Free Always a Witch by Carolyn MacCullough Page B

were a cat he'd start purring. I'm not into the nineteenth-century look, but I'd have to say that Liam is pretty attractive. Remembering exactly who he is and what he did to my Uncle Morris helps me to squelch that thought.
    Focusing those silver eyes on me once more, Liam asks, "Where are you from?"
    "Chicago," I say, folding my hands neatly in my lap, my eyes downcast as the smell of bacon begins to perfume the air.
    "Ah, Chicago, yes, I've been there. Brilliant city. Tell me, where did you live?"
    I bite my lower lip, then offer what I hope is a shy smile. "Oh, sir, nowhere you would have visited, I wager. It wasn't a very grand neighborhood."
    Wager? Grand? Maybe I'm laying it on a little thick.
    But he gives a rich chuckle, revealing perfect white teeth. Apparently, he's lucky or has great genes, as I'm pretty sure that orthodontia doesn't exist in the 1880s.
    Cook sets a blue china plate in front of him, spilling over with a huge omelet and several slices of bacon, and then deposits a thick white linen napkin and a shining fork and knife on the table. He tips an adoring gaze up at her, but she bustles back to the stove without a word. After shaking out the napkin, he tucks it around the edges of his lap before wielding the fork and knife with gusto. I look away and hope that my growling stomach can't be heard over the vigorous washing up that Cook is now absorbed in at the bathtub-size sink.
    "You'd be surprised," he says finally after some thorough chewing. "I don't confine myself to merely grand neighborhoods. So—"
    I'm saved from further questioning by Rosie's reentrance. An unreadable expression skims over her face when she sees me sitting at the table, but then she swivels her head to Liam as he asks, lazily, "So, who was it? Let me guess, Lady Hopewell with her two unbearably ugly daughters? Or perhaps Lady Rehnquist with her three even uglier daughters, if such a thing is possible?"
    Rosie giggles as expected and then makes as if to swat his arm playfully. "No such thing. A Mr. Alistair Callum looking to speak with your mother. He said it was most urgent." Under the table, I press my feet together until I feel a blister on my left toe ping in protest. Not so soon, I want to howl.
    Liam raises an eyebrow but returns to his omelet after a second. "One of those endless horrible charities, no doubt, always looking for a handout. Did you tell him no one was home?"
    "Of course," Rosie says. Then she frowns. "I told him she wasn't home and he said he'd call again. But he seemed ... upset. Odd, really."
    He grunts, chews a piece of bacon. "Those charity types often are. Why they'd choose that as their life's calling, I couldn't begin to imagine." And he shudders before stuffing down the last piece of bacon.
    Cook appears at his elbow to take the plate away. "It's a noble calling," she says to the air above his shoulder. "A charity worker. Helping unfortunate folk. We could all follow that example a little more. To make up for all our sins." Her quiet voice throbs through the air. Rosie and Liam both stare at her in silence.
    Then Liam smiles that perfect smile again. "Don't you think of running off, Cook. You're needed here. We're your favorite charity."
    "Charity is not what keeps me here," she says quietly, and then steps back as if afraid she's said too much.
    But Liam only laughs and ignores her last statement. "As for me, I'll choose to help out poor orphan girls, like Miss Smithsdale here. That can be my charity," he murmurs, his eyes meeting mine intently.
    I swallow and try to smile, but my stomach is roiling, although this time it's not from hunger. Alistair will come here again. Somehow I have to stop him. But before I can even figure out a way to do this, the kitchen door opens yet again and another man enters quietly. He is dressed in a stiff black suit and carries a newspaper folded in crisp pleats under one arm. His eyes roam across the entire kitchen as if gathering evidence before settling on the table