“Mr Rowney’s colour shop. Spent two hours there and purchased three brushes.”
“And that’s it?”
Lynch shrugged and swallowed his ale.
“Well, you’ll have to inadvertently bump into her at the park then,” mused Dair. “I know a pickpocket who could distract the other two ladies.”
Where did Dair meet these people? “No, the park is too prone to ambush…er, interruption from the promenadingToncontingent. Likewise, the weather could rout the plan or, on such open ground, the enemy…I mean Miss Seymour…could evade capture entirely.”
Dair leaned in. “From what you’ve both said that just leaves one venue. But don’t fret, I’ve a plan…”
With a groan, Miles signalled for more ale. Had a feeling he’d need it.
The following day…
Surrender to the Dark; A Debutante’s Tale.
Or
The Diabolical Count; A Romance.
Verity feltsure Aunt had not read either novel but which one would she prefer?
Neither title sounded particularly plausible.
With a sigh, she peered from the window, the wet Piccadilly street misting to white with her breath. This first floor of Hatchards was a beloved haunt for her as it boasted a row of sizeable sash windows. Downstairs was a different matter, the windows blocked by books, but at least the staircase was wide and well-lit.
Before shops closed, Aunt had popped next door to Fortnum and Mason for potted goose, though whether it was for themselves or the cats was anyone’s guess. Verity had been left with strict instructions to choose a novel that was romantic, intriguing, suspenseful and passionate.
So here she was, surrounded by shelves and shelves of fiction and utterly at a loss.
She set downSurrender to the Darkon a small table that Hatchards provided for clientele and instead openedThe Diabolical Count, flicking to a page…
“Miss Lovelace!” a deep husky voice exclaimed, a rough hand curving around her arm. “Are you well?”
“No, Count,” she cried, heart beating like a death knell, “my very core is afire with wretchedness.”
“My dear! Allow me to quench it with…this glass of ratafia?”
Verity narrowed her eyes.Just‘Ratafia’? The seducing mutton monger! If she was Cecily, she’d knee him in the tallywags.
Cecily stared to his handsome dark features, with a paroxysm of suffering.
“My Count, I have discovered your deepest darkest secret. I know…”
She quickly flicked the page.
“…what lies in the corner bedroom!”
Verity gasped.
His eyes flashed with unholy fire. “My dear–”
“Miss Seymour!” a deep husky voice exclaimed, a rough hand curving around her arm. “Are you well?”
“No,” she cried, then twisted, heart beating like that death knell, only to stare into green eyes that did indeed flash with unholy fire.
“M-my lord, what are you doing here?” Miles’ cravat was a touch crooked, gloves stuffed in his pocket, and his expression was that of a stone-chiselled bust.
