He inclined his head in a courteous manner, and she was relieved by his easy acceptance. Perhaps their kiss hadn’t made much of an impression on him, either. At any rate, the blow to her vanity was vastly preferable to a messier outcome.
“Now that we’ve dealt with that.” She adjusted her hat. “Tell me about your progress with Quinton.”
Devlin’s gaze glinted with amusement before he responded.
“With the help of the erstwhile Billie and Lindy, I have canvassed the Strand from Trafalgar Square to St. Clement Dane’s. Haberdashers, milliners, clergymen—I’ve spoken to them all. No one recalls seeing a couple matching the description of Quinton and his doe-eyed, buxom redhead. All hope is not lost, however. We have Holywell Street on the agenda today, and if that turns up no leads, we can always procure some reading material.”
Holywell Street, a lane off the Strand, was known for its bookshops featuring erotic works.
“I didn’t take you for much of a reader,” Charlie said dryly.
“Oh, I’m not, sweeting. I just like to look at the pictures.”
At Devlin’s smirk, she felt her lips twitch and was thankful that their relationship had resumed its normal course. Arriving at Holywell, they split up, each taking a side of the street. In addition to searching for the redhead, Charlie had to keep a lookout for Sebastian. The memory of his harsh promise quivered through her.
If you will not stay away from Quinton, you are inviting me into your life. Is that what you want, Lottie?
Her cheeks flushed. Although she did not want him nosing about in her affairs, she wouldn’t put it past the arrogant bastard to do so anyway...for what reasons, she could not fathom. If his purpose was to protect her as he’d claimed, why had he betrayed and abandoned her?
None of it makes sense. And I’ve wasted enough time mulling over the bounder. I must focus on the life I’ve built for myself—on helping Amara and the clients who count on me.
When she entered the first bookshop, the absence of any reaction from the other occupants confirmed that Vera Engle, the Angels’ mistress of disguises, had done her job well. Charlie blended in with the other patrons, padding and tailoring giving her a portly male silhouette. A salt-and-pepper wig, sideburns, and mustache completed her look as a prosperous middle-class gent.
Selecting a random unmarked volume from the shelves, she went to the counter and spun her prepared tale to the clerk. She pretended to be a merchant looking for his “niece”—which everyone knew was shorthand for a mistress—who’d run off after a tiff. Charlie described her supposed redheaded paramour, adding that a friend had seen the woman in the company of a dark-haired, brawny fellow, likely, she said mournfully, to be a new “uncle.”
The clerk was not unreceptive to her questioning, especially when she pushed coins across the counter for his trouble. He had not seen the redhead in question but mentioned that there was a club tucked away on the next street where Charlie might wish to make further inquiries. Apparently, the exclusive “Academy of Venus” catered to patrons of both sexes and was known for its unique salons.
“If yourniececannot be found”—the clerk waggled his brows—“there are plenty of other fresh young ladies in need of protection.”
Thanking him, Charlie continued on her way.
She learned nothing new at the next eight establishments. By the time she arrived at a storefront that a faded sign proclaimed as “Wallace’s Bookshop,” the mission was starting to feel as productive as the proverbial search through a haystack. Opening the door, she hoped Devlin was having better luck?—
“Let me go!”
At the fear infusing the female voice, Charlie tightened her grip on her walking stick. A quick glance revealed a cramped space with an unattended counter to her right and a maze of teetering bookshelves. She followed the raised voices toward the back of the shop.
“Stop fighting me, dove.” The menacing drawl raised the hairs on Charlie’s nape. “I’ll pay you for the slap and tickle, something I’m certain you give away for free?—”
“Get your hands off me, you bastard!”
“You bit me, youbitch.”
Charlie arrived in time to see a man slap the brunette he had pinned to a table. He yanked up her skirts as she kicked out, screaming bloody murder. Charlie did not hesitate.
“You will unhand the young lady,” she said in her lowest register.
The man looked up, and Charlie narrowed her eyes at the chiseled features and blond hair slicked over a high widow’s peak. She knew the blackguard: Ashley Lowell, rake, profligate, and youngest son of a wealthy countess. He was the apple of his mama’s eye, which was how he’d managed to harass half the maids in London without repercussion.
Unsurprisingly, his behavior with shopgirls was no better.
“Who the devil are you?”
Lowell gave Charlie a once-over. Even though she’d had to tolerate dancing with the bounder on several occasions, there was no sign of recognition in his pale, slitted eyes.
“Who I am is of no import, sir,” she said evenly. “But as a gentleman of honor, I cannot allow you to molest this woman.”
Lowell’s mouth edged into a sneer. “Rather a high horse you’re perched on,sir, given the nature of your reading habits.”
