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De’Ath stood, smile widening. Perhaps she’d imagined his grimness, imagined that he’d been on the brink of sharing something of rare import. Their exchange had been a game from start to finish.

“Chips Sleaford,” he said. “We’ll find him in High Holborn.”

—

They didn’t, praise be. When they arrived at Sleaford’s showroom, Nina saw with relief that the door was locked, the windows shuttered. Jack had done his part. She paced the length of the street at De’Ath’s side as he played detective. He walked even more slowly than he had in the garden. Her nerves strained with every measured step. The longer they prowled, the greater the chance that the proprietor of one of the shops would emerge and recognize her. She often bought pale vermillion and rose madder lake from Mr. Summer, the import and color merchant. And pencils, crayons, stumps, and paper from Mr. Steucklen, whose sign advertised drawing supplies, wholesale and resale.

What if De’Ath decided to interview the shopkeepers?

He didn’t enter any of the shops. Instead, he instructed her to jot down names and addresses. Gathering information for a more thorough canvass to be conducted at a later date.

Thank God De’Ath wasn’t such a capital detective that he noticed the tiny letters marching up the barrel of her pencil: Steucklen.

She wiggled her fingers higher as she wrote, to cover the incriminating imprint.

It wasn’t until they climbed back into the carriage that her tension eased. As they pulled away from the curb, she let herself sink into the seat. If the circumstances were different, she might enjoy driving in such a resplendent vehicle. The cushioning, all covered over with butter-soft claret-colored leather, smoothed the ride. It was as though London’s streets were made of glass.

De’Ath didn’t seem inclined to dilate upon the discouraging conclusion of their trip. In fact, he didn’t seem discouraged at all. He sat across from her, resting his right heel on his knee, his left arm flung across the seat back, and began to detail her duties. Temporary assistance with note-taking and correspondence. Copying, filing, organizing more generally.

She supported the open notebook on her palm, scribbling as he spoke.

When they reached their next destination, she had to struggle to hide her shock. Sleaford’s very digs! How in the bloody hell did De’Ath know where Sleaford lived? Perhaps he had real detectives in his employ.

She and De’Ath approached the terrace of houses and stood together on Sleaford’s doorstep. Nina realized she was holding her breath as De’Ath knocked on the door, her shoulders tight with apprehension.

Nothing stirred inside. The drapes were drawn.

After a moment, De’Ath turned.

Back in the carriage, they took up where they left off. De’Ath said words. She wrote the words down, increasingly distracted.

But two hours ago, she’d been on the cusp of kissing him. Her own perversity astounded her. De’Ath, of all people. She couldn’t kiss a man she deceived. A man who threatened all she held dear. She’d never wanted to kiss any man before today. And no man had ever wanted to kiss her, or not so badly that he’d risk a thrashing from Jack.

Unfortunately, De’Ath had said. No dalliances.

He’d wanted to kiss her too.

Her pencil lead snapped.

As she bent over the notebook, she realized, to her horror, that her hand had betrayed her. Sometime in the last minute, she’d stopped writing and started sketching.

She was staring at a drawing of a mouth, very decidedly De’Ath’s mouth.

She slammed the notebook shut.

“Is something the matter?” De’Ath was studying her.

“No, not at all. I wonder, though, if there’s been an accident.” She peered out the window. The coach had slowed to a crawl. Dimly, she registered the raised voices: cabbies yelling about the right of way, hawkers crying their wares.

“And?” asked De’Ath.

“Only traffic.” She turned back to him.

He slipped off his spectacles, rubbing the lenses lazily on his lapel. She’d wadded that lapel in her hands, and she’d stroked the silk velvet of his frock coat where it hugged the dense flesh of his shoulder. The fact that the pads of her fingers felt swollen as a result meant she was going soft in the head.

“How does it strike you?” he asked.

“It?” She swallowed. He didn’t mean his face? He didn’t mean . . . he knew she’d been sketching certain parts of his face?