A/N: I am so delighted and flattered by the response to the first chapter. Apparently there are a lot of people who share my love for such stories as Jane Eyre, so it is very gratifying to see the following of this fic. Thanks so much for the reviews. I'd also like to thank those who are reading my older stories, and to welcome new readers to my fics. Your kind reviews are very humbling.

Well, this chapter is just about as long as the first, so those in the long chapter contingent may rejoice, I suppose…

Chapter 2

Teresa awoke to sunlight streaming in through the open curtains. She blinked, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings. As her memory flooded back, she wondered vaguely what time it was. The digital clock at her bedside flashed 12:00, and she felt a moment of panic before she realized it only meant that the electricity was back on. In any case, with the sun up, it was time to get out of her warm bed and begin her first day as nanny to Charlotte.

She rose, adjusting the straps of the clinging silk nightgown she'd borrowed from Mrs. Martins's late daughter, and slipped on the bathrobe she'd used the night before. It was then she noticed a familiar suitcase just inside her door. She rushed over, pleased to see it, along with her backpack, returned to her safe and sound. She retrieved her wallet from inside the backpack and was relieved to find all her meager funds remaining. A folded notecard on the floor caught her eye, and she saw that it was addressed to her in old-fashioned, flowing script.

Miss Lisbon:

I found your missing taxi. It wasn't too difficult; that's why they are painted bright yellow, after all.

Will see you in two days.

P. Jane

How the devil had he gotten this back for her so soon?

The logistics alone with the road in the shape it was in boggled her mind. She imagined him embarking alone in the darkness, likely battling the rain since she'd heard it blowing against the window most of the night. If not, he would have had to coerce the taxi company to risk life and limb to come all the way out to the house. She shuddered to think how much that might have cost him.

A flush of gratitude tinted her cheeks at the trouble Mr. Jane must have gone to, for her, no matter how he'd gotten her belongings back.

"Miss Lisbon?" called Charlotte's small voice from outside her door. The little girl knocked softly. "Miss Lisbon? Are you awake?"

Teresa belted her robe and opened the door.

"Good morning, Charlotte. How are you today?"

"I'm fine."

"That's good."

"Daddy told me before he left that I should show you around the house like a good hostess. Then we could play with the kittens or maybe go outside because it finally stopped raining after a million billion years."

"I would love to do all of those things, along with your school lessons. May I get dressed and eat breakfast first?" she asked wryly in response to the little girl's insistence.

"I guess," Charlotte said on a heavy sigh. Teresa smiled to herself at the girl's dramatic disappointment.

"Well, give me a moment and I'll be right out. You can show me to the kitchen."

"Can I wait inside?"

"May I-?"

"May I wait inside?"

Teresa stepped aside so the little girl could skip into her room. "Sure."

Teresa picked up her suitcase and set it on the bed, quickly finding a pair of her own jeans and a sage green t-shirt, pairing it with a gray cardigan. She went into the bathroom to change, while Charlotte continued to chatter about the prospects of the day to come from atop Teresa's abandoned bed. Teresa listened with one ear, until she made one surprising pronouncement.

"…Daddy said I could get a pony when I am ten. But I would rather have a llama."

Teresa chuckled as she emerged from the bathroom. "A llama? What would you do with a llama?" She rooted around her luggage to find a pair of comfortable black flats.

"Have them kill the coyotes. Daddy read me a story about that once. I hate coyotes. I'm glad they didn't howl last night because it was raining."

Teresa tried to decide which topic she'd address first.

"I don't think I've ever heard coyotes howl," she said. "I'm looking forward to it."

Charlotte's green eyes widened in surprise. "You are? Daddy says they're just like barking doggies, but they don't sound that way to me. I have bad dreams about them getting into the house and biting me. Sometimes I wake up at night and hear them in the attic."

Teresa froze, the bemused smile still upon her face, while she attempted to process what Charlotte was saying.

"You know there are no coyotes in the attic, right?" she said, trying to comfort the child, though the strange noises Teresa had heard yesterday hadn't been her dream, hadn't been her imagination. "Mrs. Martins says that squirrels get in there sometimes."

Charlotte frowned, not buying it.

"Besides," Teresa reasoned, "how in the world would coyotes be able to get up there anyway?"

Charlotte shrugged. "You never know," she said with an air of childish wisdom.

Teresa kept her face blank, deciding not to push the issue of animals in the attic any further, unwilling to allow Charlotte to dwell on her unreasonable fears.

"Okay, why don't you show me to the kitchen, please. I'm starving."

The pair went to the door, and Teresa smiled when the little girl naturally and easily took her hand.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"And this is where Daddy's room is," said Charlotte, opening a door just down the hall from his daughter's bedroom. The family rooms were on the opposite wing of the house from her guest room.

Teresa stood awkwardly at the threshold of Patrick Jane's bedroom.

"I'm sure your father wouldn't want me going into his room, Charlotte."

"He doesn't care," she said.

Teresa refused to enter, but she couldn't resist glancing in at the plainly decorated room. It was as spartan as if a monk lived in there. There was a queen-size bed with a nondescript wooden headboard, a blue comforter, a dresser, a desk beneath a window, and a chair facing the fireplace. A few books were stacked by the bed, and upon the antique, highboy dresser was a small leather box and a lone bottle of expensive cologne. She could still smell his scent in the air from his morning ablations. Oddly, it made her blush.

But it was the large painting over the cold fireplace that caught and held her eye. Mr. Jane was easily recognizable—though in the painting his hair was considerably more sun-bleached, his face tinged gold by the sun, his smile beatific as he looked down upon his gorgeous wife, who held a bundled infant in her arms like a Madonna, her expression filled with love as she beheld her newborn daughter.

Charlotte had run into the room and bounced on his bed as if that were something she did frequently. But when she noticed where Teresa was looking , she hopped off the bed to stand before the fireplace, her head tilting back to take in the image of her family.

"That's me Mommy is holding," she said, pointing.

"I thought so," said Teresa politely. "It's a lovely painting." And it was. They had been a beautiful family. It really was a tragedy Mrs. Jane had been taken so young. She was intensely curious about what might have happened to her, but didn't want to upset Charlotte by asking. However they had lost her, Teresa found she felt equally bad for both Charlotte and Mr. Jane. No wonder he seemed so angry at the world.

"Mommy died," said Charlotte sadly. "I was four."

So, two years ago, Teresa realized.

"I'm very sorry," Teresa said sincerely, but then she suddenly felt even more uncomfortable invading her employer's privacy like this. "I think we'd better move on with the tour," she said.

"What are you doing here?" asked Mrs. Martins coldly from behind her, making Teresa jump. Her hand went to her heart, where it pounded in startle. Teresa turned to the housekeeper, who once again was clad in deep mourning.

"I'm sorry. Charlotte was giving me a tour…" she explained lamely.

"Daddy said I could." Charlotte added, joining them in the doorway.

"I'm sure he didn't mean for you to take a stranger into his private room," said Mrs. Martins, her voice laden with chastisement. Gone was the welcoming tone from yesterday.

"Miss Teresa isn't a stranger. She's my teacher."

"Hm. Well, why don't you continue the tour downstairs, Charlotte, and then begin your lessons."

Charlotte took Teresa's hand once more, pulling her protectively away from Mrs. Martins, who turned back to Mr. Jane's room. Taking a key ring from her pocket, she locked the door from the outside. Teresa felt the woman's suspicious eyes upon her as she followed Charlotte back down the hall toward the staircase.

"I don't like her," said Charlotte softly, when they were safely out of earshot of Mrs. Martins. "She's mean. And she and Daddy are always arguing."

Teresa raised an eyebrow, thinking that Mr. Jane didn't seem the kind of man who would put up with impudence in his employees.

"What do they fight about?" she blurted, then regretted the question instantly. Her insatiable curiosity was going to be the death of her.

"Sometimes when they don't know I'm listening, I hear them mention Mommy and Mrs. Martins's daughter. But Daddy always catches me so they stop talking."

It was very strange and intriguing, but Teresa decided there were some things she didn't need to know about. She was there to do her job, to take care of and teach Charlotte, not to get involved in family secrets.

As they left the wing that held the family bedrooms, Teresa noticed an odd little door to the right of the second floor landing. It was smaller than a normal door, and even she, at a few inches over five feet, would have to duck to go through it.

"Where does that lead?" she asked her guide.

"To the attic. But it's locked, and we're not supposed to go up there. Daddy says it isn't safe."

This raised a thousand more questions, but Teresa nodded, valiantly controlling herself.

The bottom floor held the library, a formal sitting room, a large dining room with a long table that would easily seat twenty-four, the kitchen, and Teresa's favorite room she had seen so far, the ballroom.

While the rest of the house seemed dark and gloomy, even in the light of day and with the electricity restored, here, the California sun blazed into the room so brightly that it took a few moments for Teresa's eyes to adjust.

The ballroom was an elaborate recreation of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, with one wall lined with rows of arched mirrors; the opposite wall with matching arched windows that overlooked the garden surrounding the estate. Gold filigree decorated the walls on both sides, and statues stood regally in shallow alcoves between the arches. Instead of toga-wearing goddesses, however, upon closer inspection, Teresa was surprised, then amused to see that the statues were of sideshow performers, reminiscent of those whose pictures graced the walls upstairs.

She looked above the crystal chandeliers at the frescoed ceiling, noting that it depicted a circus and carnival theme, though the once-vibrant colors were faded by time and want of care. Charlotte pirouetted down the room's checkerboard floor, her pale hair swinging in the sunlight as she spun.

"Isn't it pretty here?" she exclaimed.

"Yes," agreed Teresa wholeheartedly.

"I want to get married here someday, just like Mommy and Daddy did."

Another interesting tidbit, she thought. So, this house had been part of the Jane family for years. She glanced at her watch.

"Let's get to your studies now, Charlotte," she told the girl. "Thank you for the tour. You have a great house."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rest of the day was devoted to teaching Charlotte, and then going outside for some air and exercise. The lawns were soggy from yesterday's rain, and they had to avoid mud puddles on the pathways, but the gardens were beautiful, like a green oasis in the golden hills surrounding them. There were hedgerows and rose gardens, though they had been allowed to grow wild in recent years. She wondered if the grief that pervaded the house had put a pall upon the desire to garden. Most impressive was the hedge maze that Teresa wanted desperately to try, but that Charlotte shied away from.

"I got lost in there one time. I was crying for Daddy and he couldn't find me for hours."

Teresa was certain that hours must be an exaggeration—the maze wasn't that big- but she didn't push the little girl to try it until she'd spoken to Mr. Jane.

They walked around the large home one more time, all the while, Teresa had the uncanny feeling that someone was watching her. She turned her head suddenly toward the house, hoping she might catch whoever was peering out through a window, but she saw no one. Still, she shivered a bit as the feeling pervaded.

"How do you get up to those turrets, Charlotte?" Teresa asked, pointing to the two tall structures that soared above the rest of the old chateau. At the very top of each was one small window.

"I don't know," said Charlotte. "And Daddy won't tell me."

"Maybe it's dangerous up there," Teresa said, her curiosity aroused even more.

"I think there is a beautiful princess being kept up there by a wicked witch," Charlotte proclaimed, her love of fairy tales capturing her imagination. "Or an evil sorcerer. Or maybe even a dragon." Her eyes grew round at her own suggestions.

Teresa chuckled. "I don't think a dragon could fit in that turret."

"He could with the right magic spell," Charlotte maintained.

Teresa didn't have the heart to argue with her, but she wondered herself what secrets might be hidden there.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next few days passed in much the same way, and Teresa found Charlotte to be as bright and as quick as she had initially assumed. They set up a routine of studies in the morning and an outdoor excursion in the afternoon. Later, after Charlotte was read to and tucked in, Teresa's evenings were her own.

She missed her smartphone, and hoped that when Mr. Jane returned, she could beg a ride into town so she could replace it. She'd used the land line to call her brothers in Chicago, but the only phone in the house was in the kitchen—an old rotary that, like much of the rest of the house, belonged in another time—so there wasn't much privacy to be had. It would have been nice to have access to the internet, but Mrs. Martins said there were no computers in the house anyway, not to mention a television. On the bright side, Teresa was left with plenty of time to read and a large library at her disposal.

On the third night in her new home, Teresa was lying in bed trying valiantly to get into the mystery novel she had picked her first night there. The story just wasn't working for her, and she had guessed the murderer by the fourth chapter. The call of the other book that Patrick Jane had suggested became too strong to resist, though she'd stubbornly kept reading her original selection, simply because her employer had been so arrogant in his ability to easily read her tastes in literature.

With a sigh of annoyance, she snapped the book shut and got out of bed. The bedside clock told her it was almost one in the morning, so she figured the rest of the house was sound asleep. Slipping on her robe, she went to her door and quietly turned the knob. It was very dark, but a lamp was helpfully lit in an alcove of the staircase landing, and she padded in her stocking feet down the carpeted hallway. Halfway to the stairs, a movement caught her eye and she looked sharply at the other end of the hall, beyond the landing in the opposite wing of the house. A flash of white rounded a corner and disappeared. Her heart skipped a beat.

Teresa stood frozen in the hallway, her hand on her chest. Before she knew it, she was crossing the staircase landing and following after the white-clad figure. When she came to where she'd thought the person had turned a corner, she realized that the hallway hadn't curved at all, that it had been an optical illusion. She scanned the walls, felt silly after pressing on suspicious looking panels, but the only conclusion she could come to was that the person in white seemed to have completely vanished. There were no doors at the end of the hall, save the one that led to Mr. Jane's bedroom, and the figure had not turned in that direction.

She sighed.

"Too many novels," she muttered, shaking her head at herself. That and the creepy old house were enough to have anyone seeing ghosts.

She stopped before Charlotte's room, turned the knob quietly, and peaked in on her charge. In the dim light of her princess nightlight, she could see the peaceful rise and fall of the blankets covering the sleeping child.

Shutting the door once more with a soft click, she turned back to the hall, only to run smack into Patrick Jane. She gasped in terror, her book dropping to the carpeted floor with a dull thump.

Jane's firm hands came out to steady her, and it was only the whiff of his familiar cologne that opened her eyes. She looked up into his shadowed face.

"Oh!" she said lamely.

"I didn't peg you as a walking the floors type, Miss Lisbon," said Mr. Jane. "Insomnia?"

She shook her head, aware that he still touched her.

"No, I was just going down to the library when I thought I'd check on Charlotte."

His eyes narrowed as he looked into hers as best he could in the dimness. He seemed to know that she wasn't telling the complete truth, but thankfully he didn't question her further. Then, when he suddenly realized he still held her arms, he dropped his hands to his sides.

She shivered involuntarily.

"Is everything all right?" he asked softly.

"Yes. She's sleeping like a baby." Lisbon smiled awkwardly, inclining her head toward his daughter's door.

He smirked a little. That wasn't what he'd meant by his question, but again, he went along with her answer.

He squatted before her and picked up her forgotten book, and he slowly rose again, her heart skittering within her breasts as she physically felt the weight of his eyes examining her closely from stocking feet to her mother's gold cross resting against her bare throat. She was painfully aware that her robe was hanging open, that her brother's old hockey jersey only came to her thighs, and that she wasn't wearing a bra, but she lifted her head and stood proudly under his gaze.

He placed the novel in her hand, but Teresa was too caught up in her own swirling emotions to note that his was trembling slightly.

"It's very late," he chastised, and she was surprised his voice broke a little. He cleared his throat impatiently. "You should go get your book."

"I—I think I'll just go on to bed now," she stammered. "I'm suddenly very tired."

He nodded. "As you wish. I've had a long drive, so I'll say good-night."

"Good night," she managed, and it was all she could do not to run back to her own room, but she forced herself to walk normally, without looking back. She knew instinctively that if she turned, she would find that he was still watching her.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Teresa didn't see Jane at breakfast, and she found she was equal parts relieved and disappointed. Neither did he come in to observe Charlotte's lessons, as she thought he might, so that by the afternoon she had convinced herself that he must have left the house again.

Charlotte led her that afternoon to a tall, ancient oak tree growing within the walnut and peach orchards on the back property of the estate. It was early march, and the fruit trees were covered in buds that would likely bloom any day. Suspended from a thick, high branch of the oak tree was an old-fashioned wooden swing. Charlotte rushed gleefully ahead to sit upon it.

"Push me!"

"Please," Teresa corrected with a smile.

"Please?"She asked contritely, remembering her manners.

"Sure."

Teresa got her going until Charlotte informed her she could take it from there. Teresa found an old iron bench beneath a nearby walnut tree and sat down to enjoy the warm afternoon. Spring was definitely around the corner, and soon Teresa would be able to enroll in the summer term at UC Davis.

"Daddy!" exclaimed Charlotte, and before Teresa could shout a warning, the little girl had jumped out of the swing from a dangerous height. She landed on unsteady legs and went running to her father.

"Charlotte!" he said sharply, and the girl slowed to an abrupt halt.

Her lower lip trembled as she realized she'd disappointed him. She hung her head and stayed where she was until Jane could join her.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she said, her voice quavering.

He dropped to his knees before her.

"Look at me," he told her, his voice gentle, yet firm. She complied, her green eyes flooded with unshed tears.

"What have I told you about jumping from the swing?"

"I—I could get hurt," she said seriously.

"Yes," he said. "Don't forget, sweetheart, that we only have each other. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

She hugged him around the neck. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she repeated, this time her voice was muffled against his light blue shirt. He was wearing his suit vest sans jacket and tie, and he looked amazingly handsome as he held his daughter close, his eyes tightly shut.

Teresa had sensed the real fear behind his angry tone and hadn't faulted him for it. Her own brother had broken his leg as a child doing the same thing.

Crisis averted, father and daughter walked back to where Teresa sat on the bench. Charlotte had taken a covered basket from Jane and was carrying the small burden awkwardly with her two small hands.

"Daddy brought a picnic!"

Teresa smiled. "I see that."

"Mrs. Martins packed quite a feast. Set it up for us, Charlotte," Jane instructed, and the little girl happily set the basket beneath the large oak and began rummaging through its contents. To her surprise, Jane sat on the bench beside Teresa. She tensed at his nearness. Why did he intimidate her so much? He busied himself rolling up his shirtsleeves, and she looked admiringly at the strong forearms, dusted liberally with dark blonde hair.

"Were you able to get to sleep last night?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," she admitted, her eyes lifting guiltily from his fine arms. "Eventually."

He glanced directly into her face then, and she blushed at his knowing gaze. She'd lain awake for at least an hour, reliving their hushed conversation in the hallway, remembering his scent, his hands on her arms, how he'd stared intently at her thighs…

"Good."

He sat back and watched lovingly as Charlotte spread out a blue and white checkered blanket and began setting out plastic plates and containers of food, all the while singing to herself.

"Is there no one else living in the house besides you, Charlotte and Mrs. Martins?" she blurted, remembering the ghostly figure from the night before.

"No, Miss Lisbon. It is just us. And you now, of course."

"Oh," she replied. But she didn't believe him.

Still watching his daughter, he spoke for Teresa's ears alone. "Don't tell me you've seen the ghost of Ruskin manor," he said wryly.

"Ghost?"

"All old houses have them, and I've heard Charlotte's great grandmother sometimes walks the halls of her old home."

"You don't strike me as the kind of man who believes in ghosts," Lisbon said, noting his mocking tone.

"No, Miss Lisbon, I am not. But you strike me as the kind of woman who does."

Teresa wasn't quite sure what she believed in that regard. She certainly believed in the afterlife, and there was plenty of mention of spirits in the Bible, but she found that more often than not, such things could always be explained logically. As with the so-called ghost she saw last night. The logical conclusion was that Jane and Mrs. Martins were lying to her: there was someone else in that house. But she didn't contradict him; no sense getting herself fired for calling her employer a liar.

"Anything is possible," she replied instead, and while he raised an eyebrow, they both left the conversation at that.

They joined Charlotte on the blanket after her call to lunch and feasted on roast beef sandwiches, fresh fruit, and potato salad. Teresa helped Charlotte pour cold lemonade from a Thermos into plastic cups.

Aside from her physical awareness of the handsome man, who sat with his back against the tree consuming his second sandwich, the meal was surprisingly comfortable. He joked frequently with his daughter, smiling often at her observations, while the dappled sunlight played upon his tousled hair. But he never smiled directly at Teresa, and she wondered idly if she'd be able to survive it if he did.

Charlotte took the bread from the half of her sandwich she hadn't eaten and went off to feed the squirrels and birds. They watched her with shared amusement, listening to her cries of delight when a squirrel snatched a piece of bread from her fingers and scurried back to a nearby tree with its prize.

"Thank you for getting back my luggage," she ventured sincerely. "I really appreciate it. I thought I would have to make a huge deal about it, call the cabbie's boss and complain…I hate having to do that kind of thing."

"Hmm," replied Jane noncommittally. "You will find, Miss Lisbon, that I can be very persuasive."

She swallowed a bite of potato salad to distract herself from the automatic reply in her head: I'll bet you can…

"Oh, well. Thanks again."

They were both quiet a moment, each watching Charlotte's antics with the small creatures in the orchard. But then another thought occurred to Teresa.

"I'm curious about your house," she asked. "What's with the carnival theme?"

She felt him tense, and he was so quiet for a moment that she thought he might not answer.

"My late wife's parents were carnival royalty," he said finally, if somewhat reluctantly. "They owned the Ruskin Family Circus as well, traveling the country on trains and later in big semi-truck caravans. I used to work for them."

This was a fascinating turn to say the least. "Doing what?" she asked. "Setting up the big tops? Running the Tilt-a-Whirl?"

"No. I was in the sideshow. They called me—"and here he almost appeared embarrassed—"Boy Wonder."

She thought about this a moment. "You were a fortune teller or something?"

"Well, pretended to be one. A psychic, to be exact."

That explained a lot, actually. He seemed to be able to look straight through her, to read her thoughts and desires exactly. Her face grew warm as she contemplated her recent unprofessional thoughts about him.

"There's no such thing as psychics, Miss Lisbon," he reassured her ironically, as if reading her mind again.

"No. No, of course not. I take it you met your wife there."

"Yes," he said, and the finality in his tone told her further pursuit of that line of questioning was strongly discouraged. Her curiosity piqued, she moved on to a parallel topic.

"So what is it you do now, Mr. Jane?"

His lips quirked, but he covered it by popping another green grape between his full lips. He chewed thoughtfully. "I'm a psychic," he told her.

"But—"

"Daddy, look! A caterpillar!"

The intrusion of Charlotte's exciting find effectively ended the intimate conversation, though the rest of the afternoon, she occasionally felt his heavy gaze upon her. Teresa hoped she would have the chance to talk to Jane further. He was an intriguing man; as baffling and enigmatic as the house in which he lived.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After her bath, Charlotte insisted her Daddy read to her, to which he readily agreed (much to his credit, in Teresa's mind.) She bid the pair goodnight and returned to her room, grateful for the time alone to contemplate her day spent with the Jane family.

She disrobed and went to her bathroom, intending to finally utilize the clawfoot tub. While the water filled, she went to retrieve her book, though she wished she had thought to exchange it before she'd removed her clothes for the night. With a sigh, she picked up the book from her nightstand, only to find it wasn't her original book after all. It had been replaced with Jane's selection, The Murder Room.

Her jaw dropped in shock at the realization that Jane himself had likely been in this room earlier. Had he gone through her things? Though she had a right to privacy, it was his house after all; he could easily justify coming into her room without her permission. She gave a perfunctory once-over of her belongings, found that nothing seemed to have been touched. She opened her dresser drawers and thought that nothing seemed amiss or askew. Still, the very idea made her shiver a little, and she pulled her bathroom more tightly around her.

She opened the embossed cover of her new book, inhaling the scent of fine leather, when a familiar card fell out from between the gold edged pages.

Another note from Mr. Jane:

Join me in the library after your bath.

P. Jane

She stared at the black ink on the heavy expensive vellum, pondering the possible implication of each word.

Had she done something wrong, or was this some sort of come-on?

And how did he know she was going to be bathing instead of using the shower as she had previously? How did he seem to know her moves before she made them? She kept coming to the conclusion that he really was a psychic.

She closed the notecard and placed it carefully on top of the other in the drawer of her nightstand. She would take her bath, then go down and meet him. There was no question that she would.

He was her employer, after all.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Was there something I could help you with?" Mrs. Martins asked upon meeting Teresa at the top of the stairs.

Mrs. Martins's manner seemed colder somehow, much less welcoming than on the day Teresa had arrived.

"No. No thank you. Mr. Jane asked me to meet him in the library."

Mrs. Martins's eyes narrowed, noting her attire. She was wearing the robe again, but Lorelei's silky nightgown was peeping beneath the hem. "Why?"

Teresa was startled by the question. Was it any of the housekeeper's business?

"I have no idea. Maybe it's something to do with Charlotte."

"Hmph," sniffed the older woman. Teresa moved to descend the stairs, but was stopped by Mrs. Martins's staying hand on her arm. Teresa looked down at it, then into dark eyes that looked suddenly very earnest.

"May I offer you some friendly advice, Miss Lisbon?"

"Sure…I-I guess…"

Mrs. Martins's voice lowered to a desperate whisper.

"Be very careful around this man. I tell you this as a mother would. I wish Lorelei had listened to me."

"What? Why?"

"Don't get me wrong; Mr. Jane is a good man, a good employer. And he loves his daughter very much. But there are things…well, just be mindful, that's all I'm saying."

Abruptly, she released Teresa's arm and stepped away.

"Good night, Miss Lisbon," she said, more formally, and left her on the landing.

Teresa was shaken by the confrontation, even a little frightened by the intensity of Mrs. Martins's expression.

What the hell was that all about?

She debated whether she should ignore Jane's summons now, tell him tomorrow she hadn't felt well.

But despite Mrs. Martins's warning, Teresa felt the need to discover Jane's true character on her own. She had always been able to trust her instincts in the past, and she told herself that this instance should be no different.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

She found him sitting in his chair by the dancing fire, this time, swirling a glass of amber liquid instead of holding a teacup. She watched him a moment from the open doorway of the library as he gazed intently into the flames. There was something very sad behind those intense green eyes of his, in the weary slump of his shoulders when he was unaware she was watching him. It must be the loss of his wife, she reasoned, and pushed aside any romantic notions of a tragic love story or a mysterious death. As she watched, he brought the brandy snifter to his lips and sipped, and she felt her mouth go dry.

He spoke before she could raise her hand to knock on the doorframe politely.

"And have you come to any conclusions about me yet, Miss Lisbon?" he asked, a ghost of a sardonic smile hovering about his lips. He rose to greet her in the old-fashioned, gentlemanly air he had about him.

"No," she answered honestly. "I haven't quite figured you out."

He moved to the small cart that contained a selection of liquors and fine crystal glasses.

"There really is not much to know about me. I'm a very simple man. Would you like a drink?"

When she hesitated, trying to decide which statement to respond to, he smirked.

"You are over twenty-one, aren't you, Miss Lisbon?"

"Yes," she said, though she'd just turned of legal drinking age the month before. With that, she gathered her wits about her and stood a bit taller. "Whiskey, please."

That familiar eyebrow rose, but he made no comment about her choice of hard liquor.

"And you're not," she said, watching him fill a glass with two fingers of expensive single malt. "Simple, I mean."

He handed her the glass and nodded toward the matching leather chair at an angle to the fire. She took a sip, enjoying the calming path it burned past her throat and into her belly.

"On the contrary, Miss Lisbon, if you look around, you'll see my tastes run very simple: a warm fire, good books, a fine brandy or a soothing cup of tea." He raised his glass slightly in salute. "Good company. Those are the only things any man needs in this life."

What about a woman to love, she thought, and had to bite her tongue to keep the intimate words from escaping her mouth. She took another fortifying sip of whiskey, then cleared her throat.

"What did you need to see me about, Mr. Jane?"

He was obviously amused that she wanted to get right down to business.

"I enjoy your company, Miss Lisbon. I admit that once Charlotte goes to bed, this drafty old house can seem very…empty. It's nice to have someone I can talk to who can conduct an intelligent conversation."

"What about Mrs. Martins?"

He shook his head. "She's not much of a conversationalist," he said wryly. "And besides, she doesn't care much for me."

"Why not?"

He sighed. "It's a long story. But suffice it to say, there are some things one cannot forgive. But you don't want to hear that sordid tale."

Yes I do! Teresa screamed in her head, though she didn't dare speak it aloud.

"But enough about me," he continued. "I'm interested to hear more about your occupational aspirations. You want to be in law enforcement. That really fascinates me. It's a rare thing to see a young woman desire to work around all that death and depravity."

"It's important that criminals are brought to justice," she said importantly. "And I think a woman can add a perspective that your typical man cannot."

"That's a very sexist statement," he commented, amused.

"No, just realistic. Men tend to be more…reactionary, more single-minded. Women generally are more thoughtful before they act, and they can focus on more than one thing at a time. I think these traits would be invaluable to the FBI."

"True enough," he agreed. "You are very insightful for one so young."

"Thank you," she replied, though she found it grated on her when he pointed out the disparity between their ages. Despite her youth, Teresa felt she was more mature than most of the young women her age. Losing both parents and having to raise her brothers mostly on her own matured you pretty fast. And Jane wasn't that old himself, though he possessed an air of wisdom and world-weariness that had deepened the lines about his eyes and mouth.

"How old are you, may I ask, Mr. Jane?"

He didn't hesitate, almost as if he'd expected her question. "Thirty-five."

"That's not too old," she said, then clamped her mouth shut, her face burning as hot as the whiskey in her throat. She looked angrily down at her glass, blaming the alcohol for her loosened tongue.

For the first time since they'd met, he chuckled because of her and not the daughter that was safely in her bed. She gazed in fascination at how laughter transformed his face.

"Not too old for what, Miss Lisbon?" he asked, smiling around his glass as he took another sip.

A distant thump saved her from replying, and two pairs of eyes shot toward the source of the noise—the upper floors of the house.

Jane set down his glass and rose.

"Stay here," he ordered succinctly.

She watched him stride quickly to the door and disappear, heading, she assumed, toward the staircase.

Teresa stayed put for a grand total of ten seconds, before following Jane out of the library and into the dark foyer.

A/N: More mystery on the way. Thanks for reading.

In the meantime, if you haven't checked out my story with Hayseed Socrates, please give it a try; it's a lot of fun. It's called "Precious Days," and is posted under her name.