Page 46 of A Deal with the Devil

The lady clicked her tongue like a disapproving governess. “Shocking lack of chaperone,” she said. “What will the dowagers say?”

The dark-haired one snorted into his brandy. “Nothing that would entice any of us to marry a bookseller, I can assure you.”

“Wait, I’ve heard about you. And the books you sell.” The blond prince was not the type to lecture Kitty on wickedness—he was the type to expect her to offer herself along with her books. “Bit of a wild one, aren’t you? I can tell, the hair and all.”

“Yes,” Kitty said drily. “Accounting ledgers and calculating price margins are terribly exciting.”

“Eh?” He shook his head. “Come and have a drink with us.”

She did not like the look in his eye. “No, thank you.”

She edged toward the other door and contemplated hurling herself right out the window if it became necessary.

“Oh, come now, no one sells books like that and still acts the demure wallflower.”

“No.” She wondered if gagging might be clear enough for him to understand. She did not count on it.

Their lady friend would not offer assistance. She watched the proceedings with a nasty smile. They clustered together like poisonous berries on the vine. And Kitty did not have any gold paint to toss at them.

She did have a decanter of brandy. She took a step to the side and knocked it over the table toward them. They jumped back out of instinct born of generations of clean lace or tidy ruffles and shiny shoes.

Kitty took the opportunity to dash out of the other door while the dark-haired one stared mournfully at the broken decanter pouring liquor at his feet. “Deuced waste.”

Kitty ducked into the servant stairwell, where no one would even think to look for her. The servants were too busy running back and forth with sewing supplies and tea for the ladies’ retiring room, more wine and champagne, platters of soft bread, cheeses rolled in peppercorns, ribbons of cucumbers in salt. There were a thousand tasks that went into a grand affair such as this one, too many for them to pay her much mind.

She darted up to the second floor, toward the family chambers.

It was a monumentally stupid plan. But it was also the last time she was likely to be able to roam unsupervised through the Portsmouth townhouse. Surely the missing countess had left something behind in her bedroom. A clue. Another letter. Something.

It wasn’t safe, but then, neither was Evie.

Lamps burned low between tables set with towering displays of flowers that stabbed at the painted ceiling. It smelled of lilies and furniture polish. Oil paintings marched along, scrupulously hung at just the right intervals. As Kitty did not exactly know what she was looking for, she poked her head into each bedroom she came across.

The master suite was obvious, stately and luxurious, and Kitty ducked back out immediately lest Portsmouth’s valet be waiting inside. Her father had had a valet for a few months: a small Frenchman who terrified her father into being fashionable. Aunt Priscilla had adored him.

The lady of the house usually had a bedroom adjoining the main suite. Portsmouth was too traditional to have it any other way, which was obliging. The bedroom was quiet, with the feeling that rooms had when they were not lived in. The coverlet was a pearly gray, as was the silk wallpaper. It was elegant and pretty. Perfectly Mayfair.

Like hell would Evie be trapped here.

Kitty opened the drawers to the writing desk and searched the armoires and the scrollwork chest at the foot of the bed and found…nothing. No helpful diary, no map with a big “X” marking where Lady Caroline had run off to. Nothing under the cushions embroidered with silver swans; nothing under the mattress.

Nothing until she sat back in frustration and her finger caught something. The loop of a black ribbon tied to a torn bit of paper, rolled up tight. She recognized the handwriting from the Desires of the Duchess.

Do not trust Portsmouth. Run.

A warning from his previous wife to his next wife?

She had finally found something.

And then she was found. Again.

Bollocks.