Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)
“A letter.”
Lucy gurgled a warning sound deep in her throat. “My father says there is an old adage about pressing your luck…” She angled a step closer. “It’s not another advertisement, is it?”
“Yes.” Prescott carefully dipped his pen in the inkwell and resumed his efforts.
“For what?” pressed Lucy, unable to contain her curiosity.
“A brother,” replied Prescott. “Or a sister,” he added hastily. “Girls are not so bad.”
“Oh, no,” said Lucy decisively. “No.”
He looked up with a scowl. “Why not? It worked like a charm last time. Even you admitted tonight that it was a good idea.”
“Yes, but…” Lucy took a perch on the corner of the desk. “Do you know where brothers and sisters come from?”
“Of course I do, you goose,” he replied. “From storks, who drop them down the chimney.”
Lucy fiddled with the end of her braid.
“There are an awful lot of stork nests in London,” went on Prescott. “Surely someone who reads the Morning Gazette knows of one that contains what I’m looking for.” After adding a last line, Prescott picked up the letter and handed it to her. “Here, read it over. I think it’s rather better than the first one, if I say so myself.”
She skimmed over the scribbling and shook her head. “Brothers and sisters do not come from storks.”
“They don’t?”
“Most definitely not.”
His eyes narrowed. “Since you are so smart, I suppose you are going to tell me where they really come from.”
“Well, as to that, I overheard Jem discussing babies with Sarah the barmaid, and…” She made a face. “I didn’t exactly follow all they were saying, but trust me, it did not involve storks. I think perhaps this is something you should leave to your father and Miss Sloane.”
“You really think so?”
Wadding the paper into a ball. Lucy tossed it into the still glowing coals of the fireplace. “Yes.”
“But—” began Prescott
“Trust me on this, Scottie.” She reached for a fresh sheet of paper and slid it over to him. “If you want to write to Mr. Hurley again, why not simply thank him for the advertisement’s resounding success.”
An insistent thump-thumping interrupted a most delightful dream. “Go away,” muttered Olivia, pulling the bed quilt over her head in hopes of recapturing the image of John’s supremely sensual mouth and all the lovely sensations it had been stirring along the arch of her neck.
“Wake up, Livvie.” The bedchamber door burst open, admitting her sisters.
“Look, look! We have something amusing to show you,” said Caro.
“Mmmph.” Olivia opened one eye just long enough to catch a flutter of newsprint and then shut it again. “Whatever it is, can’t it wait until a more civilized hour?”
“It’s nearly noon,” exclaimed Caro. “You never sleep so late in the morning.”
“Perhaps she’s practicing to be an indolent idler of a countess,” said Anna dryly. “Would Your Ladyship like a pot of chocolate served to her in bed?”
Uttering a very unladylike word, Olivia sat up and threw a pillow at her younger sister’s head.
“Does that mean you would prefer café au lait?”
“Arggh. Please don’t mention any sort of liquid libations.” When Olivia had shared the momentous news with her sisters on returning to High Street, Anna and Caro had evinced not even a tiny bit of surprise—or none that she could remember. But then again, after a rather late and boisterous evening of festivities with John’s family and a nip of celebratory sherry with her siblings, the details of the entire night were a trifle fuzzy.
“Remind me not to drink port again,” she mumbled, wincing as a blade of sunlight cut through the window draperies.