Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (14)

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Sophie Fraser was a scamp. She admitted as much—to other people, not just herself. Yet while she thrived on a bit of chaos, she generally felt that it was more aligned to chaotic good. No real harm came from any of her little adventures or fantasies. But tonight…

Well, tonight was difficult.

Harm would come, and it would be directly because of her. Her idea, her interference. Still, it was ultimately for Amanda’s own good. Even Amanda agreed.

The harm would be… beneficial?

Oh, no matter how she thought about it, she was growing more uncomfortable with her plan with each passing minute. There was only one way to fix it, and she wasn’t certain if she liked that path any better. It meant withholding one very important detail—a slight alteration—from her newfound friend. Still, it was for the greater good. And, certainly, it would all come out before the end of the night. Yet…

Well, she didn’t have to make the choice now.

She had at least five minutes to decide.

Until then she was set on her mission.

What better place for a bit of scandal than a glittering ballroom? This particular ballroom not only glittered, it teemed—Lady Tisdale did so love a crush and tonight’s ball was no exception. The mass of people worked perfectly for her plans: kick a tiny pebble and watch it tumble into a landslide.

Spreading gossip was a tricky thing. (She’d gathered enough to know.) Firstly, one must not seem to be a gossip—especially Sophie. If people thought she was a gossip, they’d never tell her anything. Secondly, she needed a reliable and good gossip to deliver their little rumor. One who would readily repeat it to any willing ear without embellishment or malice. If she was going to drag part of Amanda’s reputation through the mud, it would be the cleanest mud possible—slightly dingy-looking water, if they were at all lucky.

Sophie had also learned that the best way to deliver information was by pretending to desire information. So, leaning a smidgeon closer to the best and most reliable gossip in the ton, Sophie lowered her voice and said, “Forgive my presumption, but as you’re a close friend of the family I had to ask: is it true what happened in the Pruett library?”

Lady Ephigenia Partridge-Simmons haughtily blinked down her nose. After several seconds (during which even Sophie became uncomfortable), she said, “A good deal of reading, I imagine.”

“Of course!” Sophie forced an awkward laugh. “Of course. Though I meant more specifically…” Her eyes raised to the ceiling as she counted, “the night before the night before last? Which doesn’t sound specific at all. Erm. Three nights ago?”

Sophie caught sight of Amanda across the room. Hesitation gave her pause.

Her five minutes were up. It was time to choose. She could continue with Amanda’s plan. Or…

A little chaos.

 

Lady Ephigenia Partridge-Simmons, meanwhile, was furiously wracking her brain.

She did not know what had happened in the Pruett library the night before the night before last. Though she did know the current state of the Pruett library and highly doubted that any deal of reading, good or otherwise, had taken place inside its walls.

Moreover, the petite miss standing at her side had an air of anguish about her. She looked torn and, perhaps, a little guilty. Ephigenia used to catch her son wearing a similar expression when he debated a nasty trick to play upon his sister. Her guilt was very well-hidden but hard to mask completely. And it was directed across the ballroom.

Miss Sophie Fraser’s normally sparkling brown eyes were fixed upon a dancing couple. Hmm. Miss Amanda Pruett and…

Ephigenia squinted. His face came into focus a little too slowly for her pleasure requiring her to squeeze her eyes a bit tighter than usual—the ballroom was stuffy, is all. She made sure to keep the muscles in her forehead relaxed so that no unseemly wrinkles formed. But when the man’s features sharpened into a recognizable visage, no practiced relaxation could prevent her disappointed moue. Duncan Urquhart was a bit of a milksop, hardly the sort to inspire anxiety if Miss Pruett had formed an attachment there.

But…

But then Miss Sophie’s eyes shifted, her expression resolved. She seemed… determined? And she looked directly at…

“Ah.” Lady Partridge-Simmons smiled. So that’s the state of matters. A little intrigue. A little hint of danger. “The night before the night before last. I see. Well, as I was not in the room, I cannot possibly say what occurred—” Her mind experienced an explosion of possibilities of what might have occurred. In the Pruett library. At night. She could put two and two together. And she could most certainly follow the trail of Miss Sophie’s eyes. “—what occurred between a certain couple.”

Miss Sophie’s head jerked up, attention riveted. “So it is true.”

Ephigenia squinted again, this time from what her ears perceived, not from what her eyes missed. Miss Sophie’s words were full of appropriate shock, but her tone held something peculiar. It was a little satisfied. A little smug.

With a delicate sniff, Ephigenia decided to stop this line of inquiry. If the girl were jealous of a former interest, it wouldn’t do at all to stir the pot. So she said, “Well, I cannot say truth or fiction. I’m certain that the parties involved would not care for such idle circulations.”

“No, not at all… You’re right, of course.” The girl made a polite curtsey and excused herself.

Hmm.

Ephigenia tapped her fan against her chin. A midnight tryst even before the girl’s first ball? Scandalous! But oh, what a conquest! Her skin itched with the tingling excitement that always came with new news. How she loved a good romance! She supposed it wouldn’t hurt if she told one other person.

 

Julian stood near the far wall and scowled. He used to enjoy ballrooms. He’d never minded a twirl or two around the floor. He had even been known to ask a girl, rather than be prodded into dancing.

Tonight he found that ballrooms made him quite… irritable.

He couldn’t decide if it was the crush, or the din of the orchestra, or the people who unexpectedly wanted to talk to him, or perhaps it was the slimy Sir Robert and his obsequious grin and feathery hair and ridiculously even teeth and… and why was she laughing, had he just said something funny? All Julian ever did was annoy her and here Slimy Robert had just made her laugh.

Julian’s fingers flicked at his side.

He didn’t like the crush. He no longer felt comfortable in a crowd and even standing at the edge, he’d been elbowed countless times and nearly drenched in punch thrice.

Hmph.

He took a calming breath. Truth be told, the orchestra was actually rather accomplished, though drowned out by the enveloping chatter. As long as he could hear the strain of music beneath, he could live with the noise. If he weren’t so preoccupied, he would welcome a chat with any of the men who had approached him tonight.

But Sir Robert.

He. Hated. Sir. Robert.

Though there was nothing he could do about it.

You could prove the man a murderer.

If it was Sir Robert. It could be anyone. The fact that every part of the situation compromised Amanda personally, Sir Robert was showing her a special interest, and that he was a lothario who’d lie and cheat to achieve his goals? Yes, for tonight Julian was quite happy to put Sir Robert’s face behind the mask of Sir Sinister.

There had to be another way to draw out the blackguard. Something which didn’t involve harebrained schemes concocted by crackpot gossips in the middle of Egyptian temples with stiff seats. After leaving the Fraser’s sitting room, Julian had relished the plushness of his carriage cushions. Never again would he complain as to their lack of support.

Though the current pain in his backside would not be eased by mere cushions. Did no one else see that Sir Robert was most definitely standing too close? It wasn’t until the interminable dance finished that Julian’s tense muscles decompressed. He owed Duncan Urquhart a bottle of Scotch for taking her to the floor next. Anything to keep her away from the card-cheat.

Though why the relief flooded him, he couldn’t explain. Considering the fury which still rippled through his veins at Miss Amanda Pruett and her nonsense—utter nonsense!—about developing slander against her name. Infuriating.

Insufferable. Ridiculous.

Possibly necessary.

At least he’d settled the matter. Not to his satisfaction, but… Julian let his gaze slip away from Amanda and Mr. Urquhart and searched across the ballroom until he finally caught sight of Sophie. Conversing with an older woman, she looked rather distracted. Then again, the woman always looked distracted. Like an energetic little bee, focused on collecting pollen, flying hither and yon, delighted by how pretty the petals were, and oh, look, another flower. She was as distracting as she was distracted.

As his mind was distracted.

As if she sensed his attention, Sophie suddenly met his gaze. She studied him a moment. Seeing those brown, playful eyes studying him so seriously… Julian felt the urge to clear his throat.

Then she nodded.

That’s it then. The die was cast.

Duty. Obligation. Frustration!

He should have shown Mr. John Lowe the working side of his boot, locked the doors, and had a quiet night by the fire with a snifter of whiskey and a good book! Golden-fleeced sheep in a pasture? Bah.

He felt like ordering cook to make roast mutton dinner for a solid week.

Amanda thought that Julian would be a willing bystander in her destruction? The very thought boiled his blood in his veins. He’d approached her in order to protect her. If he’d known he’d have to protect her from even herself… The entire situation was infuriating. With every obstacle in their path, they butted heads. The woman wouldn’t listen to reason. He could feel the impending disaster looming overhead, ready to crash. Julian would have to brace it as long as possible, then be there to pick up the pieces.

For starters, he’d question Sir Robert without arousing suspicion during which he’d somehow charm Amanda whilst being tongue-tied standing next to a man who was much his superior in that department.

Better to simply keep Sir Robert away from her.

It didn’t take much effort to make his way across the ballroom towards the little group surrounding Amanda. The crowd parted for him. He ignored the whispers.

Back from the dead…

…ferocious temper…

…the poor boy died…

He’d do what he could to save Amanda from whispers.

Which, according to all current signs, was going to be a constant occupation.

Amanda stood with her aunt, the Frasers, and her dance partners. Or should he say all of them? Miss Pruett had been making the rounds this evening. He couldn’t fault her for that. She was charming, determined, selfless. And it wasn’t quite fair was it? She’d have no time to enjoy what society had to offer, though it was meant for her. Yet, here she was, making the opportunity.

If all went well, there would be more opportunity. She had four eligible bachelors around her. And Sir Slimy.

If all went poorly…

Well, if all went poorly, he had a backup plan.

“Well, now here is Lord Denbigh!” Mrs. Lidgate pronounced. “Are you come to take my niece to dance as well? It’s truly an excellent turnout for a ball, but that makes the floor so tight there’s barely a space to turn! I suppose you could walk about in the gardens, instead. I hear Lady Tisdale designed the maze herself—you could go lose yourselves in the brambles. Or you could talk. Young people shouldn’t expend all their energies dancing. Frivolous pursuits should be tempered with some intellect now and then. Hmm. Well, off you go!”

Julian wondered what it might take to hold an actual conversation with the woman. He should watch her at dinner and see if she paused for food.

Sophie, however, pounced upon the suggestion, “A lovely stroll, yes. Come along, Duncan!” she said, grabbing poor Urquhart’s arm.

Amanda was left with no choice but to let Julian escort her.

“Was that your Aunt’s subtle way of clearing your dance card for a while? You have been dancing all night.”

She made a playful swoosh of her skirts. “I might as well dance while the offers are still made.”

He wasn’t amused. “Miss Pruett…”

Her sigh cut him off. “Lord Denbigh, we both know that my prospects were slim to begin. Too poor for the treasure-hunters, too low for the title-seekers—even Mr. Abercrombie has avoided a serious pursuit. There’s a cloud of scandal around my family and the storm shows no signs of letting up.”

He escorted her outside onto the balcony above the garden. It was a warm, cloudy evening with the hint of impending rain. He could always tell nowadays from the slight ache in his bones, though it would hold off at least an hour. On another night, another occasion, another life, he might have strolled the paths of the garden with her on his arm. Wandering the graveled walks, turning a wrong way in the maze just to see where the night might lead.

“If there were another way…”

“If there were any other way, my lord, we would not be having this conversation.”

“You plan to go through with it? To do this on your own?” She ignored him, her chin raising into the air. He clenched his jaw. “I told you that we’d do this together.”

“Certainly we discussed matters together and, since you wouldn’t, I have taken appropriate action. There’s nothing else we can do until we discover if that substance is poison and who knows how long that could take.”

He hadn’t meant to tell her in such a tit-for-tat way, but she’d presented the perfect opportunity. “As it so happens, I’ve had a note from my chemist to meet him tonight. I should make it to his shop and back before long.”

Julian felt a tug on his arm. She’d stopped walking and was staring at him, arm now dangling at her side, mouth ever so slightly agape. Her lower lip was fuller than its match, making her entire expression border on comical. She was… adorably angry.

“You can’t mean to go now?”

There was no winning with this woman. She’d just said they couldn’t do anything until they found out about the vial. Now she wanted him to wait? “The ball will last until the wee hours of the morning. No one will note my absence for half an hour.”

She scoffed at him. “Not two breaths ago you chastised me that we should have acted together, now you plan to leave on your own to gain the results of the one, single clue we have?”

He refused to acknowledge that she had a point, nor that he’d just used the same argument regarding her.

At their delay, the other couple had climbed back up the stairs. Now, Sophie moved to her friend’s side to lend support. “It is rather shoddy of you, my lord.”

“Wha?! Sophie you can’t just… Lord Denbigh, I apologize on behalf of—”

“Oh, hush, Duncan, you don’t know the situation and in the situation he is very clearly in the wrong.”

Amanda nodded. “Then it’s settled. I will go with you.”

“Settled?” Nothing was settled! “Miss Pruett—” Julian stopped.

He saw her thick lower lip set in a firm line, the determined tilt of her chin, the stubborn rebellion flashing in her grey eyes. Only a trace of blue flashed in challenge. He sighed. He could argue with her. About propriety. Safety. Sanity. She wouldn’t hear a word of it. And he’d made a serious tactical error. Now that she knew both his plan and destination, she’d likely follow him on her own if he refused.

Then what would he do?

“Miss Pruett, you will have to keep up.”

She looked at him in shock. Her dumbfounded expression was almost worth all the suffering he knew he’d just cursed on himself.

 

When Lord Denbigh had agreed to take her with him, Amanda was in shock. But when he let Sophie convince him to split up… well, she knew he’d lost all sanity. It would look strange, she’d said, for a quartet of fancy-dressers to meander through London’s backstreets looking for an apothecary. Too many wagging tongues. Lord Denbigh was much less remarkable in his dark bottle-green coat than Mr. Urquhart’s bright blue. The same for her pale yellow compared to Amanda’s dark mauve. No, it would be best for Sophie and Duncan to remain in the garden so they could help provide an alibi if anyone came searching for them.

And he’d accepted such nonsense!

Lord Denbigh was in a hurry to depart, but Amanda hesitated leaving her friend alone with an unmarried man. They didn’t need two ruined reputations for one evening. Sophie laughed the concern away, “Oh, it’s only Duncan. Go.”

As for Lord Denbigh, he was entirely business. When he’d told her to keep up, he’d meant it. His stride was brisk and clipped. The streets weren’t crowded, but there was enough traffic for Amanda to stay in his wake. After a time, he led her down a benighted alley, the tall brick walls of neighboring buildings high enough to blot out all but a sliver of the sky. Even the moon dipping in and out of the clouds failed to cast enough light to leave the faintest shadow in this street. She should have felt trepidation, even the slightest, but Lord Denbigh’s presence was a solid comfort. (Despite the very slim, but nevertheless remaining, possibility of his being a murderer.)

He stopped near the end of the alley as it broke onto a wide, busy thoroughfare. An apothecary sign hung from a triangular post above. Instead of knocking on the recessed door, he fished into his inner coat pocket.

“You have a key?”

“Have you seen the lock? Cheap as they come wardlock. Any key would work.” Keys rattled, metal scraped. He muttered, “As if anyone in this alley would need a Bramah or Chubb.”

He did have a point. Though the teeth varied a great deal in shape, the key to Number Sixteen’s attic could jemmy open her parent’s bedroom with enough jiggling. While most locks in the home shared a key, unless made with care one key was much like another.

He’d managed the door open. “Now, Miss Pruett, you mustn’t linger in the doorway. One might mistake you for a picklock. Come in.”

She laughed. He’d said it with such grave sincerity. Who knew Lord Denbigh had a sense of humor? Dry. As a desert. But it was there.

And she actually found him rather amusing.

She stepped inside.

The apothecary’s shop assailed her nose. A sharp sting of fresh herbs tickled while sweet petals cloyed her nostrils. It took several whiffs to gain a bit of olfactory balance, especially as the light from the back of the shop was so dim that her other senses worked overtime. It was a small space—the size likely attributing to the tight conglomeration of smells—but tidy. Although the smells were pungent, they were fresh, not musty. The sticklike outline of herbs hanging from the right side of the ceiling was barely discernable. In front of her, an apothecary cabinet with neatly labeled drawers sat underneath a bottle-filled bookshelf. Squinting in the dark, she could barely make out a very tidy handwriting. Altogether an orderly, impressive shop.

In the middle of reading a label, her opinion reversed. Amanda stood up, affronted. If there were room between the shelves, she would have put her hands upon her hips. As it was, she made due with a sharp sniff (which nearly made her sneeze).

“I do not think this man is as reputable as you believe. He claims to have Cornus Unicornis Defarinatis, which, if my Latin doesn’t fail me, is powdered unicorn horn.”

“Indeed, my good lady, for that is the tourist cabinet,” a voice said from the curtained doorway at the back of the shop. “If you look two rows down, second drawer on the left, you should also find Clippings from the King’s Left Toenail and Where Are My Spectacles? which I only labeled to test if any one of my customers was actually reading.”

Lord Denbigh groaned. In the tight space, she could feel the heat emanating behind her shoulder. In that deep, gravelly voice, he made grudging introduction. “Miss Amanda Pruett, may I present Mr. Andrew Turner. An unfortunate acquaintance of mine.”

“Not so unfortunate, I’ve done rather well for myself with your benef—” Lord Denbigh coughed. “Oh. Oh, I see. You meant that it is unfortunate that I am the only among your bosom relations. How embarrassing of me. Well, now, if I had known you were bringing company, I would have put out my best display.”

“What is your best d—”

“Do not encourage him.”

Even in the dark, she could see Mr. Andrew Turner had a dimple when he grinned. “Miss Pruett, a pleasure.” The way he took her hand in that small, dark room and kissed it with gesticulations grand enough for a sixteenth century palace, Amanda couldn’t stifle her giggle.

“Enough of that, enough of that! Now, put on a damn light, Drew.”

“Mind your tongue in front of the lady, this is a respectable shop. Right this way, if you please.”

Mr. Turner moved to the little curtain at the back of the store and pulled aside the heavy fabric.

Amanda barely hid her gasp.

What the darkness hid, the light revealed. A scar rippled across the side of his face, puckering tight over his warped skin, stopping beneath his eye.

“Oh, this dear lady? Forgive me. Before tinkering with chemicals, I had rather fancied myself a fire-juggler…”

“Don’t be flippant, Drew. She’ll misunderstand.”

“A soldier’s humor.” His voice dropped all playful lilt. “It was an accident.” He placed a subtle emphasis on the last word.

Amanda couldn’t help but stare. It must have hurt dreadfully. She recovered herself with a jolt. “Is it painful?” Amanda cringed at the question, but Mr. Turner answered.

“Not anymore.” He smiled. The dimple returned, good humor reaching his eyes. “Though at the time I do believe I cursed Julian’s honorable mother for bringing him into this world.”

Amanda returned his smile. “I haven’t cursed the mother, but the man.”

“Oh, I like her, Julian!”

“We have business.”

“Yes, yes, come along, behind the curtain, everything is arranged.”

He led them through a narrow storage space lined with shelves of pre-made tonics. All the usuals were there: vinegar, magnesium, tartar, laudanum—no more cornus unicornis, though she caught sight of a very questionable vial of what looked like golden dragon scales.

Beyond storage, the corridor opened up to a orderly work area. This room was brightly lit from an unusual, mesh-and-slit covered lantern hanging near the ceiling. An array of herbs sat ready to be ground beside a mortar, the pestle rested upon an open book, and on the far side was an intricate glass still.

“Now… where are my spectacles?” he asked, patting his hands around the pestle and book.

“Try the second row down, on the left.”

“Very funny, Julian. What wit. Ah-ha,” he said, plopping the glass on the tip of his nose. “Now, before you even ask: yes, yes, and no.”

Amanda blinked.

Lord Denbigh crossed his arms behind his back and stared at the other man. He looked ever the stern military officer, but the corner of his mouth twitched belying some amusement. “He believes he knows me so well that he can predict the answers to my questions. As I had been prepared to ask only two, we shall see if Andrew knows me as well as he thinks. Have you identified the substance?”

“Yes.”

When he wasn’t forthcoming, Lord Denbigh sighed. “Well, are you going to tell us what it is?” he asked, irritation brimming.

“Yes.”

“Ha!” Amanda laughed, “I believe you’ve fallen into his trap.”

Denbigh glared at his friend through narrowed eyes. “He does, indeed, know me well. Then I take it it is not poison.”

“No.” Mr. Turner paused. “Well, not of an average or useful sort. I was only able to salvage a bit, yet it was sufficient. Here,” he turned back to the still and motioned them forward, pointing to a little dish of particulate, “observe your powder. And now I add a tiny waterdrop.”

“Oh!” Amanda gasped. A thick, billowing stream of vapor rose immediately.

“Phosphorus. Like a pocket luminary. I suspect inside the vial there had been a stone of it encased in a solution of water. Stone phosphorus begets powder phosphorus and the two are like-opposites. The stone ignites upon air, its residue ignites with water.”

“So… so Victor was carrying phosphorus in his pocket.” Sounds suddenly flashed through her memory. Clink. Shatter. The vial broke in his pocket as Shelby moved his body. Water escaped, air dried the phosphorus, and flames! What they thought had been the man’s spirit was a chemical reaction. “We saw the smoke. I thought it was…” What, a departing soul? Amanda might have been charmed by Mr. Turner, but she wasn’t about to reveal to him her discovery of a body. He could wait until the inquest like the rest of society. “The… the sudden smoke scared me so much, I ran.”

“Good. It’s not the healthiest substance to inhale, you know. Desiccant. Leaves the lungs dry.”

From somewhere above them, a cry rent the air. A bawl, a wail, of such intensity it pierced the night and drew all attention.

Mr. Turner sighed, removing and folding his spectacles. “Those lungs certainly are not dry.”

Lord Denbigh chuckled. Rapid footsteps tapped overhead. “I will not further detain you and force your poor wife to tend the babe alone.”

The baby wailed louder, if possible. Amanda could hear the gentle tones of a lullaby. It had little effect except for Mr. Turner raising his voice.

“Phosphorus can kill, but what the man held in this vial was not the culprit.” The baby wailed again. “Ah, Peter. The sweetest child upon the globe during the day. A hellion at night.” He led them back to the curtain separating workshop from storefront. “It’s too much of a squeeze to show you out. Do make sure you lock up. Some dangerous drugs in here. Can’t have the fairy wings disappearing again. It was certainly a pleasure, Miss Pruett. You’ll see her home safely, my Lord Lieutenant.” He gave a mock salute and returned behind the curtain. There was the pound of running footsteps, then a low baritone joined in the song. It was off-key, but after a moment, the crying stopped.

As Lord Denbigh closed the door behind them, Amanda realized it was not an ordinary wardlock, despite his claims. And while it was dark and she was hardly an expert, the lock certainly was. She doubted an apothecary, even one as fine as Mr. Turner, would be able to afford the upgrade.

She studied his silhouette as he locked the door. “How long have you known Mr. Turner?”

“Several years.”

“He was married before… before the accident?”

“You mean before his scars.” Lord Denbigh shrugged in his discomfort. He ran his finger around the rim of his cravat. “No. He met Mattie—Matilda—a month before we left. She said she’d wait for him. She did. She was there through the worst of it. He couldn’t walk for a time. When he told her he was nothing and she was throwing her chances away on nothing, well, it almost ended then and there.” He gave a rough chuckle. “Mattie was so spitting mad, you’d never seen a fiercer creature. He came to his senses, she saw to that. Then he, well, he got better, opened the apothecary, and they were able to get married.”

Amanda suspected a bit more to it than that. It took a great deal of money to rent the building, supplies, locks—not to mention navigating the requirements following last year’s parliamentary act to become a licentiate with the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. Considering the keys in Lord Denbigh’s pocket, she suspected Mr. Turner had had a bit of help.

This man was a contradiction. Rough and brusque, but beneath it all, he’d shown quiet kindness and generosity. As she thought about it, a fluttering, light sensation filled her chest.

They walked a ways in silence before Lord Denbigh tilted his head down to her.

“Miss Pruett… I do not mean to alarm you, and I hadn’t thought much of it as this is a commonly used thoroughfare even at this time, but have you not noticed that we have been followed almost since our exit from the garden?”

“What? Where—?”

“No, don’t look, woman!”

“Why mention it if you didn’t want me to look?” she muttered.

“Two men, one in a dark twill coat, the other in blue melton; hired bruisers, I imagine, those boots are too nice for the docks. They obviously have a nefarious purpose.” He cursed under his breath. “I was mistaken in allowing you to accompany me, especially at this time of the night.”

Amanda didn’t remember him having much choice in the matter, but she wasn’t about to quibble while two hired bruisers followed them down a darkened road.

“I must alter our return route, but you will have to stay by my side and move quickly.”

She nodded. She was already at the man’s side, for Heaven’s sake, what did he expect?

At her nod, Lord Denbigh sped his pace. His stride grew, long legs extending to the point Amanda had to nearly skip to keep up. If he moved much faster, she might be in danger of tripping over her skirts as they slapped and folded against her calves (lower lower-limbs?).

She kept true to her word, however, maintaining her place by his side as he twisted a path through the street, finally veering abruptly down a dark lane. They’d made it several yards, her skipping two steps to each one of his, when Amanda kept moving and her arm did not.

He’d suddenly grabbed hold of her wrist, pulling her (a little ungraciously) down a narrow passage between buildings. Her body had been moving forward at such pace that the sudden, abrupt reversal made her bounce opposite with equal velocity. She slammed into his chest, forcing his huge frame against the wall.

His heat engulfed her. He held a finger to her lips, needlessly. She couldn’t have breathed, much less spoken, even if she wished. All the air had escaped her lungs the moment he hauled her against him. She’d been caught against this chest before.

Footsteps approached. She could hear them, heavy and fast. He pulled her infinitesimally closer, rotating so that his dark coat and the shadows hid her from sight. Men ran past. She stood still and silent, breath baited, waiting for the sound of their heavy boots to fade. Her forehead fell against his chest.

Without a word, he took her hand and led her out of the passage, back the way they had come. Amanda had to gulp air, finally flowing freely through her lungs. His smell clung to her. That warm, subtle scent made her head swim. The pulse of her heart was more difficult to control. It was beating faster than her feet trying to catch up to him.

They’d reached the main road, but he had yet to release her hand. Cradled together, their palms created a reassuring comfort.

He twisted and turned until, she supposed, he felt safe from pursuit. She never looked back to check, but he would know if they were followed. Finally, she recognized a street lamp, the light flickering dully across mist creeping along the cobbles. They were less than two blocks from the garden. She could feel her shoulders ease in relief. She could also feel the stone that had worked its way into her shoe.

“Could we pause a moment?”

“We’re nearly there!”

“I’ve a stone in my shoe!”

“Very well, a moment. Be quick about it.” He let the exasperation drip from his voice, yet he still offered her his arm for balance. His eyes focused on the path they’d come, watching for their burly, booted friends.

“Well here’s a dimber mot!”

The hair on Amanda’s neck rose. Lord Denbigh’s arm flexed beneath her hand. Two ragtag men who’d been crossing the edge of the street now veered course, taking great deal of interest in them. Their tones were low, but not out of earshot.

“Aye, a dimber mot and a dimber cove. I say cloy the lour or the dummee if ’e has one.”

“Amen to that. I’m tip-top drawing a thimble, too.”

The man’s tone was jovial, but Amanda knew there could be nothing good from his words.

“What did they just say?” she whispered, throat seizing. The men had no qualms speaking about them in front of them—never an encouraging sign.

“I hardly think we should stay to find out,” he gripped her elbow ready to lead her off again.

“I cannot run again! We must distract them somehow!”

He straightened. “Then I apologize for the liberty.” He took her by the shoulders and she could see the flash in his eyes before his head swooped down. Amanda lifted on her toes, grabbing his lapel firmly in hand.

“As do I.”