Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

As for his smile…

Snapping her portfolio shut, Olivia looked up. “Oh, by the by, Anna, I thought of a phrase that might come in handy for your next chapter.

Anna paused with her pen hovering over the ink well. “I am always looking for artistic inspiration,” she said dryly. “Do tell me.”

“You could,” she said, “describe your hero’s mouth as possessing a sinuous sensuality.”

“Oooo, I like that,” piped up Caro as she surreptitiously scribbled something in the margin of the poetry book she was perusing.

“Might I inquire what sparked that thought?” asked Anna, once she, too, had written it down.

“You know how phrases are,” answered Olivia evasively. “On occasion they just pop to mind.”

“On occasion, they do,” agreed Anna, though the speculative gleam in her eye warned that the matter would not be forgotten.

After checking the clock on the mantel, Olivia gathered up several pencils, along with a small notebook, and jammed them into her reticule. “Hatchards will open in a quarter hour. Does either of you wish to accompany me?”

“Yeeech.”

Prescott looked up as Lucy creased the piece of paper into a series of elaborate folds and launched it into the air. After several lazy spins, it dipped sharply and landed splat in the dregs of their morning chocolate.

“That one was the worst reply yet,” she announced.

“Even worse than Lady Serena?” he asked.

“Lady Serena doesn’t threaten to smother the darling little cherub who wrote the advertisement with hugs and kisses, does she?”

Prescott’s glass thumped down on the tavern table. “I’m doomed,” he announced, once he had choked down the last swallow of his lemonade.

A rip cut through the gloomy silence as Lucy tore open another letter. “Come on, show some bottom, Scottie. We’re not even halfway through the first pile.” She pointed to the two mail sacks lying at their feet. “And then there are all the rest of these to plough through. Surely there has to be one lady worth considering.”

“Ha!” Prescott gave a morose kick to the weather-stained canvas. “And pigs may fly.”

“Don’t be cynical,” she said primly, tossing yet another letter into the hearth.

“What’s that?” he demanded.

“I’m not precisely sure.” Lucy started skimming the next missive. “But when Mr. Phipps says it, it means that you aren’t supposed to say something negative, even if it is true.” She made a face, and the paper quickly joined the growing pile of ashes. “Keep digging. That is—unless you would rather resign yourself to having the Steel Corset as your surrogate mother.”

Repressing a shudder, Prescott snatched up a handful of the letters from London and fell to breaking the seals.

Despite the added urgency, their energy was beginning to wane, along with the afternoon light, when Lucy suddenly straightened in her chair and reread the note in her hands.

“Eureka,” she announced.

“I hope that’s not her name,” mumbled Prescott. “It’s sounds like you’ve just spotted a dead mouse.”

“No, silly—Papa says it is a foreign word, and it means something very good,” explained Lucy. “Like when he discovers a gold coin wedged beneath the dross and sawdust of the taproom floorboards.” She handed over the paper and waited for several moments. “Well?”

Prescott grinned. “Eureka.”

Olivia pushed open the shop’s door, setting off a muted chiming from the cluster of tiny brass bells hung above the molding. A puff of dust motes swirled up from the ancient counter, quicksilver specks of reflected sunlight dancing against the jumbled shadows.

“Ah, good day, Miss Sloane.” The proprietor peeked out from behind a pile of pasteboard boxes and set aside the ledger he had been reading. “How nice to see you. It has been a long time since your last visit.”

“As I just come to look, rather than make any purchase, I do not like to impose on your good will, Mr. Tyler,” she replied. “However, the new chess sets in your window look so intriguing, I couldn’t resist the temptation to stop in and have a closer look.

“They are rather lovely, aren’t they? I just received them as part of a special shipment from Persia, along with some elaborately painted playing cards.” He smiled. “And you are always welcome here, regardless of whether you spend any blunt or not. Your father and I shared many happy hours discussing the game and its nuances.” A brusque cough. “I miss his friendship.”