“Perhaps I could explain if my throat weren’t being crushed,” he tried, adding a small cough for effect.
She rolled her eyes, but eased back, releasing him. Though, still on her guard.
“Thank you. That is much better.” He smoothed his clothes, picked off a spec of dirt. They hadn’t drawn much attention, thesort of crowd that gathered outside his doors were not the sort to bat an eye at a woman forcing a man against a wall. He noticed Jack over Miss Wilde’s shoulder, wavering at the door and ready to intervene.
“What do you want? I have places to be,” she snapped, unaware of how close she came to being outnumbered. He and Jack, a half-fae and an immortal, could easily hold their own against a guardian. Devincouldhave forced her to give him that envelope and be done with the nice guy routine. Or steal it from her, he was good with his hands. She wouldn’t know until too late. But, alas, for all his faults and thwarting of rules, even scoundrels set limits. She had won, fair enough.
Devin studied her. Beautiful face twisted in steely resolve, but then that something deeper simmered in her eyes. Desperation? Why did she want this information, anyway? Perhaps her stakes were higher than he estimated. “You know that I want the information in your hand.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I thought perhaps we could work together. We seem to have a similar goal. Why not share? I can make it worth your while.”
Her smile was anything but friendly. “I don’t need any help and you have nothing I want.”
“Ah, princess, but everyone needs help once in a while, no?” He leaned in closer, noting how she stiffened, but not altering his course until his lips were near her ear. “And, darling, everyone wants something.” His arms maneuvered to keep her from retreating, placed to hold her arm if necessary. Devin did not make restraining unwilling women a habit, but this was a desperate situation and she was being needlessly obstinate.
“Don’tcall me princess.” She spoke through her teeth, almost snarling with warning, and snatched her arm away before he could restrain it. Her movements were quick as a spark, her bodya few paces away before he could blink. He put his hands up in a show of submission.
“Regardless, I think we can help each other.”
“There’s nothing I need from you,” she said, voice stern. “I’m more than capable of handling things myself. Thank you for the offer. Don’t touch or follow me again.” And she turned on a heel and stalked off into the night.
Beautiful, but stubborn and rash. Fine. He had other ways of achieving his goal. He didn’t need her.
Devin returned to the club and headed upstairs. Jack had retreated to the office, looking over accounts and only sparing him a few blatant looks over the pages. Devin went straight for the shelf of brandy.
As Miss Wilde fled, he’d started to see the pulsing flame of her aura. He tore off the cap and let it fall before tipping the bottle to his lips. He hoped he would never see the siren again.
Chapter Two
Mirandahoppedfromherwindow and into the familiar darkness of her bedchamber. She threw off her cloak and began to adjust the sconces on the wall until the shadows grew large with the contrast of light. She had training and tea with her mother in the morning, but she had resisted checking her prize the entire walk home—a feat drastically out of character.
Her hand plunged into her bodice and fished out the small blade concealed in her corset, one of several hidden just in case. Hands shaking, Miranda sliced through the plain seal and hesitated. There would be no going back once she read the contents. This document contained potentially incriminating evidence against her sister’s fiancé.
Sneaking around the past few weeks, searching for a way to expose Yarrow Graves as the monster he was, had amounted to very little. She had her own story, but who would believe her over a respected political official? Any attempt to discredit Graves might look like petty jealousy over Cordelia’s grandmatch while she, the older and more eligible sister, was overlooked.
She had to read the contents, she had to take that leap. But…perhaps she could do so with some friendly company.
Miranda pushed aside the clutter on her desk and gingerly set down the envelope. She tore off the cumbersome dress and undergarments in favor of her nightclothes. The red dress fought her as she tried to cram it under her bed, the skirts continuing to billow as air gathered in their layers. This dress could not be found in her wardrobe or there would be questions. The itchy wig followed, her hair once again free.
Once satisfied that the evidence of her trip to the Fells was hidden, Miranda retrieved the envelope and proceeded into the still hallways of her home.
She had made this walk a hundred times over the years, whenever Lydia came to stay for a few days. The guest rooms were a floor below hers and had their own hallways for privacy. Miranda knocked, waited for a reply, then opened the door expecting to find Lydia Foster, her best friend, asleep in bed. The bed, however, was untouched.
“Damn it, Liddy,” Miranda whispered to the empty room. There was only one other place in the entire estate where Lydia might be at such an hour.
The Wilde estate held a quaint, cozy library. Not overly large or grand, a family of guardians prided themselves on physical pursuits. Miranda herself rarely visited here. Even as a child she was too busy getting muddy or finding bugs until she was old enough to practice swordsmanship on trees and shrubs in the gardens.
There were not many places to hide and, given the hour, only one source of light. A flame flickered around a shelf nearest the back wall of floor to ceiling shelves. As Miranda rounded the corner, she knocked straight into the mobile ladder.
“Divines above—” The soft curse preceded a high-pitched cry and a woman fell to the carpeted floor.
“Lydia!” Miranda reached down to help her friend. “Are you alright?”
“Not me, the books!” Lydia let go of Miranda and started collecting the books that followed her to the floor when she was thrown from her perch. “Thank the Divine, they’re all intact.” She gingerly brushed the cover of the final tome and set it in the stack with the others, the tower balanced on her arm and jutted hip.
Lydia Foster was a bespectacled woman with ebony curls that her poor maid had wrestled into a coiffure that had, no doubt, been neat and tidy this morning. Now it was barely contained with strands twirling their escape.
