He’d spent fifteen years in the Foreign Service and seen mortal combat, but in the alley, he’d had to work to keep up.
He was working still.
“Samantha?” called Miss Tinker now. “Can I trouble you to provide this gentleman with literature about our Scandinavian destinations? And to set an appointment for another day?”
She meant him, of course.Hewas the gentleman.Hewould receive literature about Scandinavia and be sent off until another day.
Surely not.He looked at Isobel Tinker.
Surely yes, Miss Tinker said with her eyes.
The clerk called Samantha bit out the words, “Right this way, sir.” She pointed a sharp finger to a desk near a window.
Given no other choice, Jason went.
At the desk, Samantha thunked down a stack of travel guides and slid them to him. “You,”she whispered, “must go.”
“Who’s the bloke?” Jason whispered back, flipping open the topmost book.
“Who areyou?” the clerk countered.
“I’mthe Duke of Northumberland,” he said, enunciating the words with tight poshness, perhaps his first time ever to emphasize the title.
“Why have you been stalking Miss Tinker for a week?”
“I—”
Jason stopped. Wasn’t the title enough? For his father and brother, the title had always been enough.
He tried again, speaking like the foreign agent he’d been long before he was a duke.
“I’m not stalking Miss Tinker,” he whispered. “I’mappealing to her. On behalf of the British Foreign Office.”
“Appealing for what?”
“Information. About the island nation of Iceland. And possibly a booking. Although she seems very young to be an expert on foreign destinations. She seems too young to be an expert on anything at all. I was led to believe she was... older and, er—Older.”
“She’s seven and twenty,” the clerk said slowly. She glanced at Miss Tinker and back at Jason, the movement of someone who knew she was speaking out of turn.
“Miss Tinker has assured me,” Jason lied, “that she can provide information about Iceland. She said she’s spent a considerable amount of time there. She was an expatriate, I understand, some eight years ago?”
The clerk bit her lip. She glanced again at her employer.
Jason flipped a page and tried again. “But can you tell me how often shereturnsto Iceland?”
“Miss Tinker will never return to Iceland.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
The clerk gave a slow shake of her head.
“Right.” Jason fell back. “But how long did she live there? Two years? Or was it three?”
“She does not discuss Iceland with me,” said the clerk. “Or anyone.”
Jason nodded and returned to the truth. “Well, she was very shrewd to have spotted me these last few days. I was only surveying the shop to get the lay of theland. I had no idea she was the owner. Or is she simply the manager?” He eyed the girl.
“Miss Tinker is the manager,” informed Samantha. “But she might as well own the shop. Sheshouldown it.”
