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Rafe closed his eyes and massaged them with a hand. “Miss St. Quinton—”

“If you positively insist!” she snapped, sitting up and throwing herself bodily at the door in one clumsy movement. Chenoweth’s arms extended to catch her, but she teetered on the step, gripping the doorframe with blanched knuckles, and backed back into the vehicle. Her chest was heaving, her eyes glowing. “I really cannot. I cannot. Papa has a light on. If he sees me like this—no. No. I won’t.”

She was looking at Rafe as she panted the words, and though they would have read as demands, she spoke them like pleas. Please don’t make me.

“I fear yourn to start attractin’ notice if she remain here much longer,” Chenoweth said.

“Right.” Rafe didn’t break Miss St. Quinton’s gaze. “Drive on, then.”

“Whereabouts?” Chenoweth asked.

Rafe sighed. “Take me to the damn store. The back entrance.”

The door closed and the carriage rolled forward again, out of the sedate, homespun lights of Berkeley Square and into the shadows of London.

This was crazy. Absolutely absurd. Rafe reached up to loosen his cravat, relishing the influx of cool air around his throat. Damn it, damn it, damn it. What was he thinking? What was she thinking?

She was scrounging around in her reticule, scratching wildly.

“What is it you’re looking for?” Rafe asked, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

“The stupid marble,” she said. Coins raked through her fingers in a flurry of clinks. “It helps my agitation.”

Maybe he needed a confounded marble too.

Her hands stilled. “Of course,” she sighed. “I gave it away.”

“Yes, that’s right. To the boy. Speaking of, I heard you received my letter this morning.” He had set the store’s street sweeper on the task, and the boy had returned delighted with Miss St. Quinton’s tip. Rafe had almost expected to hear from her afterward—the contents of Crofton’s letter would have upset anyone with half a heart.

“I did.” Her voice had turned soft but quickly regained its bite: “Though I wouldn’t call it ‘your letter.’ You merely passed along the vice admiral’s words without so much as an opinion on them.”

“I thought it went without saying. I’m of the opinion that it’s horrid. That child has been dealt a cruel hand in life, but I don’t see any way in which I’m able to intervene.”

A long silence passed, new and uncomfortable against the recent rattling of her purse.

“The marble … How did it help with your agitation?” he asked.

“I hold it between my fingers.” Her left thumb and forefinger made an absent movement. “It’s strangely soothing.”

With three tugs, Rafe pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket. “It’s certainly not a marble, but perhaps this would distract you.” He reached out slowly, offering it to her.

It was a moment before she took it, running the printed cotton between her fingers. “A map?”

He nodded.

She pushed back the curtain covering the window, letting more light inside. She bowed over the handkerchief, smoothing it out and squinting at it. “I can’t read it. The words … they’re all funny.” She looked up with wide eyes. “Oh God. Am I truly that foxed?”

“No,” he laughed. “It’s in German. It’s Germany.”

She laughed breathlessly and settled back against the cushions. “Thank heaven.”

It seemed to work. She turned the handkerchief by its corners, over and over, studying the intricate web of cities and roads and islands.

They were on Pall Mall now. From beyond the window, Rafe recognized the lively, Palladian glamor of Boodle’s gentlemen’s club. The bay window jutted out into the street, clogged with well-dressed gentlemen, and there was a crested carriage parked in front of the entrance, being welcomed by cheering men. Rafe caught lilted strains of their chanting as Chenoweth drove past.

“Ol’ Hansbury! There he is!”

“Welcome back, old man!”