A stately mahogany desk not dissimilar from her father’s stood just opposite. A decidedly non-devilish bookshelf covered the wall behind it. Then three comfortable chairs, one behind the desk and two in front for visitors. On the wall facing the alley, a small fireplace. Parallel to the other wall, a comfortable looking settee and an ornate folding curtain, presumably to hide a chamber pot from view.
Also absent from view: coal, brimstone, hellhounds, loose women, or gambling accoutrements of any type. Indeed, she could spy neither a decanter for port nor a tobacco pouch or snuffbox. Not even a token bit of clutter.
From this vantage point, one might be forgiven for believing that the Lord of Vice indulged in no vices whatsoever.
She edged closer to the pristine desk. Not only wasn’t a single paper out of place, there were no documents to rifle through at all. The desk was completely bare. She settled into Mr. Gideon’s chair and tried to imagine where he might hide secret information he didn’t wish for his landlord to see.
The desk drawer? Too obvious. But she jiggled the handle anyway.
“Locked,” she muttered under her breath.
Of course it was. Even if the drawer was empty, a man this slavishly organized would leave nothing to chance.
She let go of the drawer handle. Her keys only worked on doors, and forcing the drawer open would only leave proof of her presence. That was the last thing she needed.
Besides, who hid sensitive documents right where a spy would look for them? He was more likely to… carve a secret compartment inside a book.
She leapt to her feet and moved to inspect the bookshelf.
Samuel Johnson… Horace Walpole…Vindication of the Rights of Womanby Mary Wollstonecraft… Bryony blinked.
The idea of the powerful owner of an infamous vice den voluntarily reading female philosophies was so delightful that at first the distant voices down the corridor failed to register as anything more than background noise.
Voices.
Corridor.
Maxwell Gideon washere.
She leapt behind the folding screen just as strong footsteps reached the other side of the office door. Frantic, she blew out the candle and squeezed herself as tightly into the corner as possible.
As long as neither Mr. Gideon nor his guest peeked behind the screen, Bryony should be safe here in the shadows.
But if anyone did…
The door swung open and flickering candlelight filled the office with a dim orange glow.
Bryony held her breath.
From her position squeezed against the wainscoting at the opposite end of the room, her potential exposure was limited to the tiny sliver visible in the half-inch crack between the edge of the curtain and the wall. She could see a slice of the carpet, the desk, the chairs, but no glimpse of the man who had just unlocked the door.
Why wasn’t he crossing into the room? Why had their conversation suddenly stopped? Her hands shook so violently that she nearly dropped the spent taper gripped in her trembling fingers.
Her heart thudded in horrified realization.
The candle. Of course. Anyone’s first act upon entering a dark room would be to light the sconces therein, and she had pilfered the most convenient of those candles for her own purposes. She could still smell the faint odor of smoke emanating from the burnt wick.
Mr. Gideon must be wondering what became of the strangely absent candle. Perhaps he would assume his staff had removed a spent nub with the intention of replacing it with a fresh taper, before being distracted by some more pressing matter.
Or perhaps a man considered a devil in his own right would detect not only a faint whiff of smoke in the chill air, but also the panic emanating from Bryony’s very pores. There was nowhere else to hide. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to—
“Sit,” came a low, deep voice as rich and dark as warm chocolate. “It’ll be warmer in a moment.”
Bryony’s narrow line of sight was suddenly filled with a man of impressive height, broad shoulders, then unfashionably long black hair curling against a snowy white cravat as he knelt before the fireplace.
Before she could glimpse his face, orange flames leapt from the grate. He turned away from both the fire and the folding-screen to stride toward the desk.
“I appreciate you hearing me, Gideon,” said the other man, who had yet to take his seat as instructed. “I had nowhere else to turn.”
