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Chapter Seven

The day promised to be warm, and Lark found no fire lit in Lady Melforth’s green drawing room. He set his package down and stood in front of the hearth to wait for Viv. The clock on the mantel ticked a very few measured ticks before she burst into the room.

“Where is it?” She crossed to him in a rustle of lavender skirts, her dark eyes flashing with indignation. Her gaze narrowed to the package he’d laid on the round table at the end of the sofa. “What have you done with it?”

“Good morning, Viv.” Lark patted his side where an inner pocket of his brown wool coat held the little book, willing her to come closer. “It’s here.”

“You took it.” She halted, facing him, dark eyes ablaze with anger, skirts rocking from her movement, stirring the air, bringing him the faint flowery scent he already recognized as hers.

“You left it in the coach. I kept it safe.”

She cast a puzzled glance at the brown paper package. “What’s this then?”

“Fresh plasters and linen. Will you do me the favor?”

“Your valet didn’t change the dressing?”

“He’s squeamish about blood.”

Her expression turned skeptical. “You should dismiss him.”

“He didn’t shoot me.”

She looked at him then, taking in the plain brown coat, the red and gold swirls of his waistcoat, and the deeper chocolate silk of his tie with its diamond pattern of reds and blues. As a rule, he played down any flash in his attire, but her scrutiny went beyond the hasty appraisal he was used to.

“Fair enough,” she said, “but I need my notebook back.”

“Today?”

“Of course, today.”

“If the tide is right, I thought we could take a boat up the river to picnic.”

“A boat? Up the river?” She looked away. “I have work to do.”

He caught an odd note of unease in her voice. “We could look at the ruins of Parliament. Did you see the fire?”

She turned back to him, her curiosity plainly piqued. “I wasn’t in London then. Did you see it?”

“From the bridge.” Rook had had easy pickings that October night as crowds of Londoners gawked at the monstrous flames consuming the Palace of Westminster. But for Lark, the fire had been the deciding moment. He’d left his old life behind that night. “Help me change the plaster, and we’ll be on our way.” He shed his coat and laid it over the sofa arm.

Her skeptical gaze returned to him. “You’re distracting me again. Why should we go up the river to see the ruins?”

“The best view is from the river. And you don’t know London at all if you don’t know the river.” The trick with Viv, he’d discovered, was to keep going until she stopped him. He worked the buttons of his waistcoat until the sides hung open and drew the little book from his pocket.

She snatched it and clasped it to her chest. Her eyes closed briefly, then flew open again. “Did you read it?”

“Would you let me?”

“My writing is private.”

“Maybe it’s merely…dull.”

“Dull?”

“And earnest—full of graves and grimy streets. Don’t ladies want to read about the pleasures of London?”

“Pleasures?”