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Chapter Five

A carriage at the door of Lady Melforth’s Henrietta Street house confirmed what Lark had feared from the moment he woke—that Viv meant to avoid seeing him again. He readied himself to play the smitten fiancé and rang the bell.

Haxton admitted him to the house with muted cordiality just as Viv came down the stairs. She wore another silk, a vivid plaid of deep blues and reds and threads of gold. Her wide skirts rustled like a wave foaming up a rocky shore. The short dove-colored cape covered her torso. A bit of lace encircled her throat. A chocolate-colored bonnet and tan leather gloves dangled from the hand that wore his garnet ring. He saw no sign of the pistol.

“I see I haven’t kept you waiting,” he said to her. “Where are we off to today?”

“Oh,” she said, checking her steps. “The duke has given you another holiday?”

“In honor of our betrothal and to help you with your work.”

“What an accommodating employer!” She resumed her descent.

“Only because of my long service to him.”

At the foot of the stairs, she turned to don her bonnet and gloves, and he couldn’t look away. He supposed it was the novelty of feminine action that held his gaze, the settling of the silk bonnet on the smooth crown of her head, the angle of the bow under her chin, the tugging on of gloves. He and Rook had lived a male existence, except for Alice Povey, their charwoman, and Lark had never stopped to watch stout, blunt-spoken Alice make adjustments to her appearance.

At dawn, he had awakened with his throat dry and his whole side sore and aching. He had managed with difficulty to clothe his stiff limbs in his ruined gear and leave before Rook stirred. At Isaacson’s Fashion Emporium, Ezra, the proprietor’s son, admitted him through the back door and helped him purchase a new shirt, waistcoat, and coat. Lark would be willing to wager on Ezra’s talent for valeting against any gentleman’s gentleman in the city. His last stop before Lady Melforth’s had been at Number 36 Babylon Street, where he’d purchased The Spanish Brothers, a novel in the two-shilling series from Nelson’s Royal Library.

When Viv turned back to him, he handed her the book. “The duke wanted you to have this,” he said.

Her gloved hands closed around the green cloth binding and gold lettering. She glanced at the title and shot him a swift look that said she would not be taken in by his acting the part of her betrothed. Lark might feel as though he’d been run over by a drayman’s cart, but at the challenge in her eyes, a swift undercurrent of excitement coursed through him. He wanted to spar with her all day.

Haxton opened the door. Outside, the coachman greeted Viv, and Lark stepped forward to let down the carriage steps, aware as he did so that perhaps a true gentleman might have left such a task to the servant. He let the doubt go. He would have to be his own sort of gentleman and brazen it out.

“Where are we going?” he asked, sitting opposite her, his first time in a well-appointed private carriage for some time. The blue velvet of the squabs stirred another faint memory.

“To old St. Pancras Church to visit a grave,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. “No need for your pistol if your quarry is already dead.” The carriage lurched into motion, and he couldn’t repress a groan.

“How is your wound?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you keep to your lodging?”

“And miss your next exploit? Whose grave are we going to visit?”

“Mary Godwin’s.” She said the name with a bit of reverence and the apparent expectation that he would know of whom she spoke, but the name meant nothing to him, except a chance that he might falter in his role and expose his ignorance.

“You’re not an admirer of Mrs. Godwin?” she asked.

“One day you’re seeking pickpockets and the next day, a dead woman’s grave? Pardon me if I don’t see the connection.”

“Not any dead woman, a gifted writer who refused to be limited by the usual constraints men impose on us.”

“Ah. Were you following in her footsteps when you visited Babylon Street and shot a helpful stranger?”

She gave him a stunned look. “Yes, how did you… Well, she never shot anyone that I know of, but she broke boundaries, and our guide encourages women to do the same. That’s our theme, you see.”

“No matter the risk? Does your guide advise ladies to carry a pistol?”

“We’re back to that, are we? You think women incapable of defending themselves.” He liked to see the lively sparkle in those dark eyes as she met his challenge.

“I think a sensible … person avoids near encounters with ruffians. Shouldn’t a visitor’s guide for ladies steer them away from unsavory neighborhoods?”

“Should women be limited to certain streets and shops?”

“Only if they want to keep their purses.”

She looked away, and he thought he detected a slight blush on her cheek. He wondered if she’d admit to the contents of that purse. But she came back at him with another challenge. “Do your mother or your sisters never complain about being told where they might and might not go in London?”