And slightly sore in places she had never known she had.
She still wasn’t certain how he’d left her—surely not out the window and down the sheer wall again?—but he wasn’t in her bed when Annabelle finally poked her head around the door to ask why she’d been sleeping all morning.
Now Barbara knew she was going to need a nap—and likely a nice, hot bath if she could convince Elmo and one of the maids to arrange it. There was the most delicious ache between her thighs, all of her limbs simultaneously buzzy and completely relaxed.
Just remembering the way Kenneth’s tongue?—
You are doing a poor job of distracting yourself.
Shifting on the hard chair with a little wince, Barbara glanced down to realize her poised pen had dripped ink across the paper.Damnation.Her wince deepened.
Well, she hadn’t liked that phrasing anyhow. It was vital that Mr. Sinter not gain a clue about Kenneth’s real identity nor his mission to investigate the series of misfortunes which seemed connected to the false antiquities.
Did the misfortunes cause the counterfeiting? Or were they a result? Were there more forgeries in collections like Woodcock and the others, or was it limited to this handful of collectors?
With a sigh, Barbara moved the paper aside to be used as scrap by her younger brother in his fire-building practice. Her mind was a jumble, and she couldn’t seem to get the words right to ask Mr. Sinter what needed to be asked.
Can you confirm what I suspect?
No, whatKennethsuspected?
His latest theory, and Barbara concurred, was that the misfortunes each collector had suffered—the possibility of some sort of social ruin—was a direct cause of this subterfuge, rather than a genuine misfortune. This mysterious ring of counterfeiters were making use of the panic induced by a hintof social ruin to move in and switch the forgeries with the real items. Kenneth had begun working with a team that focused on stolen art, trying to track down any news of feminine canopic jars being sold through less than savory channels.
Still uncertain on her phrasing, Barbara reached for a clean piece of paper—only to startle as Alfred came hurtling into her library and threw himself behind one of her favorite chairs. She froze, only her gaze moving as she tried to find the danger.
After a long moment, however, the sound of chewing came from behind the chair, and she carefully placed the paper down and slowly stood up. Her younger brother clearly had a treat he hadn’t wanted to share, and as his older sister, it was vital she either tease him mercilessly or coerce a bite for herself.
Moving silently, Barbara crossed the room and eased herself down onto her favorite chair, trying to place the sticky sounds of her brother’s chewing. There was a warm, sugary scent…and her lips curled as she realized what she was smelling.
“And did you bringmesome treacle toffee?”
As soon as she spoke, Alfred yelped, and there was the sound of him scrambling. Grinning proudly that she’d surprised him—clearly he’d been moving too quickly to see her sitting at the writing desk in the corner—Barbara peered over the back of the chair. “Can I assume Mother and Missus Whinge do not know about this treat?”
Her little brother looked downright guilty. “Elmo bought it from a cart in the street for me.”
Sure enough, the lad clutched a piece of crumbled paper in front of him. When she raised a brow, he stuffed the last of the toffee into his mouth and tossed the paper over his shoulder.
Well really!
Barbara attempted a stern look. “Alfred Andrew Fortesque Fokette, youcannotenter a lady’s library and litter it so,especially if you have brought her no bribe of sweets. Fetch back that rubbish.”
Her brother, chewing defiantly, scooted to the side until he could reach the crumbled up paper…then to her surprise, lobbed it underhand to her.
Startled, Barbara’s reflex was to catch the paper, grateful there was nothing sticky on the surface. Actually, it was quite clean, and?—
A word caught her eye.
Frowning, she settled into the chair and carefully unfolded the paper.
It was a scandal sheet, the same one Kenneth had mentioned—had it only been yesterday?—and it bore that morning’s date.
May 1, 1822
Delicate Reader,
Much has happened since the last time you have heard from me. Spring flowers are melting icy hearts all around, and I consider my work to be successful. Of course, if I can only warn one young lady away from a rakish rogue, I will congratulate myself, but it seems I am too late for one in particular.
Long has London society been enthralled by the antics of Sir K—F—and rumors of his wicked tongue. He is the worst sort of rake: one who is too handsome, too witty, too charming…and knows it. His long list of conquests proves that even those ladies who know the danger do not hesitate to throw themselves at a handsome Scotsman with a roguish grin.
