It was how she’d taken Everland Travel from a struggling budget holiday packager to its current premier status: “Travel agent to the most esteemed women in England,” as read her favorite quote inThe Times.
It was her life’s work. If she was also a bit of a curiosity—well, she was asuccessfulcuriosity.
And if she could achieve her dream of purchasing the agency, she would not simply elevate Everland Travel to new heights; she wouldownit too.
“I don’t have time for this,” Isobel grumbled, glancingup and down the sidewalk. She turned left, eyeing the pedestrians of Lumley Street.
Despite the Lurker’s great propensity to disappear, his other distinguishing quality was his considerable height and breadth. He stood out like a professional boxer. The tearoom, in particular, had framed his size in striking contrast; its spindly tables and chairs seemed to bow and creak under his weight. The flower cart, which was an immovable rattletrap with warped wheels, wanted only his strength to be rolled spryly away. The horse he stabled at the hostler’s yard looked like a mythical beast. The Lurker himself, who’d been instructing a stable boy on the horse’s care when she’d seen him, had made Isobel think of...
Well, the phrase that’d popped into her brain had beenGreek god.
Now she turned the corner at Brown Hart Gardens and pressed toward Duke Street. Here, too, the sidewalk was devoid of professional boxers or Greek gods. She was just about to turn into Duke Street when she saw movement in the alley behind her shop.
Isobel slowed, squinting into the dim, crooked passage. She tilted her head and listened. Footsteps crunched from the murk, the heavy footfall of godlike boots.
Isobel sighed, glanced at her timepiece, and followed the sound. Drummond Hooke was due in forty-five minutes. If the Lurker was in the alley, she had fifteen minutes to learn his business and dispatch him, and a half hour to settle at her desk.
Who’s the lurker now?she thought, picking her way around alley debris. A cat leapt into her path, and she jumped. She unhooked the parasol from her arm and held it perpendicular like a handrail. The rear door toher shop came into view. She saw her back steps. The rusty railing. Her mop bucket. And—
Him.
The Lurker stood on her back door stoop, his back turned.
She took a silent breath and flipped the parasol so that the pointed tip faced out. Her heart beat faster, but she felt no real fear. She’d traveled the world, for God’s sake. This wasMayfair. She’d yet to see anything in Mayfair, night or day, that rivaled her life before she’d returned to England. And anyway, what choice did she have but to confront him? Drummond Hooke frequently smoked in this alley when he visited. Discovering a giant man loitering on their back stoop would be unacceptable.
“I beg your pardon?” she called, staring at the Lurker’s broad back.
Her tone was sharp and demanding and the man tensed.
“Turn ’round, if you please,” she commanded. “Slowly.”
Obligingly, the man raised two giant gloved hands and slowly pivoted.
Isobel held her breath and watched him turn. She straightened to her full five-foot-two-inch height. His large shoulders were smoothly encased in gray-purple wool; his profile was chiseled, just peeking from a rakish, wide-brimmed hat. His greatcoat hung open, whirling slightly when he turned.
At last, he raised his head and she saw his face.
Isobel blinked.
His eyes were amber-hazel, the color of dark caramel. His mouth was... well,perfectwas the only word that sprang to mind, as useless as it was. His nose (who noticed noses?) was not unlike his height: Greek-god-like.
Isobel took a deep breath.
Of course, the nature of his nose or mouth made no difference. What mattered was that he was ever-so-slightlysmiling. Just a quirked uptick at the corner of his (perfect) mouth.
It was the smile of someone who’d staggered from the pub and eaten the Christmas pudding the night before the feast.
“Hello,” said the Lurker.
His voice was casual. Playful. Confident.
Isobel felt an intermittent shimmer at her wrists and throat.
No, she thought.Oh no.
She’d left Europe seven years ago with only the clothes on her back and two solemn vows: never to return to Europe andnever, everto engage with playful, confident men.
The worddangerbegan to burn in the back of her mind like a pillaged farmhouse.
