The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

The chuckle that left Miss Flint’s lips was perhaps the sweetest sound he’d heard. Her face brightened in a look of genuine amusement.

Since meeting her at the manor, he was aware of a deep sadness lingering beneath the surface. Perhaps she was worried about Rose and guilt festered. She was not on her own in that regard. Perhaps coming back to Town roused painful memories of the past, of the wicked scoundrel she was eager to avoid.

“You should laugh more often,” he found himself saying. Once Rose was safely back at Stanton House, he would press Miss Flint for the name of the gentleman she feared. He would do everything in his power to ensure the bastard never troubled her again.

“It is not for want of trying,” she said, her tone melancholic now. “But more a lack of having anything to be joyous about.”

The comment caused a sudden ache in his chest. The urge to make her smile, to watch her eyes light up in laughter, took hold.

“Having a house of your own is something to celebrate, is it not?”

“It is. And I will, once the solicitor confirms ownership of the manor.”

They fell into a companionable silence as they continued to study Lady Chatwell’s townhouse. Like bees to a hive, guests swarmed in their hundreds, eager to pay homage to their illustrious host. Carriages lapped Cavendish Square, again and again, waiting to find a place to stop.

“Thank heavens we arrived early,” Oliver said with some amusement. “That’s the fourth time Lord Mulberry’s carriage has driven passed.”

“When the carriage stops, why does he not get out and walk across the square?”

“Walk? Oh, the lord deems himself far too important. Esteemed guests are dropped outside the door.”

They continued to watch the scene. Two ladies in garish turbans and silk wrappers tottered up to the house. One tripped on the stone step and almost lost her flamboyant hat. Two gentlemen emerged and moved to a place further along the street to conduct their heated argument.

“There is a gentleman with a mop of golden hair lingering on the steps.” Miss Flint nodded to the window. “Either he has a sharp tack poking through the sole of his shoe or he is impatient to leave.”

Oliver rubbed away the water droplets from the inside of the glass and considered the man in question.

“It’s Cunningham, though he looks practically normal when wearing black.”

The fop stared at a note in his hand, refolded the paper and placed it in the inside pocket of his evening coat. With a raised chin, he descended the steps with haste and turned left.

“Why arrive in a carriage only to walk home?”

“The square is so busy it would take an hour for his coachman to weave his way through the heavy traffic. No doubt he will meet Cunningham a little further along the road.” For fear of losing the pompous lord, Oliver opened the carriage door and jumped down to the pavement. “Come.” He held his hand out to Miss Flint. “We’ll follow him, see where he goes.”

Miss Flint coughed and touched her fingertips to the base of her throat. Wide green eyes stared beyond his shoulder as if the air outside was tainted and she would choke.

“No one will pay us any heed,”

he continued. “Know that you have my protection.”

With hesitant fingers, she gripped his hand and climbed down to join him.

“Am I to wait ‘ere, my lord?” Jackson asked.

“If you do make it out of the square before dawn, follow us to the end of the road and wait there. The last thing I want is for Cunningham to recognise my carriage.” Oliver turned to Miss Flint. She gasped when he raised the hood on her travelling cloak and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s cold out tonight. And it will afford you a degree of anonymity.”

“Thank you.” A touch of pink coloured her pale cheeks, and she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Let us not linger. We must hurry before we lose him.”

Without another word, they crossed the road and strode after Lord Cunningham.

Miss Flint was unlike any other lady Oliver had ever walked with. She showed strength of purpose with every step, never faltered, kept up with his long powerful strides. She didn’t make those silly whimpering sounds when he quickened the pace. Nor did she pretend to be weak or frail simply to garner his attention. Her hand didn’t flap about on his arm like a fish pulled from a pond, but gripped the muscle with confidence.

Cunningham turned left into Margaret Street. With no sign of his carriage, he continued walking. Thankfully, the fop’s silly strut and tall hat made it easier to spot him amongst the people out and about in Town.

When they reached Little Castle Street, Lord Cunningham removed a brass object from his coat, looked left and right and used it to enter a house in the middle of the terrace.

Oliver drew Miss Flint into an alley opposite, from where they had a perfect view of the facade. The smell of manure mixed with urine and liquor confirmed the snicket was used for other purposes than access to the mews.