Page 79 of A Deal with the Devil

Chapter Twenty

It would have done Kitty a great service if the author of Pride and Prejudice had set any of her books in London.

Kitty’s walking tours were popular enough, but they would surely have showered her in gold coins were Mr. Darcy said to have strolled along Piccadilly or stopped at Fortnum and Masons.

Never mind—her customers still wanted to see where fictional characters were said to have hidden from vampire hunters or met lovers for secret trysts. They only condescended to stop at the very ordinary if lovely Gunter’s Ices because of a scene in which very wicked things were done with lemon ices.

Very wicked.

There had been a run on lemon ices for several weeks after publication, which had bewildered the chefs. She had taken to warning them when she led her tours now so they might lay in a supply of the fruit.

All to say that Kitty’s customers were an odd bunch and she adored them.

Her walking tours met just before dusk at Montagu House, where an intrepid antiquarian wallflower was swept off her feet by an adventurer who had stolen a jewel from one of the pyramids. According to the gothic novel, at any rate.

There was a respectable number of customers today: a couple who mostly stared at each other, two young girls with their father, who was already bored but patient, two dandies who were out on a lark, and a family just arrived from Nottingham and in London for the first time. And, as always, Miss Peridot with her raw onion in hand. She never missed a tour. She claimed it was the only way she could tolerate calisthenics. Also Miss Hastings, whom Kitty was glad to see the Ladies’ Novel Society had not scared off. The same could not be said for many an intrepid soul.

There was also a very tall Viking strolling along as though this was his idea in the first place.

And not Devil’s idea.

Wulf grinned at her, then at the two young girls who were gaping at him like he had walked out of a novel. One they liked very much.

“Did you lose a wager?” Kitty murmured.

He shrugged. “I like books.”

Montagu House was open to the public for tours of their collection of marbles, for the first mummy displayed in Britain, though that had been some time ago. There were also treasures from Captain Cook’s Pacific voyages, Saxon coins, and the Rosetta Stone.

It was all quite fascinating, but Kitty remained out front with her guests. She had learned her lesson. Particularly avid fans of a certain novel had lingered for an hour over the Rosetta Stone alone, whispering about the hero who broke a mummy’s curse for his antiquarian love. Two ladies had vanished altogether, only to be escorted out by two gentlemen blushing to the roots of their hair. Kitty had been encouraged to remain in the garden after that.

Which was mildly unjust. There were many ways to appreciate history, surely. But at least she was not outright banned.

Carriages trundled behind her, the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road a comforting heartbeat. The smells of coal smoke, the shouts of hawkers—all lent itself to the tales she told of a magical London lurking beneath this one.

An ancient mummy’s curse in the British Museum. A siren singing in a pub in Covent Garden across from St. Paul’s church.

The pub did not exist, but the church did, which was good enough. It had a stone façade, a round window over the door, and a somewhat perplexed clergyman when readers began leaving seashells painted gold outside the church. The siren was said to leave them to communicate with her lover, a dashing sea captain she’d accidentally drowned. Twice.

Gothic novels were simply the very best.

The Theatre Royal was naturally home to a ghost searching for a woman to love more than he loved music.

They passed another tour on their way from Covent Garden to Berkely Square. Miss Macallister nodded at Kitty curtly, like they were two soldiers on the battlefield. Sometimes their groups crossed paths; sometimes they even shared an audience. Miss Macallister’s tended to weeping throngs of ladies desperate for a glimpse of the poet Byron. There was a great deal of screaming if he was spotted. Sometimes swooning. It seemed rather a lot of work to Kitty for a syphilitic poet who treated women with contempt.

Next was Gunter’s, where they stopped for lemon ices, of course.

It was a short walk to Brook Street, where a handsome vampire hid from hungers and hunters and sunlight in very luxurious rooms at the Claridge Hotel. He drank a lot of wine.

Also lingering near the hotel was a certain Devil, leaning against a column.

“And he has dark, windswept hair,” Kitty said pointedly, altering her description of the notorious vampire. “And green eyes, of course.”

Devil tilted his head in that way of his, green eyes finding her.

“He’s very dashing, of course.” She grinned. “But also quite maddening. All that power and prestige. It’s not good for the character, I’m sure.”

He bowed. No one else noticed him. She could not help but notice him. And then he moved, just barely, and the air changed. Gazes snapped toward him, transfixed. Or skittered away, scared. She heard more than one murmur of “About that club of yours…”