Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

The notes of the organ reverberated through the soaring transept of the Abbey, the magnificent sound mellowed by space and stone. It was beautiful, and yet the thrum, thrum was making her head ache.

Leaving Isobel and Andover to enjoy the practice session, she slipped out one of the side doors and wandered into the adjoining churchyard.

Her spirits, often criticized as too exuberantly high, were feeling depressingly low, and as she took a seat on a small stone bench shaded by the outstretched wings of a massive sculpted angel, Caro made herself start a list of all the reasons she should be happy.

First and foremost…

Her mind remained stubbornly blank.

“Oh, come,” she muttered to herself. “To begin with, I danced every night of the Season with a bevy of handsome men.”

None of whom set my heart to fluttering.

“Fluttering hearts are vastly overrated,” she snapped back at the voice of the Devil’s Advocate, who had apparently taken up residence in the back of her skull. Shifting on the stone slab, she moved on to the next reason.

“Now that we’re no longer poor as churchmice, I need not rush into making a match for pragmatic reasons, but may look for a kindred soul.” She smiled and offered up silent thanks to Olivia and her husband. Wrexham, who was known as the Perfect Hero, had proved to be just that. Indeed, both of her sisters had found just the right match.

She sighed and added, “Yes, I may look for someone who will be a friend as well as a husband.”

A man who likes verse and novels, can laugh at himself, and is not adverse to long walks through the scenic countryside to admire the beauty of nature is rarer than hen’s teeth, responded the Devil’s Advocate.

The imp of Satan was really becoming very annoying.

Caro gave an inward grimace. Surely in Africa or Cathay there were species of barnyard fowls with fangs.

Determined to quiet the voice, she thought very hard. “I’ve more freedom than ever to write poetry.”

For a moment there was no answer. But the silence was short-lived.

Exceptional poetry, pointed out the Devil’s Advocate, requires exceptional experience in life.

Damnation, the dratted voice was right. A few months of swirling through the ballrooms of Mayfair had done little to inspire dramatic verse.

Caro fingered her shawl, slowly unraveling one of the knotted fringes. What she needed was a challenging adventure, like the ones her sisters Olivia and Anna had gone through.

Danger, dashing heroes, the triumph of Good over Evil.

“Yes, an

d why don’t I slay a few dragons while I am at it,” she added under her breath.

The whisper echoed off the surrounding stone, growing oddly louder rather than fading away. Perhaps it was the breeze, amplified by her own unsettled mood. Closing her eyes, she slumped back into the shelter of the stone wings and drew a deep breath, trying to still her agitated thoughts.

“I tell you, things are becoming too dangerous.”

Caro nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of a man’s voice, kept deliberately low.

“I’ll deal with it.” A second voice, and it was fast approaching. “But it will cost you.”

The crunch of steps halted close by.

“Are you sure we are alone?” demanded the first speaker. “I thought I heard something just now.”

“Keep a grip on your nerves,” ordered his companion. “The place is deserted at this hour. No one will spot us.”

Something about the second man’s voice kept her from standing up and announcing her presence. She held herself still as the statue, praying to go unnoticed.

More muttering, then an oath. “Bloody hell, you would squeeze blood from a stone if you could.”