Each petal a sigh, each thorn a sweet pain.”
Gods. She was really starting to hate that song.
Upon reaching the third floor, Luna spied Myrna’s door propped open. Popping her head inside, she found Myrna herself with curlers in her hair, painting her nails a brilliant crimson and smoking a cigarette by the cracked window, heedless of the cold air. “I’m back, Myrna,” Luna said.
The blonde looked up and grinned around her cigarette. “So you are then. Have a good time?”
“Well, there was lobster. And dancing.”
“Sounds like a scream.”
“I suppose it was, rather. Thanks for the gown.”
“No problem. Looks better on you than it ever did on me anyway. You’ve got the shoulders for it.”
“Want me to leave it now?” Luna slipped out of the fur coat and reached for the side zipper. The girls were all pretty casual about modesty on the third floor, and there was no point in her running up and down the stairs more times than necessary.
“Oh, wait, before you do,” Myrna held up her nail polish wand, “can you take care of a little problem for us?”
“What problem is that?”
“One of Bryony’s blokes is in the parlor.”
Luna made a face.“Anotherone?”
“Yeah. This one’s sadder than most. A real pretty boy, but he’s got that whole whipped-puppy thing going strong. It quite breaks the heart!”
“And let me guess—Bryony’s out with someone else tonight. Leaving him high and dry.”
Myrna shook her head, trailing smoke. “It’s shameful how she treats ‘em. But they won’t learn, will they? Edwina thought she might cheer him up, but that was a no-go. He’s quite determinedto be miserable. Do you think you could have a word with him, Luna? You’ve got thatwholesomevibe the gents always respond to, like you’re their sweet little sister or something. Though mind,” she added with a tilt of one eyebrow, “you don’t look much like anyone’s little sister tonight!”
“No worries,” Luna replied. She’d done it before. Bryony’s string of beaus ran a whole range of characters, from besotted toffs, to namby drones, to hard-knuckled bruisers from the docks, all united in their passion for one irresistible redhead. Luna had gotten pretty used to managing them. “I’ll take care of him, Myrna.”
So saying, she stepped across the hallway to the parlor door, which was partially open. She heard movement inside—odd, rather frantic movement, like hastening footsteps. Pushing the door a little farther, she peeked into the room. Her gaze went first to the threadbare armchairs by the bookshelf. Both of these were empty, however, save for a little bundle of marigolds left on the seat of one. Luna frowned. For some reason, those marigolds looked familiar.
Did one of them just raise a leaf andwaveat her?
A loud creak and rattle followed by a blast of cold air drew Luna’s attention to the far side of the parlor. There she spotted a gentleman in a nice linen suit in the process of climbing out the third story window into thin air.
She caught her breath.
Then:“Mr. Grimm!”
Insofar as Nigel could see, two clear choices lay before him. He could either cast himself into the darkness and oblivion outside the parlor window, let his bones be smashed to powder on the snowy sidewalk below, or . . . or . . .
On second thought, that really seemed like the only reasonable option available.
Despite this burning conviction, his hands refused to let go of the window frame. Nigel found himself in a humiliating position, hanging halfway over the windowsill, one leg slung out, the other still hooked on the inside, both hands braced. He peered into the yawning depths. It was a long way down. Long enough to cause instant death? Or would he have to lie there, writhing in agonies of embarrassment for some minutes before the end finally claimed him? Well, that was a risk he would simply have to—
Luna’s hands latched hold of his shoulders.
She yanked him back into the room with surprising strength, despite the slenderness of her limbs. Nigel’s head bumped the sash, and his foot came down hard on top of hers. She yelped.He pivoted, wildly off balance. There was a confusion of tumbled limbs and green satin, followed by a hard landing which drove all the breath from his lungs.
He drew in a gasp of air, inhaled a delicate perfume of vanilla and honeysuckle. And realized his face was buried in a cloud of dark curls.
Nigel jerked his head up to find himself lying atop his rescuer, her body pinned beneath his. Luna’s eyelids fluttered fast, a shocked expression suffusing her features. She had gotten the worst of their brief tussle. He, at least, had a cushion for his landing. A very soft, womanly cushion.
“Oh, gods!” he gasped. “Did you hit your head, Miss Talbot?” His own head throbbed from where it had connected with the sash, but that was a secondary concern just then.
