“No, you nitwit. It’s Harry, otherwise known as Miss Harriet Michaels.”
“You’re having us on,” Matthew said in open dismay.
James stared her up and down. “The face is the same. I actually think it is Harry.”
“Except she’s not really Harry but Harriet. A woman,” Oliver said as though he himself had transformed her with a magical trick.
Matthew frowned. “You must have thought we were daft.”
“Not at all,” said Harriet. “You saw what I intended for you to see. No one knew.”
“We talked about stuff we’d never have mentioned to you, had we known.” Much like Brody, James looked both angry and hurt. “Good lord, we gave you pointers on how to bed women.”
“I realize that, and I’m sorry. If it helps in any way, I didn’t mind it. On the contrary, I enjoyed the camaraderie I found in your company. You made me feel like I was part of the group.”
“Because we thought you were one of us,” James insisted. “Only you weren’t. You were an imposter pretending to be something you’re not. A spy for the other side.”
“What?”
“Let’s focus on what’s important,” Oliver interrupted. “George is rubbish but Harriet’s here, willing to lend a hand for a spell. Can we please take advantage of that before she’s got to be on her way?”
“Fine,” James grumbled. Turning, he gave her his back and proceeded to fit the printing frame with a new sheet of paper.
She glanced at Matthew but he only shook his head and went to help James. Maybe coming back had been a mistake. Trudging across the floor, she returned to her familiar spot. She surveyed the table and all of the drawers containing the sorts while Oliver perched on the stool beside her.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Ready,” Oliver confirmed.
He proceeded to read while she set the type, her movements as swift and precise as always. The first compositing stick was placed in the form, then the next and the one after that. Harriet crafted the frame around the sticks then began filling the empty spaces between them and the edge of the form with pieces of wood so they wouldn’t budge.
The door to the print room swung open before she’d finished. She glanced up and instantly froze as her gaze collided with Brody’s.
He did not look the least bit pleased, but there was little she could do about that at the moment. She bowed her head and continued working. “We’re almost done. If you’ll—”
“Everyone out.” His voice was dangerously low. “I need to speak with Miss Michaels. Alone.”
“Can’t you—”
“Now,” Brody insisted, cutting James off.
Oliver crossed his arms. “You don’t work here anymore, Mr. Evans. You’ve no authority over us.”
Brody’s jaw tightened. “Perhaps not. But I am the Duke of Corwin, and as such, I’m asking you to let me speak with my future wife in private.”
Harriet stared at Brody. She’d not expected him to use his title as leverage, but it seemed to be working. She stiffened as James, Matthew, and even Oliver filed from the room. The door closed and Harriet forced herself to face the man who promised her everything with one exception.
Love wasn’t part of the bargain.
“What the bloody hell, Harriet?” Brody fumed before she managed to say anything. He waved his hand and she saw that he held a bouquet of pink roses. “You forced me to scold my mother’s maid for letting you give her the slip. And don’t even get me started on Lady Emily, your co-conspirator.”
“You mustn’t blame either. It wasn’t their fault.”
He stared at her, his expression baffled. “Why would you run off like that?”
“Because I wanted to go for a walk. By myself. As I’ve been accustomed to doing for quite some time.”
“It isn’t safe, Harriet. In Mayfair it might be but not in this part of the city.” He swallowed hard and she saw that he was not so much angry as he was distressed. “You were attacked not too far from here, or have you forgotten?”
