again, so close that she became intensely aware of his faintly spicy scent.
    “I find your sad reading of my character rather discouraging, but since our acquaintance is of such short duration, I suppose I must not take exception. Tell me, does no other explanation for that similarity occur to you?”
    Tally was so taken aback by his words that for a moment she could not reply. Explanation? What other explanation could there be for his use of those phrases? Unless — oh! Oh, no! Her knees suddenly refused to hold her up, and she sank into a nearby armchair of cherry-striped silk. She could only stare at him, her eyes wide with dawning comprehension.
    Drawing another chair close, Jonathan sat down and took one of Tally’s hands in his. “I had vowed that no one would ever know this about me,” he said