Damnation. Fisting her skirts, Olivia shot up from the table, belatedly realizing that she had put herself on the razor’s edge of ruin.
Damn, damn, damn.
The rules of Society strictly forbid an unmarried lady from being alone in a room with a gentleman. Her name would be blackened, her reputation would be ripped beyond repair.
Ye gods, if I am to be sunk in scandal, at least let it be for the right reason, she thought, quickly whirling around and moving for the narrow connecting portal set in the recessed alcove.
Clicking open the latch, she darted into the welcoming darkness of the adjoining room.
John watched as the lady flitted away in a swirling of shadows, smoke, and indigo silk.
Who the devil is she?
It had been too dark, too hazy for him to make out more than a vague impression of her face. Arched brows. Slanted cheekbones. A full mouth. And an errant curl of unruly hair—it looked dark as a raven-wing, but he couldn’t be sure of the exact color—teasing against the curve of her jaw.
The lady’s voice had been the only distinctive feature. Slightly husky, slightly rough, the sound of it had rubbed against his skin with a heat-sparked friction.
He frowned, feeling a lick of fire skate down his spine and spiral toward his…sword.
Good Lord, had the lady really uttered such an utterly outrageous observation? He wasn’t sure whether he felt indignant or intrigued by her outspoken candor.
“No, no, definitely not intrigued,” muttered John aloud. He shifted in his seat, willing his body to unclench.
Everyone—including himself—knew that the Earl of Wrexham was, if not a perfect hero, a perfect gentleman. He respected rules and regulations. There were good reasons for them—they provided the basis for order and stability within Polite Society.
Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Don’t speculate.
No matter that the blaze of fierce intelligence in her eyes had lit his curiosity.
Granted, she might be clever, he conceded. But a lady who flaunted convention was his exact opposite. And like oil and water, opposites never mixed well.
“John? John?”
It was his sister calling. The muted echo of his name was followed by a tentative rapping on the study’s oak-paneled door. “Are you in there?”
Women.
At the moment, he would rather be pursued by Attila the Hun and his savage horde of warriors.
The latch clicked.
Deciding that he had had enough uncomfortable encounters with the opposite sex for one night, the earl hesitated, and then, like the mysterious Mistress of the Exotic Chessboard, he spun around and made a hasty retreat.
Chapter Two
So, Mr. Simmonds, you just write up a detailed description of what you are looking for?”
“Aye, it’s pretty much that simple.”
“And then you just send it to the newspaper? And it’s published for a great many people to see?”
The innkeeper smiled at his interrogator. “Well, yes, that’s the whole point, lad. The more people who read it, the more likely you are to find exactly what it is that you want.”
“See, I told you that’s how it worked, Scottie.” From her perch on the keg of ale, a girl in a sprigged muslin dress fixed her friend with a supercilious smile. “Only you wouldn’t believe me.”
“That’s because you always think you know everything, just because you are a year older than I am. And you don’t—you were wrong about the acrobats at Astley’s.”
“Well, in this case I was right.” Lucy Simmonds gave a toss of her braids. “You owe me three purple ribbons and a packet of horehound drops.”