“Are we to tell anyone else what we have found, my lord?”
“For pity’s sake, Tilly, we shared a kiss. Surely you can continue to call me Ambrose.”
“I prefer Rosie,” she snapped, caught off guard that he would mention what they’d done.
“I prefer Ambrose, and I wonder if we could bring it up at the monthly meeting of the Pavlov group?”
“Me calling you Rosie?”
“Very amusing.” His smile held no humor.
“I feel that whatever is going on down there is dangerous,” Tilly said.
“Agreed, but the people in the Pavlov group are intelligent and know when to keep a secret. They are also our friends, Tilly. Plus, Gray is a detective.”
She nodded, knowing he was right.
“And now we leave here, as I have no wish for anyone to see us.” He urged her back up the stairs. “Where is your carriage?” he asked, turning in a circle looking for it.
“I will catch a hackney. Good day to you, my lord.”
He sighed.
“Ambrose,” she added softly.
“Come, I will help you call a hackney.”
“I don’t need you?—”
He placed a gloved hand over her mouth and the other on her spine, nudging her forward.
CHAPTER 7
In the two weeks since The Iris Club had opened and he’d kissed Matilda Wilson, Ambrose had listened to conversation after conversation about the club.
“It’s not right for women to be so bold.”
“What will they think of next? That they should have a seat in the House of Lords?”
And so it went on. Ambrose had ground his teeth together so much, they would be dust soon.
But they knew better than to approach him about his sisters being members of The Iris Club, and for that, at least, he was thankful.
Ambrose stepped down as the hackney stopped at the entrance to Crabbett Close, then paid the driver. Instead of heading into the close, he made for Appleblossoms Bakers. When he was irritable, he found that something laden with sugar helped.
The bakery was situated within a row of three shops. One was a bookshop, the next Nitpicks Trinkets and Treasures, which he could say with full confidence he’d never enter, and the third was Appleblossoms, which had beenbought and was now run by the residents of Crabbett Close.
Money from the Pavlov fortune had paid for it, as it had many other things to make the residents more comfortable. The Nightingale family who lived in the Close were extremely generous.
The gold lettering on the front window was written inside a large, red apple now. This was the third change this year, from memory, and his favorite.
Delicious smells instantly bombarded him as he entered. Spice, fruit, buttery pastry. It all formed a delicious scent that made his mouth water.
“Good day to you, Lord Talbot,” the tall, well-built woman behind the counter said.
He’d never seen Mavis Johns smile, laugh, or show any excess emotion, unlike the other, more chatty members of Crabbett Close.
“Good day to you, Mavis. Those apricotines look tasty.” Ambrose pointed to them.
