Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

Her heartbeat kicked up a notch as she saw Thayer stop halfway down the alley and begin to fiddle with the lock on the gate.

Which, as she had good reason to know, gave access to the residence rented by Isobel’s aunt.

Ha—she had suspected that this might be Thayer’s destination, and now she was sure of it!

But what was he up to?

Caro thought for a moment. Yes, Isobel had mentioned the trip during a break between dances at last night’s Assembly, so Thayer was aware that the house was empty, save for several servants. With a modicum of caution he could avoid them, assuming his intention was to enter the house.

The gate creaked open, and Thayer shouldered his way through the slivered opening.

Her heart was now hammering against her ribs, each thud a warning that from this point on, the chances of getting caught rose dramatically if she dared to follow him.

“And yet drama is the essence of poetry,” she murmured to herself.

To retreat now would be prudent.

But it wouldn’t be me.

She took a moment to hide her reticule, bonnet, and shawl among the leafy vines, and then crept forward in a low crouch.

In for a penny, in for a pound. She could only hope that there wouldn’t be hell to pay.

“Damnation.” The thump of wet leather hitting stone punctuated the oath as Alec tugged off his muddy boots and dropped them on the scullery floor. His sodden coat followed.

“Damnation,” he repeated, staring balefully at his filthy shirt and breeches. “If I had any brains in my cockloft, I would be lounging in one of the comfortable armchairs of Lord Merton’s study, enjoying a glass of his excellent port.”

Instead, he had sent two burly footmen in his place to accompany his sister and aunt on their visit to the viscount’s country house. His own journey had involved a meeting with his Scottish contact, who had sent urgent word that he had information to pass along.

A remote spot along the River Avon had been designated, one that demanded wading through waist-deep water because the rickety footbridge had given way at first step.

He was still undecided on whether the plunge—and the ruin of his favorite footwear—had been worth it. The news from Scotland had helped cross several names off his list of possible traitors, but as for providing any clue as to why Isobel had been attacked…

He was still in the dark.

Frowning, Alec leaned back against the large copper washtub and spent a moment longer pondering the conundrum as he watched the ooze of mud seep out from his stockings.

A bath, he decided, might help stir his thoughts to greater clarity.

And at least he wouldn’t smell like a swamp.

Alec was about to head up to his rooms when he recalled that the maids had been given a half-day holiday and the footmen were traveling with Isobel and his aunt.

“Hmmph.” A glance back at the copper laundry tub and massive cistern of water made up his mind. It was far easier to bathe here—and it would avoid the sticky problem of how not to track mud over the freshly swept carpets and polished parquet.

The water was unheated, but as he was used to swimming in the frigid Scottish lochs, it felt positively mild as he quickly filled the tub with one of the nearby buckets.

Rummaging around in the large storage cabinet produced a towel, a sponge, and a cake of pine-scented soap. Stripping off his filthy garments, Alec let out a contented sigh as he sunk up to his chin in a swirl of suds. It was rather relaxing to float in such a spacious tub, and he found himself closing his eyes and letting his mind drift off to puzzle over the problem at hand.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been submerged in thought when a soft scuff roused him from his reveries.

His sense now on full alert, Alec held himself still and cocked an ear to listen.

For a

long moment there was nothing.

And then the faint rustle of fabric caught his attention.