“How is young Rory?” I then inquired, since it had been considerable time since I had seen him, and I did know that Brodie felt a deep responsibility for him.
“He is quite well, thank ye for askin’.”
And that, without actually saying so, was obviously all he was going to say. I tried a different topic.
“Have you taken new inquiry cases?” I asked, as I would have anyone I had met after a long absence.
“Two cases, both quickly resolved to the satisfaction of the clients.”
Two cases. He had simply continued on in the time I was away. I pushed back irritation and was grateful when the warder returned and announced that a driver had arrived.
Brodie thanked him and escorted me to the street. He gave the driver the address of the town house in Mayfair.
I ignored his offer of assistance, hiked my skirt, and climbed into the coach.
What did you expect?
I frowned as I settled onto the seat at one end of the coach.
You sent round that note with no other explanation and then left for four months.
Five months, I thought. Five very long and boring months.
You were the one who took yourself off to Africa, a place you had already been...
“Oh, do be quiet!” It was only when I caught the sudden frown on Brodie’s face, as he settled onto the seat across, that I realized I had spoken aloud. And I thought the evening couldn’t get any worse!
The rest of the ride to Mayfair passed quietly. Too quietly.
When we arrived, I hastily made for the door of the coach in order to make a quick departure, and was abruptly brought up short. My skirt was caught in the door opening.
Oh, bloody hell! I thought as I attempted to free myself, one foot on the curb, the other on the step of the coach.
“Ye seem to be caught,” Brodie commented.
Did I detect a trace of humor in that?
“Thank you so much,” I sarcastically replied.
As I was soundly caught, my choices were obvious—attempt to carefully dislodge my skirt from the opening, simply tear the blasted thing free, or...
“Ye need to be more careful.”
How very useful, I thought, as I gave him a look that usually would have stopped a gentleman in his tracks. This was Brodie, however, who never made any claim to be one.
He exited the coach at the opposite side, circled round, then took hold of my skirt and freed it quite handily from the opening all the while the driver attempted to ignore both of us.
There was a moment as we stood there, the hem of my skirt in his hand, myself wishing for something appropriate to say.
I looked at him then—that dark gaze, that bloody handsome face with that dark beard and that slash of a scar that made him seem even...more so!
“Sir?” the driver reminded from atop the coach. “Will you be continuing on, sir?”
Brodie released the hem of my skirt. “Good evening, Miss Forsythe.” He then called out to the driver before climbing back inside the coach.
“Number 204 at the Strand.”
I swore I would not look back at that departing coach as I climbed the steps to the front entrance of the town house.
