Meet me at the row of trees opposite Gunter’s. We need to talk.
Basil
Max crumpledup the paper and hurled it across the room into the fire.
“That looked like good paper,” his sister protested. “We could have used it for something.”
“I’d rather be warm,” he growled. Just seeing her handwriting gave him shivers.
Frances’s eyes lit up. “Was it her?”
“Indeed,” he agreed with a sour voice. “She sent for me like a servant.”
Frances tilted her head. “Sent you where?”
“Gunter’s ices,” Max admitted grudgingly.
Frances immediately reached for the new waistcoats. “Wear the green one.”
Max shook his head. A dragon’s underbelly was too vulnerable. With Bryony, he would need to be strong. As sudden and unpredictable as a thunderstorm. “I’ll wear the blue.”
As soon as he was straightened and buttoned and coiffed, Frances all but pushed him out the door.
“Tell her I want to meet her,” she called as he flagged down a hackney.
“Never,” he called back as he climbed inside.
The drive to Gunter’s only gave him more time to fume.
He didn’t know Bryony’s surname, and she knew everything about him. Even his home direction. The power imbalance was entirely in her favor and he didn’t like it one bit.
When the hack let him out, it took a moment to espy her amongst all the fashionable folk lining the street outside.
He had become so used to seeing her in shirtsleeves and trousers that at first he forgot to even look at the fine ladies in flamboyant bonnets and expensive walking gowns.
When their gazes met, Bryony’s eyes laughed at him as if she had anticipated his confusion.
That wasn’t all he felt.
Her long, slender legs were hidden beneath the frothy folds of a buttery yellow gown. Her bosom, unfettered by bindings, was highlighted by a jaunty band of glass and sequins that dazzled as it caught the sunlight. Her hair was not hidden beneath a crooked beaver hat, but piled atop her head in a profusion of artfully placed curls that made her look like a goddess.
Or Medusa.
He stalked over to her. “Where is your chaperone?”
She gestured over her shoulder at a maid far more interested in consuming flavored ices than paying any attention to her mistress.
“First things first.” Bryony gestured to two heaping bowls on a small stool. “I didn’t know which flavor you might like, so I chose the two most popular in the hopes that one would do. Do you prefer jasmine or violet?”
“Neither,” he growled. His stomach gurgled in protest. “Why did you summon me here?”
“It’s a beautiful day.” She lifted a hand toward the unseasonably clear sky. “I thought we should meet somewhere neutral. Not the Cloven Hoof.”
“Why?” he repeated.
“I wanted you to meet me as me,” she said after a long moment, as she played with one of her ringlets. “And perhaps share an ice or two.”
“We are not friends,” he reminded her. “I’m not your suitor or even a willing business partner.”
