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“I beg your pardon, ma’am, may I ask why you leave flowers here?”
The woman turned a proud eye to Viv and gave her a thorough scrutiny. Viv knew that look. It was the sort of gaze Lady Melforth gave to encroaching admirers. “Do I know you?”
Viv steadied herself, all her story-hunting instincts alert. Rain dripped from her bonnet. A cold drop ran down her neck. “My name is Vivian Bradish, ma’am. I write about London.”
“I don’t know you.” The woman turned away toward the park.
“Wait,” Viv cried. She hurried to catch up with the woman’s long, elegant stride. “I don’t mean to offend. You knew the queen, Marie Christophe?”
The woman glanced sharply at Viv. “What is it you want from me?”
“You must have cared about her.”
“And what is that to you, Miss…”
“Bradish, ma’am, but it doesn’t matter who I am. I write about the women of London, their stories.”
“Women’s stories?” The woman stopped, and her gaze turned amused. “If you want stories, stories I have.”
“May I hear yours and hers, Marie Christophe’s, if you know it?”
“And what will you do with our stories, Miss Bradish?”
“Tell them to other women.”
The woman nodded. “And how will you do that?”
“In a book I am writing with Lady Melforth, the Traveling Viscountess.”
“A viscountess?” The woman’s brows lifted. “Are you sure your viscountess wants a story from the likes of me?”
Viv smelled of wet wool. The cold drops collecting on the back of her neck made her shiver. Later she would figure out how to persuade Lady Melforth to include the woman’s story. “I think she must. Please, will you tell me your name?”
“My dear young woman, you are soaked to the skin. If you truly care to talk, come another day when the weather is not so…English. Good day.”
“But I don’t know how to find you.”
“Your friend knows me.”
Viv turned, and there was Mr. Larkin. He had removed his coat. He wrapped it around her as the rain molded his clothes to his body. “Let’s get you home and dry,” he said.
*
Lady Melforth’s door opened, and Jenny dashed out under a serviceable black umbrella. “The Strydes are ’ere, miss,” she warned. “Best to go in through the kitchen.”
Viv whirled and led Lark around the iron railing down to the basement entrance. She hurried them into the long, dim hall with its half a dozen doors on either side, on past the narrow servants’ stairs and into the herb-scented stillroom lit by its one high window. “They mustn’t see you. Wait here.”
Lark surveyed the dangerous little room. It smelled harmless enough like lavender and plants he couldn’t name. Jars lined the open shelves, and bunches of dried herbs hung against the walls. But since yesterday, the room had figured in his imagination as a place of intimacy. He removed his hat and gloves, and set them on the plain deal table in the center of the room.
“I must get upstairs to Lady Melforth.” Viv tugged at her bonnet ribbons, pulling them into an unyielding knot.
“You won’t be able to help her in those clothes.” He stepped forward and took the ribbons from her cold, stiff hands. “Let me.”
She lifted her face. In her eyes, the excitement of their afternoon’s discovery was gone, distress in its place. One damp curl stuck to the side of her flushed cheek. “It’s only that they weary her so.”
He teased the tiny loop of knotted ribbon with his fingers, but it wouldn’t give. “Hold still and lift your chin. I’m going to use my teeth.”
Her eyes flashed awareness, but she gave a nod and did as he asked. He leaned in, taking hold of the end of the ribbons, momentarily dizzied by the warm scent of her. She went perfectly still unlike her usual self. He took the loop between his teeth and tugged until the knot yielded. He pulled away, and finished untying the ribbon, lifting the wet bonnet from her head.
