Her lips parted, a low laugh slipping neatly beneath his collar to glide down his chest. “Youset yourself up, Tipsy Trentham.”
Resting back, Ever dipped his chin.Touché. He loathed the monikers and the false persona, but he couldn’t argue with fact.
“I had nothing to do with it,” she added after a charged moment, where his mind had gone down nebulous paths as his gaze traced the curve of her breast beneath dove-gray bombazine. “After the incident, I left that position.”
Position, he thought, keeping his amusement to himself this time.
This chit was trouble, just as he’d imagined. Poor Weston Whitaker, forced to manage her. And the sorrowful Duke of Mercer. Alice had never caused Ever this much grief. She cared nothing for position or purpose, thank God.
Isabella plucked at her lace cuff, her gaze flicking to the maid, then back to him. Her eyes truly were a glory, a nimble golden brown he longed to dive into. They shimmered like the surface of the pond behind his country manor. “I’ll confess, I have a new endeavor to keep my mind sharp. One a bit outrageous”—she held up her gloved hand—“but not ruinous.”
Ever exhaled softly, wishing he possessed the will to fix his attention on the misted window and ignore her altogether.Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a flask of water, one of his work accessories. “Do tell.”
Eyeing the flask with disdain, Isabella reached to tug the leather strap that steadied the window shade, letting it snap back into place. In his line of work, he’d found fidgeting came just before the grand revelations. “As I mentioned earlier, I embroider, though my latest enterprise involves…underthings. Garters. Stockings. Decorated with playful mottos in whitework or silk floss. The pieces are quite inventive, quite lovely.”
“Garters,” he repeated flatly, his mind spinning with ribald images. Suddenly, he longed for brandy and gallons of it. Almost as much as he wished to know whether she woreinventiveunderthings beneath her appalling costume.
Her chin lifted as her gaze narrowed. “They’re sold discreetly through a milliner. Occasionally through a lady’s maid. The sort of item no one admits to buying, and no one explains receiving. I’ve made a tidy business of it, ten pounds last month. Plus the other,” she murmured, her attention sliding away to the street beyond.
Ever gave a short, incredulous laugh.The brass tacks on this chit.“I’m listening.”
Daring him—daring them both—her gaze returned to his. “A select client. The Velvet Court, an establishment in Covent Garden. You likely know of it. The girls prefer something well made.” She tapped her knuckle against the windowpane, three solid pops. “Something that lasts.”
He knew of the Court, an extremely upscale establishment, though it hadn’t existed during his own education in such matters. “I’m guessing your family isn’t aware of this exchange? What they might easily title ‘predicament number two.’”
Her cheeks flushed, a clear tell in the lamplight, and he found himself enjoying this exchange more than any he’d had in years.How damned dangerous.
But before Madam Mischief could further engage him, or he her, a thump struck the side of the carriage, followed by a shouted oath from his man perched atop it. The Clarence rumbled to a halt with an awkward jolt Ever knew Brick hadn’t orchestrated. He tossed the flask aside, reached into the concealed drawer beneath the seat, and extracted a pistol.
“Stay,” he growled, thrusting the weapon into her hand and dropping every pretense of being intoxicated, befuddled, or anyone Isabella Anstruther-Colbrook believed him to be. “And if it isn’t me or Brick who returns, shoot first and worry later.”
“What about you?” she asked, her arm trembling but her eyes steady, her concern sending a pang to his heart, ridiculous to the extreme. It proved how soft he was becoming, how badly he needed to be out of risky businesses. He no longer had the appetite for a life measured by survival.
“I’m well equipped,” he whispered, his pulse thumping, not a routine occurrence since he rarely had anyone to worry about but himself.
Thankfully, her chaperone had woken and, being a durable rookery girl, brandished a knife slipped from her boot. Madam Mischief faced him, pale but determined, raising his esteem a thousand notches. Most society creatures would have fainted at the first sign of trouble.
When he climbed from the carriage, his own blade in hand, he found a predictable inner-city disturbance: a robbery organized by a desperate, inept set of characters. He and Brick, who had abandoned his post to confront the two assailants, handled the matter without much difficulty, though Ever was unquestionably tired of pressing a weapon to someone’s throat and feeling one at his own.
“Look at that wee one run,” Brick said with a gusty laugh. He backhanded the sweat from his temple and fingered the rip in the shoulder of his coat. “Though he handledhis dagger with keen skill, didn’t he? Close to cutting me once. Them that has naught to lose are the ones to be scared of, I always say.”
“It’s this damned conveyance.” Ever jammed his knife into the scabbard beneath his coat and glanced around to ensure no one else approached. The lane lay deserted and mist-laden, the sound of breaking glass carrying from somewhere down the way, not a place to linger long. “They see the Merevale crest and think,a nob, oh, I can take him. I’m going to have it painted over.”
“Rather a nice bird in flight, it is. Very regal.”
Ever rolled his shoulder, wondering what he’d done to his back in the scuffle. It ached like the devil. “My grandfather claimed it was a falcon, but it looks like a malnourished goose to me.”
Brick crossed to the door, but before opening it, turned to Ever. “I don’t want to add to the evening’s collapse, me lord, but the bothersome bit watched the entire brawl through the window. As we say in the trade, I reckon you blew your cover. You laid the one down with your fancy boot on his neck.”
Ever swore and stepped into the street, only then realizing he was dizzy. Bracing his fist against the carriage, he bent forward, head hanging. Drops of blood struck the cobblestones in rapid succession, merging with London’s eternal grime.
“I think the wee lad got me,” he whispered as his vision drained away.
Chapter Three
Where a bothersome bit shows her mettle.
Isabella had never been truly tested before.
