He leaned against the stone wall of the alleyway with irritating insouciance, hands raised as if begging for her forbearance.
“I’m merely pointing out why I keep thinking ye might be in a wee bit of distress,” he continued, nodding back to the garden. “Who is that Italian thief tae yourself? I didn’t understand all of what was said, but I did gather that he expects something from ye.”
“My affairs are my own, Mr. Penn-Leith.”
“Of course they are.” That grin teased his lips. “But if I knew more about your aims, perhaps I could at the very least provide directions. I ken that ye be new tae Town and . . . well, London can be a bit overwhelming.”
In the diffused sunlight of the alleyway, his eyes were the deep green of an Alpine grassland in August. Not a hint of blue or gold. How was such a color possible?
Allie shook her head.
No mooning over the Scottish poet.
Escape. She needed to escape.
“Are you offering to assist me in fleeing Kendall?” she asked.
Mr. Penn-Leith froze before her. Something wary and hesitant flitted across his face.
Was thereanyman in London who did not fear her brother?
“Why don’t ye tell me of your plans,” he hedged, “and I can perhaps advise ye from that point. It would be particularly helpful to understand what the Italian wants of ye.”
“Fabrizio is no one to me.”
“Are ye sure?” Mr. Penn-Leith cocked his head, the motion genuinely curious. “Because why would an Italian thief lurk about the Duke of Kendall’s back garden if not to extract some sort of promise, at best, or perhaps blackmail, at worst—”
“Did you deduce this?”
“— after all, he knows everything about our scandalous . . . hmmm, what would ye call it? Ourencounterin Italy?”
A long silence met the end of that sentence.
Allie stared up at the Scot.
Well, she had never doubted his intelligence.
His tenacity, however, was a new discovery.
“Are you always this obnoxious?” If Allie thought to quell his inquisitiveness with her curt tone, she was sadly mistaken.
The wretch only grinned wider and, predictably, weakened her traitorous knees in the process.
Honestly.
This had to stop.
Allie had an escape to bring off, a despotic brother to thwart, and an Italian blackmailer to disappoint.
Engaging in getting-to-know-you banter with a famous Scottish poet was not on her list of tasks.
And yet, her feet remained rooted in place.
She blamed his pretty eyes.
“Och, I would use the wordpersistentinstead ofobnoxious, but aye,” he replied. “’Tis the youngest child in me, I suppose.”
The unexpected brightpopof information startled her. It was a lightning-brief glimpse at the man behind the persona. At the human being who surely had parents and siblings and, well, history.
