Eh?
“Oh no yer don’t!”
Verity shrieked, grabbed the book from his hands and stumbled to her feet. Miles did likewise, swivelling on his heel. “Who the hell are you?”
A lathy man in a tidy uniform of deep blue was glaring at them from the end of the tall bookcase. “Wot do yer think you two are doing, eh?”
“None of your damn business,” replied Miles.
The man’s eyes bulged. “Don’t use that tone with me, young whippersnapper. I’ll have yer know you’re addressing the on-duty Hatchards Upholder of Public Decency.”
Miss Seymour blinked. “Since when did Hatchards need one of those?”
“Since you lot of rum swells began taking liberties with this eminent and venerable institution for assignations of anamorous nature!” He crossed his arms. “Peeking through the cases at each other. Leaving notes on shelves. Dropping books on purpose. Seen it all, I have. We’re keepin’ records now and you’re the fifth pair of degenerate miscreants this month.”
And there was Miles having thought Dair’s plan to be original. “We were merely discussing fine fiction.”
“Pah! Usual excuse. Where’s yer chaperone, missy? Eh? This is a place of learning not some canoodling boudoir of immorality!”
“In Fortnum’s with the potted goose,” declared Verity. “And I am no young missy.”
“Ooooh, a married one! The worse it gets!” The guard hoicked his substantial thumb over one shoulder. “Out! Now! Or I shall be taking names.”
Verity glared at Miles – how was it his fault? – before with a huff, she stomped past the Upholder of Public Decency and swished out of sight behind the bookcase.
“And you!” demanded the meddlesome watchman with stubby pointed finger. “No more preying upon innocent ladies of a married persuasion.”
“I should be so lucky,” he grumped, following in the direction of theinnocentlady, but as he rounded the bookcase there was no sign of her.
Likely she’d headed downstairs, so deciding a strategic retreat would be the prudent course of action in this skirmish, Miles headed up the stairs, marched past Politics and Metaphysical Philosophy and towards Recreation.
There his cousin loitered, reading the collected edition ofMr. Hoyle’s Treatises of Whist, Quadrille, Piquet, Chess and Back-Gammon.
“Dair!” he hissed. “This place has a bloody Upholder of Public Decency! Why didn’t you say?”
“A what?”
“He’s thrown us out!”
“Really? That’s bad form! Where will everyone meet now? Almack’s just isn’t the same.”
“Never mind that. We were interrupted and I was getting somewhere.” Miles glared. “Now it will be up to you to butter-up the cousin Miss Nash at the Michaelmas Fair while I get Miss Seymour alone for further interrogation.”
“I don’t butter-up,” said Dair, face creasing in disgust. “Ever.”
“What do you do then?”
“Simply compliment.”
“Same thing.”
“Hardly. But as you’ve asked so cordially, I will indeed charm so you can disarm.”
“That’ll have to do.” And Miles folded his arms as if to settle the matter.
The fair was not for another sennight, but he supposed there was more than enough to occupy him. On the morrow, he was due at the Regiment Office which might cede some clues, whilst his old greenhouse was being reglazed the day after, let alone all the business of being a damn earl.
“Come on,” he muttered. “We’d best leave.” He’d lie low for the rest of the day, perchance consider his strategy for the fair and his vanquishing of the enemy… Er, Miss Seymour.
