She had been avoiding him, but she could never tell him why. It took all her discipline not to quail under Sir Anthony’s penetrating gaze. Blast the man. She’d lost count of the times he’d made her feel like a blushing maiden. Strictly speaking, she was still a maiden, but she’d given up blushing years ago—along with simpering, flirting, and so many other talents deemed useful to unmarried women. Except, of course, in Sir Anthony’s august presence. Not that he was ever overbearing, or put on haughty airs. But at age thirty-seven, he carried himself with cool gravity and a sense of authority far greater than most men his age. Not everyone liked Sir Anthony, but everyone respected him. As his trusted liaison to the Home Office, the king invested a great deal of confidence in him, all of it well-placed as far as Linnet could determine. Sir Anthony came by his air of command honestly, and Linnet supposed it wasn’t surprising that he possessed such a knack for intimidating her.
