The woman swallowed hard. Glancing briefly over her shoulder, a flicker of understanding passed between them.
They are sisters.
That would explain the woman’s protectiveness toward the girl. He thought the gap between them had to be wider than between most siblings. The woman appeared to be a little over twenty, while the girl was no older than fifteen.
He watched both women carefully. If thiswassome sort of scheme—and women were often underestimated when it came to criminal endeavors—then they would likely have an escape plan in mind. Perhaps the younger one would dive out of the window, and the older would try something silly, such as tackling him and trying to drive him out of the room.
If that was indeed their plan, he hoped they had abandoned it. The woman was tall and not weak-looking, but she had no hope of wrestling him out of the way.
“What is your name, then?” he asked as the woman scrabbled around the chest of drawers, peering underneath and squinting through the dust.
She didn’t answer, and he let out a huff of amusement.
“Come, my dear, you are hardly in a position to ignore my questions. I could summon the constables at once and have you both thrown into gaol.”
The woman stiffened, sitting back on her heels. She fixed him with a surprisingly direct look. “Andareyou going to do that?”
“No,” he answered, honestly enough. “I do not think I am.”
To his surprise, the bespectacled girl—Marjory, her sister had called her—stepped forward, clearing her throat.
“Are youhim?” she whispered, equal parts horrified and entranced.
Her sister went back to searching for the notebook, patting the ground with increasing panic.
Stephen frowned. “Who?”
“You know.Him. Orion.”
Now, thatwasunexpected.
Stephen flinched, rocking back on his heels.
“If I am,” he responded, missing a beat, “then you should know better than to ask me such a thing.”
“Found it!” the woman cried triumphantly, whipping out a battered old notebook from underneath the chest. It was covered in dust, a ball of the stuff hanging from one corner. A rather sad-looking spider’s corpse hung amongst the dust, but the womandid not seem to care in the slightest. “Here is the notebook my sister lost. See, it was not a lie!”
“No, indeed,” he responded with amusement, stretching out his hand.
She hesitated, still down on her knees, and eyed his hand warily. After a half-second’s consideration, she seemed to come to a decision, placing her hand in his.
Excellent.
Stephen’s fingers closed around hers, hauling her to her feet, and allowing him to seize the notebook from her other hand. She yelped in alarm, trying to grab it back, but he easily held it over his head and out of her reach.
“You have a genteel accent,” he observed mildly. “And you both look like ladies, despite your out-of-season clothing, but your hands are as rough and calloused as a seamstress’s. How odd.”
“Let go of me,” she snapped. “Give me back the notebook.”
Stephen tutted and deftly flipped open the notebook. It was full of almost unintelligible scribbles, which appeared to mostly detail pieces of gossip and other stories reported in the scandal sheets. And there—aha!—was a name written on the inside cover, just as he’d suspected.
“Marjory Holt,” he read aloud. “Well, that is you, Miss Spectacles. And what is your sister’s name, then?”
“I am Amelia,” the woman snapped, jerking her hand free. “Not that it is your concern. Give me back the notebook, if you please.”
He considered teasing her for a moment longer, but that really did seem unfair. It was all well and good to tease some silk-clad beauty in a ballroom, with her parents’ watchful eyes on them, but here, with the two of them cornered in the old storeroom? No, that was unfair.
He wordlessly handed back the notebook. The woman, Amelia, snatched it and backed away.
