The very fact she did made him want to believe her.
With a sigh, he reached into the carriage and retrieved an umbrella from beneath the bench. “This is not wise.”
Chapter Five
AsDianathreadedherarm through Ian’s, she slipped her other hand into the hidden pocket of her cloak and traced the outline of the envelope that the bordello proprietress had slipped inside.
One unexpected note from Widow was surprising. A second missive from her handler, arriving hours after the first, was wildly out of protocol. It validated the trail of evidence Diana had compiled for months and the fear that had gnawed at her for weeks: there were tears in the fabric of her organization. And the repercussions on their mission could be deadly.
With Ian watching like a hawk, the bordello proprietress couldn’t reveal much when she passed the note to Diana. They’d never worked together before and had no established signals. White Stag operatives rarely met outside their own crews. It ensured they protected themselves as well as the women they served.
The madam had looked at her plainly, with the respect Diana had only seen men give to other men. She was unaccustomed to it, and found it unexpectedly, pleasantly, satisfying.
From an early age, Diana had learned the value of her beauty was second only to the staggering fortune she’d inherit. Her mother had reminded her about it with every scrape and bruise she’d collected running along the rocky shore of their Bristol estate. When she was six, she’d knocked out her front tooth trying to escape down the chestnut tree outside her bedroom window. Her mother’s caustic warning still rang in her ears.
Get on your knees and pray that the new one comes in as straight as the old one. I will not allow you to waste your beauty. You have a handful of years before it fades, so make hay with it while you can. Before you can blink, it will have slipped through your hands. Just like your fortune will when you marry.
Diana’s first act of true rebellion was to doubt there was any truth to what her mother declared. She never considered her features to be any lovelier than those of the women of her acquaintance. As she grew older, she distrusted anyone who remarked on her physical attractiveness; if they did, she assumed they were liars.
Ian had called her beautiful once, on the night they’d saved each other.
Then he’d reminded her of the promise she’d made his father. And insisted that he wasn’t the son she was meant to marry.
Before she left London, Diana needed to find out why Ian believed it.
She never had.
The rain held off as they traversed the narrow lanes of Soho and turned past Seven Dials Market.
Ian walked them through the crowded streets with the warm weight of Diana’s hand on his arm. It had been years since he’d permitted himself such an indulgence, and the urge to draw her closer was profound. He contemplated what she’d do if he made such an overture, and realized he couldn’t predict how she’d react.
There was only one instance when he’d come close to acting on the spark that simmered between them. That brutal night eight years ago, after the attack in Mayfair.
He should have kissed her. Comforted her with assurances or promises he kept in his heart. Instead, he’d rallied all of his strength to put distance between them. In the agonizing moment that followed, he’d destroyed all the warmth and affection she held for him because of a promise he’d also made to his father.
They walked at a brisk pace; she matched his strides despite their difference in height and her massive array of silk skirts, which were growing soiled and dingy with dust and dirt from the road. He remained on a heightened alert. It was impossible for them not to attract notice. Diana walked like a queen everywhere she went, and if Ian had gained one thing from his Harrow education, it was how to swagger down a street like he owned it.
The scents of the market wafted from the small square—some of them pungent, others more pleasant, like the spicy aroma of the cheese and curry hand pies from a stall at the end of the road. The seller gave him a nod of recognition as they passed.
“Il-lejla t-tajba, gheziez,” she called.Good evening, dear.
“Il-lejla t-tajba,” Ian replied.
Diana’s mouth curved at their exchange. “You know that woman?”
“She’s Maltese. When I’m working late, I often buy her pasties.”
“They smell delicious. What are they called?”
“Pastizzi.Hers are the best I’ve had in London.”
They also reminded him of his mother. She never baked herself. There was no oven in the spartan kitchen in the San Niccolo apartment she let from Alberti, the merchant who’d employed her to translate his business documents into English. So they bought the savory treats from the bakery. Despite complaining that the pastry was too Florentine, not light and wispy like the kind she ate as a child in Malta, she always fought Ian for the crumbs.
He was oddly protective of that memory. And yet, a part of him longed to share some of it with Diana. She didn’t suggest they stop to buy a pastry, but her wistful look made him wager she’d enjoy them.
“Looks like that’s the place.” Diana gestured to the building ahead. “Is it the right address?”
“I’ve never been here,” he said tersely. He remained uncomfortable with the fact that she now knew he’d concealed Jared’s mistress from her.
