“With Lady Standish.” The admission sounded as if it had been extracted with a pair of pliers.
He was beginning to understand… “At Acaster’s ball?”
Another curt nod.
Of course… “So, you knew to tell the concierge you’re my amanuensis.”
Mutiny shone in Lady Beatrix’s eyes, as if to say she’d given him all she would.
“That would explain the concierge’simpertinence. The man must’ve thought we were having an impressively wild night.”
She averted her eyes. Was that the hint of a blush staining her cheeks?
“So, you’re not only a trespasser, but an eavesdropper, too.”
A strangled sound that might’ve been a protest escaped her, but that was all the defense she could muster.
He’d only spoken the truth.
And speaking of the truth… “Which reminds me.”
He uncrossed his ankle and shifted forward to slide a drawer open from the low table before him. “I have something of yours.”
The object he’d retrieved gave a satisfying little slap on the tabletop, punctuating the moment.
Her journal.
A strangled cry tore from her throat, and she took a reactive step forward before she remembered herself and the situation she’d become embroiled within.
“This isyours, no?”
Here he was, pushing her again. Yet she made no move to take it. He could only imagine the amount of self-control that took.
He lifted the journal and began paging through. “The prose is a bit sparse, but even so, it makes for interesting reading, given all the names belonging to members of thehaut ton.”
Perhaps he was pushing it too far, for she’d somehow gone both pale and flushed. He wondered if she might even rather be arrested on the spot than endure this treatment.
“Some of the notes…” he continued thumbing through. “Well, less than flattering some of them. Shall I read a few favorites aloud?”
She heaved a deep, resigned sigh. She knew there was no stopping him, so better to get it over with. He could admire the pragmatism.
He cleared his throat. “Lord Wrexford—human spaniel, only lacking wagging tail; competing with A for attentions of D of A?” Dev glanced up. “I suppose you won’t be decoding names for me?”
Lady Beatrix threw darts at him with her eyes.
Oh, this was fun.
“Lady Neale—rumor true; hair experiment gone wrong; green strands poking out from beneath wig.” Dev closed the book and let it rest on his lap. “I reckon the lady wouldn’t care to havethatbandied about.”
Lady Beatrix lifted her chin. “I suppose there’s a point to all this?” she asked in the cool, clipped, aristocratic voice she’d been gifted at birth.
The tone that deigned to address the lower organism before her.
Of a sudden, Dev was having less fun. Another memory slid into place… Her addressing him thusly on her doorstep, scoffing at the very idea of inviting him in for tea.
“The point of all this?” he returned, his voice gone cold.
“Really,” she continued, “what’s in that journal is none of your concern.”
