Page 27 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

But of course, she spoke first.

“Did you find the b—?” She bit her lip to stop herself from saying more, and for a moment, he could not think why. Then he remembered having asked her not to mention the book. “Did you find what you were looking for last evening?”

Had he?

He looked her up and down. At this distance, hampered only by the wrought-iron fence and the prickly offshoots of an overgrown hedge, he could see her quite clearly without any mechanical aid. The way the silvery silk of her gown highlighted her tall, slender form, though not quite as the red one had last night. More like a marble statue, inviting a connoisseur’s appreciation.

Surely a man could admire a woman’s appearance dispassionately, could he not?

The persistent memory of the way she’d felt in his arms—not at all like cold, unyielding marble—was another matter entirely.

“No,” he answered gruffly. “I did not. I made as thorough a search as I could of that room, without drawing attention to myself or the light. By then supper was ending and having shed my footman’s livery, I did not dare venture further into the house.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It must have been very frustrating.”

Briefly, he closed his eyes against her present beauty, against the recollection of last night. “Yes. It was.”

“If I’d known, I should have sent you a note this morning to tell you he was out all day. He took my boys for a drive into the country. But I didn’t—that is, he didn’t ask my permission—not that he has to, of course, as he is their guardian—I only meant to say I didn’t know beforehand about the outing, or I could have told you the house would be empty.”

He’d taken her boys without asking? Langley liked Dulsworthy less and less with each passing conversation about the man.

“Anyway, I have been wondering whether you were successful. It’s kind of you to take the trouble to let me know the outcome of last night’s…mission.” Before speaking the last word, she glanced around them and dropped her voice to something even less than a whisper, for she had already been speaking quietly, though there was no one to overhear them.

He did not correct her assumption about why he was there.

“I’d invite you in,” she said next, still softly, “but the lock…” She pinched her lips into a sort of amused frown and stepped closer, curling her fingers around one of the wrought-iron cross bars. Almost, but not quite, touching him. “I don’t think anyone had turned that key in all the years since the garden was first planted. It was nothing but rust, and the next morning, after you were—and we—well, anyway, one of the maids came out to, to, ah—” Her other hand circled in the air, as if to conjure the rest of the explanation from thin air.

He could guess, based on the smell of the alleyway, that the maid had been emptying the slops. He could also guess the unfortunate servant would not have been pleased to find the gate unexpectedly locked and barring her from completing her task.

“She found half of the key lying on the ground, and the rest—well, it was apparently still in the lock. It just…disintegrated. Mr. Matthews has sent for a smith to have it repaired, but the fellow won’t be here until Tuesday next.”

“It’s just as well.”

He meant it, too. Not only because he had no business poking around in Lady Kingston’s garden, but because no one else could get in this way either.

But the tone of his voice—fatigue had made it gravelly and he deliberately avoided any temptation to soften it for her—evidently took her aback. Quite literally. She straightened her shoulders, released her grip on the cold metal, and stepped away from the gate. When she spoke again, even her voice was more remote. The sort of tone one employed when speaking to a stranger.

Which she was.

“Did you enjoy the play tonight?” Despite her sudden reserve, the question was still polite. It seemed there were some habits she could not break.

“Not particularly.” Enjoyment had not been his purpose for attending. “Cymbeline cannot make up its mind to be either a tragedy or a comedy.”

She appeared to consider his assessment for a moment. “I suppose it makes a certain sense that you prefer predictable outcomes in your entertainments—they must be rare enough in your line of work.”

He almost laughed at such a ridiculously simple explanation.

And might have done, if not for the damned ring of truth.

“I confess,” she said then, “I like a happy ending too.”

But of course she did. He shook his head at himself, at the notion they had anything in common. Other than the obvious, the physical, there ought to be nothing about her that attracted him. She was talkative, cheerful, sweet—everything he wasn’t. She had no connection to him or his world.

Or hadn’t, until Hopkins had been forced to hand off the codebook to an unsuspecting passerby, and Langley had got himself mixed up in the matter.

Until he had kissed her.

“But it must be difficult to enjoy any play without your spectacles. I am sorry—”