Page 79 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“Oh, I don’t either. It had been a labor of love, as with her mother before her. Ann’s mother would, occasionally, mend something quietly for those who were kind to her. And from what I hear, she always did so for her brother. Her youngest brother, obviously.”

“Oliver.”

“Ann learned to sew from her mother, and like her mother, would mend and alter for those she deemed worthy. Just last month, I found a favorite shirt of mine perfectly repaired after I’d torn it, and I felt as if I’d won a great prize.”

I squeeze his arm. “You had. But I’m never winning her help, even if I am her cousin.”

“You will. I’d suggest you don’t ask her to make you a shirt and trousers, but instead ask for help with the design and—”

Bishop stops short, his head shooting up, nostrils flaring. We’ve been cutting through narrow alleys that serve as walkways. Even the empty ones seem safe, with the rumble of coach wheels and the clop of hooves and the shouts of merchants echoing from both ends. But all that noise means we won’t hear anyone else, especially when we’re deep in conversation.

Bishop glances over his shoulder, and before I can look, he’s pulling me to him. I’m about to peer behind us when two men appear ahead, striding down the alley toward us.

They’re both the sort of men that women instinctively avoid on a city street. Brawny, rough-clothed, unshaven, and, from the smell, overdue for a bath. One of them carries the extra-musky scent of a werewolf, exploding any hope these are just a couple of human thieves.

I glance over my shoulder to see two more blocking our exit. When I turn forward again, another man appears behind the first two. This fifth fellow is a different sort of type to be avoided on a city street—smaller built, better dressed, and better groomed, but with a slick veneer and a smug smirk that tells you he’s just a higher class of ruffian.

The ringleader—because that’s what he’ll be—moves past the two burly men and doffs his hat.

“Greetings to the new Alpha of the Albion Pack, the esteemed Mr. Bishop Danvers.”

“And you would be?” Bishop says, his voice as calm as if he were being greeted in a London gentleman’s club.

“No one of importance.” The man flashes a smile, which he really shouldn’t do, exposing a rotted canine. “It’s my employer who counts.”

“And your employer is?”

“A very fine person who wishes to deliver their regards to the new Alpha in person.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I depart Glasgow this morning.”

“It wasn’t a request, sir. I’d have delivered that in a fancy envelope. You’ll be coming with us.”

Bishop looks from one man to the other, taking the slow measure of all five. One werewolf and four who are almost certainly supernaturals.

“All right,” he says. “I can spare an hour. However, I would beg leave to send my companion of the evening on her way.”

The man grins at me, his gaze taking me in head to toe. My travel dress is neither fancy nor revealing, but apparently, he has no problem believing me a lady-for-hire. I’m not sure whether I should be insulted or flattered. I glance discreetly at the werewolf, but he’s upwind and obviously hasn’t noticed my lycan smell over the less pleasant odors in the alley.

The ringleader bows low. “Of course. So sorry to interrupt your morning, my dear.”

“Our business was concluded,” Bishop says.

The man leers. “I’m sure it was concluded many times. No wonder you’re in such a reasonable mood. I don’t suppose you’d be free tonight, my dear?”

“You couldn’t afford her,” Bishop says in his cool and imperious way, which has the two of the larger ruffians grumbling, but the leader only grins.

“Oh, you might be surprised,” he says. “Off with you then, lassie.”

“Am I not getting breakfast?” I squawk, trying for more Cockney in my voice. “I was promised breakfast.”

The man beside the werewolf drops a hand to his crotch. “Oh, I’ll feed you breakfast, miss.”

Bishop tenses, but I only sniff and say, “I had more than enough of that last night. I’ll get my own breakfast, but you’d best not be trying to cheat me of my pay.”

“Simmer down, lassie,” the leader says.

“Simmer down? Did you tell me—?”