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four

Winter still seized London with icicle fingers, and Rafe—well Rafe hated the damned cold. Hated that what ought to have felt like a March evening instead mimicked a January night. Hated that today his father, in a fit of rage over a missing shipment, had taken his ire out on the store’s staff, and turned out the pastry cook and the boy who swept the streets.

Rafe had walked more than ten miles, but he’d restored relative calm. Advertisements for a new cook to work the tearoom would be printed in the papers later this week, and a street sweeper had been hired, prepared to start in the morning. Back to Pall Mall, to even the general vicinity of the detestable man and his detestable store, should’ve been the last thing Rafe wanted—yet here he was.

His toes were numb with cold inside his boots (a condition sure to put him in a foul temper), and he’d almost waited too long to do the one godforsaken thing he’d hoped to do all day: visit The British Institution. Hopefully he could find the necessary calm to enjoy the picture gallery. It wasn’t just today’s events bothering him; there was the other … irritant.

He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that Miss Red Skirts of the darkened study knew too much about him. She had met his eye again and again the night of the Miltons’ ball—while taking dignified sips of her dinner wine, while holding conversation with the snobbiest-looking men in attendance, and even when they passed near each other during a country dance. Never another word spoken, and she never pulled any of the Penneys aside for a good whispering. He’d have noticed. It would be just his good fortune for her to announce Rafe Balfour a cheat and a common workman fit for nothing but the gibbet.

He was waiting for the rug to be yanked out from under him. For her to realize the significance of what she’d heard of his and Crofton’s conversation, and ruin what little merit he had. He’d curse merit, if gaining his freedom didn’t depend upon it.

It’s been two days. Two. Focus on your real problems. Just now, though, he wasn’t going to focus on anything save the masterful artistry of Sir Joshua Reynolds. The institution was just ahead, and the number of patrons entering looked mercifully slim just now.

Rafe wasn’t an artist—far from it. But he certainly classed himself as an admirer of art, coveted an idealistic notion that one day, perhaps he might receive instruction on how to put brush to canvas, and somehow build worlds and emotions with the work of his hands. Thus far, they’d only succeeded in tasks of manual labor, oiling the machine that was his father’s mercantile empire.

Rafe’s eyes flashed to the imposing façade of Balfour’s on the opposite side of the street. The three grand arches, which had been entirely glassed to display goods, were dark and flat. No light shone from inside, and the hulking indigo-painted doors had been shut and locked. For once, he hadn’t been the one to complete the task.

A lady had stopped to peer into the windows. Her maid, an ill-tempered-looking sort, stood a few paces behind, frowning and stamping, her skirts kicking up around her heels.

Balfour’s had begun to garner higher-bred clientele—the Royal Warrant and Queen Charlotte’s patronage had seen to that—but it was mostly the gentry who openly shopped the store. This lady, with her gaudy hat and unshakable posture, was decidedly not their usual—

Oh hell.

Rafe snapped his head forward, but it was too late. In the instant Miss St. Quinton had turned around, dark brow furrowed, she had met his eye. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach like a cast iron brick.

He kept his expression neutral, his stride even, though he would've liked to race ahead to his destination and avoid whatever punishment he had coming. Somehow, he thought she’d follow him wherever he went, if he so much as tried to run.

“Easy now!”

A horse whinnied, nearly drowning out the driver’s yell. Rafe looked in time to see Miss St. Quinton crossing the street, a massive dray loaded down with barrels of beer halted for her, waiting. She smiled at the driver. He continued scowling, but tipped his hat to her.

Un-bloody-believable. If that had been Rafe interrupting traffic, he’d have been cursed at—if he wasn’t turned to pulp by the vehicle’s wheels first.

He was the smile’s recipient a moment later, when Miss Red Skirts—he’d have to stop with that moniker now, given she was clad in pristine white muslin and a bottle-green spencer—mounted the pavement to greet him. “Good evening, Mr. Balfour.”

The brick doubled in weight. He hadn’t told her his name, nor his place of employ. She’d been asking after him. “Good evening, Miss St. Quinton.”

She looked different from this closeness. The contrast afforded by her absurd black hat proved her hair was not entirely black, but the darkest of browns. It flirted with the failing colors of daylight and the silver, military-style frogging on her spencer, drawing out lustrous hints of gold and russet. The hat still looked ridiculous. A massive black feather was pinned across its front, swooping down to conceal most of her right eye.

“I did not realize at the time of our introduction that we are neighbors.” She smiled, and he could read nothing of it. Concerning.

“Yes. So it seems we are, miss.” No use pointing out that he knew none of their Berkeley Square neighbors, that being classed as nouveau riche was enough to afford one a house in Mayfair, but not enough to make friends out of the people who lived a short measure of timber and plaster away. It was a fact, and an old one at that. People largely ignored him and Thomas. She and her family had doubtless ignored him.

“Are you headed there, now?” Her elbow twitched in invitation, and she cast a look down the street.

“No, actually I am not.”

She stared at him full. A breeze lifted the obstructive feather, and he felt the strength of her eyes. If they had been softer, not so keen and sharp and faintly mocking, he would’ve found it easier to hold her gaze.

Again, he had left her too long without a reply. The gentle, Cupid’s bow curve of her mouth pinched, drawing his attention to a small mole he’d not noted on their first meeting. “I am visiting the picture gallery at the institution,” he said.

“That sounds positively lovely. I had just been saying how well I’d like to see it.” She grinned at her dour-faced maid. “Had I not, Anne?”

Rafe drew a deep breath and held it at the top of his lungs. She wasn’t going to let him get away; it would be better to receive his sentencing inside the gallery than on the street. “Would you like to accompany me, Miss St. Quinton?”

“That,” she said, placing her hand on his proffered arm, “would be excellent, Mr. Balfour.”

The silence of their walk kept his pulse level, right until the moment they reached the institution’s vestibule. “One shilling apiece,” the money-taker announced.