Chapter Twenty
I t would have done Kitty a great service if the author of Pride and Prejudice had set any of her books in London.
Kitty’s walking tours were popular enough, but they would surely have showered her in gold coins were Mr. Darcy said to have strolled along Piccadilly or stopped at Fortnum and Masons.
Never mind—her customers still wanted to see where fictional characters were said to have hidden from vampire hunters or met lovers for secret trysts. They only condescended to stop at the very ordinary if lovely Gunter’s Ices because of a scene in which very wicked things were done with lemon ices.
Very wicked.
There had been a run on lemon ices for several weeks after publication, which had bewildered the chefs. She had taken to warning them when she led her tours now so they might lay in a supply of the fruit.
All to say that Kitty’s customers were an odd bunch and she adored them.
Her walking tours met just before dusk at Montagu House, where an intrepid antiquarian wallflower was swept off her feet by an adventurer who had stolen a jewel from one of the pyramids. According to the gothic novel, at any rate.
There was a respectable number of customers today: a couple who mostly stared at each other, two young girls with their father, who was already bored but patient, two dandies who were out on a lark, and a family just arrived from Nottingham and in London for the first time. And, as always, Miss Peridot with her raw onion in hand. She never missed a tour. She claimed it was the only way she could tolerate calisthenics. Also Miss Hastings, whom Kitty was glad to see the Ladies’ Novel Society had not scared off. The same could not be said for many an intrepid soul.
There was also a very tall Viking strolling along as though this was his idea in the first place.
And not Devil’s idea.
Wulf grinned at her, then at the two young girls who were gaping at him like he had walked out of a novel. One they liked very much.
“Did you lose a wager?” Kitty murmured.
He shrugged. “I like books.”
Montagu House was open to the public for tours of their collection of marbles, for the first mummy displayed in Britain, though that had been some time ago. There were also treasures from Captain Cook’s Pacific voyages, Saxon coins, and the Rosetta Stone.
It was all quite fascinating, but Kitty remained out front with her guests. She had learned her lesson. Particularly avid fans of a certain novel had lingered for an hour over the Rosetta Stone alone, whispering about the hero who broke a mummy’s curse for his antiquarian love. Two ladies had vanished altogether, only to be escorted out by two gentlemen blushing to the roots of their hair. Kitty had been encouraged to remain in the garden after that.
Which was mildly unjust. There were many ways to appreciate history, surely. But at least she was not outright banned.
Carriages trundled behind her, the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road a comforting heartbeat. The smells of coal smoke, the shouts of hawkers—all lent itself to the tales she told of a magical London lurking beneath this one.
An ancient mummy’s curse in the British Museum. A siren singing in a pub in Covent Garden across from St. Paul’s church.
The pub did not exist, but the church did, which was good enough. It had a stone facade, a round window over the door, and a somewhat perplexed clergyman when readers began leaving seashells painted gold outside the church. The siren was said to leave them to communicate with her lover, a dashing sea captain she’d accidentally drowned. Twice.
Gothic novels were simply the very best.
The Theatre Royal was naturally home to a ghost searching for a woman to love more than he loved music.
They passed another tour on their way from Covent Garden to Berkely Square. Miss Macallister nodded at Kitty curtly, like they were two soldiers on the battlefield. Sometimes their groups crossed paths; sometimes they even shared an audience. Miss Macallister’s tended to weeping throngs of ladies desperate for a glimpse of the poet Byron. There was a great deal of screaming if he was spotted. Sometimes swooning. It seemed rather a lot of work to Kitty for a syphilitic poet who treated women with contempt.
Next was Gunter’s, where they stopped for lemon ices, of course.
It was a short walk to Brook Street, where a handsome vampire hid from hungers and hunters and sunlight in very luxurious rooms at the Claridge Hotel. He drank a lot of wine.
Also lingering near the hotel was a certain Devil, leaning against a column.
“And he has dark, windswept hair,” Kitty said pointedly, altering her description of the notorious vampire. “And green eyes, of course.”
Devil tilted his head in that way of his, green eyes finding her.
“He’s very dashing, of course.” She grinned. “But also quite maddening. All that power and prestige. It’s not good for the character, I’m sure.”
He bowed. No one else noticed him. She could not help but notice him. And then he moved, just barely, and the air changed. Gazes snapped toward him, transfixed. Or skittered away, scared. She heard more than one murmur of “About that club of yours…”
She felt his eyes on her all the way to St. George Church in Hanover Square, where the forbidden love of a dairymaid and a duke was celebrated. And where a side gate to a rose garden formed an iron oak tree with black leaves.
This corner of London was not only the purview of a duke and his dairymaid—a certain duchess had also visited. In volume seven of The Delights of the Duchess . It was a simple gate tucked away and unnoticed. But a strapping coachman had once pressed the duchess against it under the stars. Several times.
Meet me at the oak tree .
Was this what Lady Caroline had meant? The duchess had called it her favorite oak tree in England.
Kitty ought to have realized it sooner. It felt possible. Right, even.
Lady Caroline was not here now, of course. But she knew the place. Maybe she returned once in a while?
It was worth a try.
Books really did save lives.
The last stop was the Golden Griffin Bookshop, where Godric stood outside, arms crossed, window shining clean behind him.
“I’ll wait for you,” Devil said to Kitty, nodding to his carriage waiting at the corner. “I’m taking you home.”
She tried not to feel warm inside. Failed.
But she also sold three copies of Desires of a Duchess volume one, and four copies of The Curse of the Mummy , which she’d had specially bound with Egyptian hieroglyphs. No one knew what they meant yet, but they were very popular nonetheless. There was happy chatter, favorite books recommended to other readers.
In short, it was perfect. The tour had centered her, made her feel more like herself and less like she was running in circles. She felt better. Calmer. Ready to do whatever needed doing.
Which, of course, meant everything fell spectacularly to pieces.
Almost immediately.
She found the culprit behind her father asking why the shop smelled like soup. Someone had managed to wedge a turnip under the corner of a bookcase. It must have been several weeks ago, judging by the state of it. She popped it loose and went to the back to toss it into the alley, so as not to have to carry it past any lingering customers. It squelched as it hit the ground and rolled away. “Vile thing.”
As if summoned, another vile thing emerged.
From behind her, tucked into the shadows of the alley. Before she could react, before she could punch or kick or scream, a hand slapped over her mouth. “Someone wants a word,” a man grunted in her ear. He stank of cheroot smoke.
She struggled even though she knew it was in vain. He picked her up like she was a rag doll, forcing her down the alley and out the side to a hackney. Her screams were muffled, barely loud enough to be heard over the fiddle from a pub down the way.
Her captor forced her closer to the carriage, ripping the door open. She managed to clip him in the kneecap with her heel when he hauled her off her feet. It was enough for him to swear at her, not enough to drop her. She scratched at the hand stealing her breath but to no avail. It was becoming difficult to breathe. He shoved her into the carriage.
Where was everyone?
A useless question. Pedestrians didn’t venture back here, and the one person watching from a balcony two buildings down turned away. Her customers were inside. Devil was waiting for her out front.
And then he wasn’t.
There was a soft grunt of pain before her captor went flying into a heap on the pavement. Another sound, this time of something cracking. A nose? A bone?
Devil appeared in the carriage opening, eyes chillingly furious. They roamed over her. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head as he pulled her out. Her ankle protested the weight of the rest of her leg, buckling. Devil caught her. It gave her captor just enough time to crawl into the street and scramble to his feet, into a dead run. Devil swore, loud and vicious.
“Wulf,” he barked as the man in question came around the corner, dagger in hand. “I want him caught.”
Wulf nodded and took off in pursuit. Devil glared at the hackney’s coachman, who reached for the reins. “You don’t move, understand?”
Something in Devil’s expression had him gulping and nodding. That expression softened, if only briefly, when Devil glanced down at Kitty. Her teeth chattered as she tried to catch her breath. “He did hurt you. I’ll kill him.”
“I hurt myself kicking him,” she admitted. “Not very heroic of me, I’m afraid.”
Miss Peridot poked her head around the side of the building. Kitty smiled at her as though her heart wasn’t still fluttering in her throat. She turned and tried to hop back into the alley. Devil frowned, slipping his arms under her and picking her up. Right up off the ground.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, like hauling around booksellers was all perfectly normal.
“I don’t want them to make a fuss,” she said. “I hate fussing. I can walk, you know.” She said it even as she snuggled closer. His scent of wood smoke and amber was almost as good as the smell of books. Almost better.
Maybe she had hit her head when tossed into that carriage.
Devil ducked into the back room but did not set her down just yet, as if he did not want to. The cords of his neck were taut, his pulse thrumming under the skin. His arms were firm but surprisingly gentle around her. She could get used to this.
She should not get used to this.
“You can put me down now,” she said.
“No.”
“I’m—”
“Just give me a moment.”
There was something else under the rage, the clench of his jaw. Concern? Worry? Was it merely pride? A man like Devil could not afford to let his name be associated with anything but authority and fear. He would protect his betrothed. That had to be it.
He finally put her down, very carefully in the rickety chair. It creaked and wobbled. He scowled at it.
“It always does that,” she said, refusing to be embarrassed because she was certain not a single chair in his Mayfair townhouse would dare wobble.
“I need to talk to that coachman,” he said. “Don’t move.” He looked at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed. “On second thought—Godric!”
Godric hurried through the shop. “Yes, Devil?”
“Don’t let anyone steal her.”
Godric nodded, looking far less like the helpful giant who let her sneak him frosted cakes shaped like ducks and much more like a proper Viking.
Devil stalked out. Kitty tried to smile. She felt strange: full of lightning but also exhausted. Rain began to fall outside, pattering at the windows. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. Her grate was small and smoky and she had a shockingly small amount of coal, but she would make do. She couldn’t just sit here.
Godric snorted. “If you stand up to make me tea, Devil will murder us both.”
“I think my ankle is already much better.”
“Please, don’t,” Godric begged when she stood up. He would never even consider shoving her back into her chair. Devil would, as attested to by his reaction when he came back to find her testing her weight. Her ankle ached but the pain no longer lanced up the back of her calf. An improvement.
“I’ve locked up the front—I told you not to move,” he growled.
“It’s feeling better already,” she said. She put her full weight on that leg, decided not to do that anymore, and leaned a little to the other side.
“You are a terrible patient.” Devil glared.
“ You got stabbed and wouldn’t even see a doctor!”
“ You nearly got kidnapped and won’t sit down!” He sounded half wild, very unlike the chillingly composed Devil she knew. He scrubbed a hand over his face. His voice turned quiet. “Godric, I’ve got this.”
Godric nodded and left. Quickly. Very quickly for a man who’d looked like a brutal warrior not five minutes ago.
“That was an inexcusable mistake,” Devil said. “No one should have gotten that close to you. It won’t happen again.”
“None of that was your fault.”
“I should have been more careful.”
“You saved me,” she pointed out. She had not thought it possible that he would have heard her struggling or wondered where she had got to. It made her want to cry. A little. Merely an aftereffect of an eventful evening, surely. “That was careful enough, surely.”
“Not nearly enough. I don’t suppose he very conveniently explained just who the hell sent him and what the bloody hell he wanted?”
“I’m afraid not. Very rude of him.”
Devil used his knuckles to tilt her chin up. They look bruised. “Are you sure you are all right?”
She nodded, feeling weepy, which would not do. “Thanks to you. He just said someone wanted a word.”
“I’m going to find Portsmouth.”
“You can’t.”
“I promise you, I can.”
“We can’t be sure he was behind this.” Devil just waited patiently until she wrinkled her nose. “Oh, very well,” she muttered. She could not imagine who else would bother to have her snatched off the street. “But you still cannot just go off and terrorize him.”
He scoffed.
“You can ,” she allowed. “But you shouldn’t .”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it will not help my sister.”
“We are not trading your safety for your sister’s.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “A fair trade.”
“No.” Uncompromising, stern. Furious.
“Yes.” Just as uncompromising.
“I can save you both, damn it.”
Her eyes widened. She had not expected that , and certainly not so empathically. Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed behind the breastbone, but softly, not the way it usually burned. She rubbed it, but just to make sure she was not imagining it. Her ankle throbbed. She almost didn’t notice.
“The others have all gone,” he said. “I’ll take you home and we can argue about it some more until you admit I am right.” That almost-smile was a brief candlelight against the wild storm of him. “Where I will also be sending for a doctor.”
“I just need a bit of ice,” she said, as if ice was something she could afford. “Or better yet, a comfrey poultice.” She still had some comfrey salve in her kit.
“A doctor,” Devil insisted.
She wrinkled her nose. “The only doctor I know will want to apply leeches, and I really hate leeches.”
“No leeches,” Devil promised solemnly. “And I have a doctor of my own.”
“Hmph. That might have been helpful when you were stabbed .”
“Barely grazed.” He reached for her.
“I’m sure I can make it to the carriage. I was very good at hopscotch when I was a child.”
“Humor me.”