The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“It’s too difficult to identify faces.” Nicole turned to him. “There’s a lively group in the corner, a few couples, but no women on their own.”

Oliver cast an assessing gaze over those seated to his right and left. “Then look for a straw bonnet and ebony locks.” Perhaps Miss Murray suspected they were following her and had slipped out through the back door.

Nicole gave a curt nod and searched again. “There’s a lady of that description sitting with the group.”

“What is she doing?”

“Nothing. She’s edged to the end of the table as the man to her right keeps patting and rubbing her arm.”

Oliver glanced back over his shoulder. His heart pounded. “That’s Miss Murray.”

“Shall we approach her? Tell her we know she’s a maid and an extremely good actress?”

“No. Let’s wait a moment. From her rigid posture, I would say she’s not part of the group, hence the drunken gentleman’s eagerness to try his luck. No doubt she is waiting for someone to arrive.”

They sat in silence, watching, waiting.

Every person leaving or entering the premises drew their attention. A gentleman with appalling taste in poetry stood and recited a rhyme although his companions jeered and called for him to sit down.

Oliver’s mind wandered.

He imagined taking Nicole’s hand beneath the table, sliding his finger down into her glove and stroking circles on her palm. He imagined hearing little gasps and sighs when he caressed her sensitive skin.

As he sat opposite her in the muted light, his gaze fell to her lips. What was it about her that held him captive? Decency be damned, he thought, as he considered plundering her mouth in front of fifty witnesses.

“You’re staring at me when you’re supposed to be staring at the door.”

“Can I help it if I find you far more interesting than those supping coffee?” If they were the only two people in the world, he would never tire of looking at her.

“I cannot concentrate when your eyes are … are undressing me.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” He was mentally undressing her, stripping off every last layer and picturing the beautiful sight beneath.

She raised a brow. “This is why we would be useless as enquiry agents. You’re easily distracted, and I cannot think clearly when you stare at me.”

“Good, for it is a sure sign you welcome my attention. The question is, does my heated gaze make your pulse race? Is your body flooded with warm sensations?”

She put her hand to her heart as if testing the theory. “Yes. You’re right about my pulse, though it might have something to do with the fact I’m sitting in a coffeehouse at midnight spying on a woman who has stolen my identity.”

Nicole glanced over his shoulder to the group in the corner. Her smile faded instantly, and her eyes grew wide. She leant over the table and grabbed his arm. “Miss Murray has gone.”

Oliver shot around to scan the people behind them. The space previously occupied by the maid was empty.

“Come on.” He jumped to his feet. There was no time to waste. “As she’s not left through the front door, she can only have gone out the back.”

The corridor at the rear of the coffeehouse provided ample opportunity for a person looking to escape. The foul stench from the pot room forced Oliver to catch his breath. He kicked the door and cast a sidelong glance for fear of interrupting a woman pissing into a pot.

The room was empty.

“There’s a cellar.” Nicole pointed to the open door leading down into the dark depths of oblivion. “But without a candle, she’d be a fool to go down there.”

Oliver agreed. Had the woman attempted anything so daring they would have heard clatters and ba

ngs as she stumbled into various objects.

“That leaves only one option.” He gestured to the door at the end. It led out into a cobbled courtyard. The grey stones were wet and slippy underfoot. “Take my hand,” he said as they checked the coal shed, opened the gate leading to the alley and peered into the darkness.

“It’s no use,” Nicole said. “We’ve no hope of finding her now.”