Page 65 of The Duchess Curse

“Did you happen to bring”—the gray lady looked left then right—“the amber bottle?”

“Love potion? No. I do not carry my wares to social events.”

The woman rocked back on her heels. “Pity. Pity. Harold is being a jackass tonight, and I would dearly love to make him mind his manners.” She scowled at a man with fluffy mutton chops who stood several feet away. Then she returned her unblinking attention to Guin.

Guin waited for another topic of conversation. It never came, and she began to feel like a beetle beneath a microscope. She stepped to the side. “Erm… Good evening.” She bobbed a curtsy and darted off.

Only to run into another woman, taller than Guin, with a pile of yellow hair and more large gigot sleeves, these striped pink and green with little jumping fish all over them. Glamoured. “You’re Lady Guinevere,” the woman said.

“Unfortunately so.”

“I bought your elixir once. Worked like a charm. I have missed its efficacy since the destruction of your shop. When will you return?”

“I… I am not sure. Excuse me.” She stepped to the side again, darted for a quiet alcove.

And found herself surrounded by curious women, all clamoring for love potion.

“Can you check your pockets for me?”

“Are the plants here usable for our purposes?”

“I saw some lovely specimens in the garden.”

“I tried once at home, but all I got was a runny nose. And I think I made my husband allergic to me. He sneezes every time we’re in the same room together.”

If the wives knew who she was, so did their husbands.

“Pardon me,” Guin said, her back against a wall. She’d met assassins less intimidating than this collection of women. “I’m in need of the retiring room.” She ducked under a lady’s arm and ran for a dark corridor. Bran would not be pleased. But he was likely nearby anyway. And in the unlikely event he wasn’t, she could protect herself.

She pushed deeper into the dimly lit hallway. On the right side, a door was open, the frame filled with flickering candlelight. Raucous laughter floated from it. Right outside of it, she stopped, hearing her name.

“That witch? She’s not here. Can’t be her.”

“It is! My wife swears it’s her, and the woman she pointed to has the look of the witch. Lord Maryville had a bounty out on her, and he gave just that description to the mercenaries—tall and buxom with reddish hair, a bit mannish.”

Mannish! She took a step toward the door.

An arm caught her around the waist, hauled her backward into a torso like steel. He smelled of mint, like her soap, and she wasn’t scared for even a moment.

Bran whispered near her ear, “You are not going in there.”

The men hadn’t seen them and continued talking.

“I have an arrangement with a fellow from Seven Dials. He specializes in slitting the throats of whores. But the man hasn’t been able to find her. She’s disappeared.”

“Into a duke’s bed, that’s why.”

“No idea she’d fucked her way upward so quickly.”

“Now my man knows where she is, she’ll be nothing but a memory shortly, the faint scent of dirt and potion on Braxton’s sheets.”

Guin began to snarl, and Bran’s hand slapped over her mouth. He hauled her away, toward a room on the other side of the corridor. He pulled her inside and shut the door, and she ripped out of his embrace.

“I’m not going to let them talk about me that way!”

“Neither will I, but here’s not the place.”

“What do you mean ‘neither will I’?”