Isobel Tinker nodded, more to herself than him, and looked away. This afforded him a prolonged view of her profile. Delicate nose, a swoosh of lashes, a fringe of soft blond wisps against her forehead. She was lovely. A bit unexpected. Different. Fiery and tightly wound. He found himself wondering what it would take to unwind her.
He wondered why she was unmarried. Why spend her days toiling away in a travel agency, enduring the scrutiny of its petty owner? Most bright and pretty women of seven and twenty were married and had begun a family by now.
“What if I tell you I cannot help you?” she asked softly. “What if I said that I know nothing about Iceland or pirates.”
“Then I’d say you were lying.” He watched her carefully. Her heart-shaped face tightened but she didn’t deny it. Something about the tenseness and the dread gave him pause. Her expression said,Anyone but me.
“Lives are at stake, Miss Tinker,” he said lowly, speaking to the coin in his hand. He wasn’t immune to silent pleading but he truly needed help. And she was proving herself to be a very promising resource.
He looked up, hoping his face conveyed the same plea. “Will you not help us?”
She said something under her breath. A curse? A prayer? He couldn’t be sure. She glanced over her shoulder at Hooke.
“Likely my contributions will be of no help at all,” she said, turning back, “but I’ll share what very little I . . . I remember.” She shot another look at the counter. “Only,not now. And not here.”
“Fine. Meet me tonight?”
“Mr. Hooke will wish for me to accompany him to dinner and some diversion.”
Jason felt a twitch by his left eye. “Diversion?”
She shook her head and held up a hand. “It’s nothing... amorous. Let me be clear.”
“You said you would accommodate him a hundred ways.”
She gave one, curt shake of her head. “Notthattype of accommodation. It will be dinner and a concert in the park or similar.”
“I believe you,” he said. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her, but he’d wanted to know. It felt very important, for some reason, that he know how she accommodated Drummond Bloody Hooke.
“My job depends on indulging him in this,” she said. “But I cannot say when I will be home.”
“You live here?” he asked.
She nodded. “Upstairs.”
“Alone?” he confirmed. This also seemed important.
A nod.
Jason felt himself breathe. “Fine. I’ll wait for you. Check the alley when you return.”
“I am not in the business of creeping around in alleys, Your Grace. This afternoon notwithstanding.”
“Don’t disparage alley creeping,” he said. “It’s one of the many things I’ll miss about this job when it’s gone.”
Miss Tinker stared at him with an inscrutable expression. As a rule, Jason had no time for inscrutable women, not when there were so many demonstrativewomen. But he’d not sought her out because he hadtimefor her. He’d sought her out because he needed her help.
“Fine,” she began, “meet me in the street—notthe alley—at ten o’clock. Surely I will be home by then. I’ll give you half an hour on a park bench in Grosvenor Square. But no more.”
Chapter Three
Isobel’s evening with Drummond Hooke ended with a single thought:If this man touches me one... more... time...
She squeezed the ties of her reticule and gave it a perfunctory swing. She’d sewn a fishing weight into the lining for the purpose of uninvited touching, and wouldn’t Samantha be proud. If swung at the knuckle between wrist and thumb...
She mustn’t, of course. Just as she hadn’t driven the heel of her boot into his instep nor jabbed him with her umbrella.
If she couldn’t contradict Drummond Hooke, how on earth could she injure him?
