Chapter FIVE
It wasn’t often that a foul mood overcame Luna’s spirit. Yes, she could become a little out of sorts now and then, but generally whatever gloom overshadowed her was not so potent that it couldn’t be surmounted with a bit of determined cheer.
This mood, however . . . there was no surmounting it. She knew enough to recognize the signs. Once the bad feeling took hold, she was bound to sink into its depths for the rest of the day, and heaven help anyone who crossed her path! Perhaps she ought to take Dr. Bucket’s advice and just stay home.
But no. She couldn’t. If she stayed home, that would be tantamount to giving up. To admitting that she could not bear to look Nigel Grimm in the eye again after her hideous embarrassment of the night before.
Luna squeezed her eyelids tight as she stood at the crosswalk on Nettleton Lane. The sun was bright, but seemed more decorative than warming this morning, completely inefficient to combat the deep frost in the air. She swayed on her feet, trying to keep warm under all her layers. And desperately fighting not to let her mind slip back to that moment on the Pembroke Street sidewalk last night.
That moment when she spoke those stupid, stupid words out loud.
“I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Green Mother save her! Why didn’t she just go and throw herself at her boss’s head while she was at it? Dive in for a big, soppy, cinematic kiss, like she was some heroine in a flick! And what did that make Mr. Grimm? The swoony romantic lead? Ready for a dramatic dip, one hand at the small of her back, the other in her hair, as he covered her mouth with his, and . . .
“Ugh!!!“
she growled through grinding teeth.
Because there’d been no sweepingly tender moment in response to her confession.
Just a taxi door. Slammed in her face.
He could not have hustled her off the street any faster if he’d used actual sorcery to do so. And she’d had the great pleasure of spending a frigid ride home, freezing her bum off, while her mind torturously replayed the conversation over and over and over (and over!) again.
“I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Was there any way to interpret that as anything other than a confession? Was there any chance he’d just think it was her being a bit exaggerated in her thanks? Hyperbolic. That was the word. She could be a bit hyperbolic at times. Auntie Apolonia was always getting after her for it. Maybe this was just one of those instances, and Mr. Grimm hadn’t even noticed. He’d seemed pretty intent on summoning that taxi, no doubt so he could get home out of the cold wind, poor man. Here he was, just getting over pneumonia, and she’d had him out in the street, declaring her feelings for him, and . . . and . . .
Beep-beep!
Luna opened her eyes to see the blinking WALK sign posted above the crosswalk. A motorist behind the wheel of a rumbling automagic machine peered at her through the windshield with some concern. Probably wondering if she was inebriated. At 8:20 in the morning.
Flushing, Luna hastily offered a little wave and trotted across the street. She reached the other side and hurried down the sidewalk, turning her face away to avoid the windows of Mystic Infusions: Tea Shop and Readings. She always felt a little nervous passing that storefront, after the way the shop owner treated her the one time she dared step over its threshold.
All too soon, her footsteps carried her to Addle Street. There she stopped again. Just within sight of The Arcane Bouquet. Her stomach sank. Her heart knotted up. And that beastly mood took hold of her spirit, sinking its teeth in ferociously. Oh gods. If she made it through the morning without snapping some poor soul’s head off, it would be a miracle!
Maybe Mr. Grimm would simply ignore what she’d said yesterday. Maybe he’d not even noticed. Maybe he’d think he’d dreamed it. She’d managed it before—pretended as hard as she could that some awkward circumstance between them simply had not happened, and he’d either bought it or silently agreed to go along with her ruse. No harm done either way.
“Please, Green Mother,“
she prayed in a little hiss of cold vapors. “Just let me get through the day without making a fool of myself. Again.”
She started down the sidewalk, looking for an opportunity to dart across the street. Just then, a little, red-nosed paperboy strolled past, shouting from behind his muffling scarf, “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Lord Bruxley’s engagement to the right honorable Countess Claudine d’Ackerley! Getcher Bally Daily exclusive!”
Luna’s heart, already knotted, jolted painfully against her breastbone. She turned sharply and called out to the boy. “Here! I want one.“
Though she could ill-spare the coin, she fetched a penny from her purse and pressed it into the boy’s hand. He handed over the paper and continued on his route, while she stood in the street, searching for the society column on page six.
She found what she was looking for at once. Written up in excessive prose, detailing the extensiveness of both families and their fortunes, speculating on venues and associated high-end brands, who may or may not be involved in the event itself, not to mention all the scoop on the upcoming engagement party, to be hosted at Bruxley Hall that very evening.
And there, right at the top of the page, dominating Luna’s field of vison, a photograph of the happy couple.
“Damn,“
Luna cursed. And for once in her life, she didn’t bother to breathe a prayer of penance immediately after. Auntie Apolonia would look severe, Auntie Arabella would faint, and Auntie Aurora would light a candle for her soul. But Luna didn’t care.
Suddenly too irked to be overly concerned with Mr. Grimm’s not-so-subtle rejection of her last night, she stomped across Addle Street, kicked snow off her boots under the awning of The Arcane Bouquet, jammed her key into the lock, and pushed the door open. The bells rang out in cheerful announcement of her arrival, but she called no greeting of her own. Ducking inside, she slammed the door so hard, the CLOSED sign rattled. The tiger lilies recoiled as she stomped across the shop floor, trailing street-snow in her wake. The double-delight rose gave her a look of shocked sensibility. “What are you looking at?“
Luna growled in passing, and the poor plant rattled its canes in surprise.
Luna stepped behind the counter and slammed the paper down. In a huff, she removed her outer garments, but her hands were shaking too hard to hang them up properly. After three attempts to get her hat on the peg, she simply flung it under the counter, beside the trashcan. Then, smacking the newspaper as she passed—as though she could smack Lord Bruxley’s objectionable face—she set to work opening the shop with far more slamming, stomping, and muttering than was her norm.
At length, Mr. Grimm appeared in the kitchen doorway. Luna refused to look at him, but could not ignore a keen awareness of his presence, like electricity zapping the backs of her knees. From the tail of her eye, she could see he’d managed to shave and shower since last night, but was still a bit hollow-eyed and pale. “Miss Talbot?“
he called out.
“What?“
she snapped, stalking past him with her arms full of Mama Morgana’s Miracle Manure.
He blinked, taken aback, and retreated by a half-step. “I, erm . . . Mrs. Goddard brought breakfast. I thought perhaps you’d—”
“I’m not hungry.“
She continued stomping across the shop floor but, realizing what a beast she sounded, called back over her shoulder a begrudging, “Thanks!”
It was a lie, of course. She was hungry. She was ravenous. As always. She’d not had supper last night, and breakfast this morning was thin gruel yet again. On any other given day, she would gladly take Mr. Grimm up on his offer and inhale his breakfast with hardly a qualm.
But the last thing she needed, after confessing that she didn’t know what she would do without him was to go and need him. For anything.
Not when he’d shut that taxi door in her face.
Blast him.
It wasn’t as though Mr. Grimm was obliged to feel any sort of way about her neediness, she reminded herself as she fed the potted plants. What man would want to have a young woman—not even a blood relation, barely more than a work acquaintance—making declarations of dependency like that? Yes, he helped her out on Green Yule’s Eve. What of it? That was just the sort of person he was. Kind. Helpful. Thoughtful. No reason for her to go and make him feel awkwardly responsible for her in any way.
And he really didn’t deserve this bad mood of hers. No one did.
Luna made her way through the opening chores in record time. At nine o’clock precisely, she flipped the sign to OPEN and admitted the first of her regular customers. This was Mr. Tippingsly, a nervous gentleman, who made a point of coming every Tuesday, convinced he was on the brink of calamity and seeking reassurance that nothing dreadful was about to happen.
“There’s just something about Tuesdays,“
Mr. Tippingsly said pathetically, as he always did, waiting at the counter and twiddling his fingers while his tea brewed. “Mondays are so full of hope and potential, and by the time Wednesday rolls around, one feels one has a good foothold on the week. But Tuesdays . . .“
He shuddered, his rheumy eyes blinking behind a pair of tiny, wire-rimmed glasses.
Luna served him a particularly bitter black taeral. When he asked if he could have sugar added, she growled, “That tea is ruined by sugar,“
before proceeding to dump a large spoonful into the cup and stir it rapidly, generating foam in a way that would have completely appalled poor Auntie Arabella were she around to see it.
She shoved the tea back into Mr. Tippingsly’s hands, and he drank it. By the look on his face, he realized at once that she was right about the sugar. But he finished his serving bravely, nonetheless. Luna felt a bit guilty—she should have served him a nice, gentle peppermint or something, to settle his jangled nerves. Men like Mr. Tippingsly just weren’t built for black taeral. When he meekly handed her his dregs, Luna swirled the contents clockwise thrice and counter twice, then took a look inside, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She could not resist a heavy sigh, however.
“Oh, no!“
Mr. Tippingsly clutched his bowtie. Because of course he wore a bowtie. He was just that sort of bloke. “How bad is it, miss? Please, tell me quickly. Don’t spare my feelings!”
Luna met his gaze over the cup. “Just don’t order the fish at lunch today, Mr. Tippingsly. You’ll be fine.”
“The fish? Did you say the fish? Which fish? I was going to Simmer Down Deli for lunch today, and they’re serving the crab chowder I do so love! Is crab a fish? Does it count? Oh, miss, please tell me!”
But Luna couldn’t say, based on the bleary image in the cup—which the sugar had just about spoiled—whether crab would be safe or not. “I’d skip the chowder,“
she said. “Just to be safe.“
She set his cup aside then and forced a little smile onto her face, though it did not reach her eyes. “Would you like a bunch of daisies to take home with you today, Mr. Tippingsly? They’re on special.”
Mr. Tippingsly ended up exiting The Arcane Bouquet with rather a large bundle of blooms in his arms, far too grateful for Luna’s words of oracular caution to deny her the extra sale.
Luna served a few more customers before there was a long enough pause for her to gather up the cups and slip back to the kitchen. There she set to work rinsing and washing with a will, trying not to think of anything but tea dregs on stainless steel and soap bubbles on her hands. But when she’d placed the cups and saucers on the draining board, she stopped a moment and gripped the edge of the sink, closing her eyes.
She could do this.
It wasn’t that big of a deal.
Mr. Grimm hadn’t said anything about last night. And he wasn’t going to. Because nothing had happened. And nothing was going to keep on happening. And that was final.
She returned to the shop to find Mr. Grimm standing by the double-delight rose, his head bowed close to the blooms as though in private conference. Her heart did a funny little something in her chest, which did not help the foulness of her mood. She turned away quickly and busied herself with something on the other side of the shop.
Customers came and went throughout the morning. More cups of tea were made, more foretellings told. Luna kept hoping Mr. Grimm would grow tired and go back upstairs to bed. He really oughtn’t to be on his feet so much, so soon. But he kept pottering about the shop, performing small tasks, and generally avoiding her. Because of course he was avoiding her. Because she’d embarrassed him last night. At least as much as she’d embarrassed herself.
At noon, he flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED and locked up, much earlier than he usually did for lunch. Luna kept her shoulder turned to him as he approached the counter, busying herself with clearing away the most recent collection of teacups. A group of five Silly Young Things had just been and gone. Their predictions were all about how many dances each would dance at some upcoming soiree, and they’d walked out comparing notes and speculating as to with whom those dances would be shared.
“Here, Miss Talbot,“
Mr. Grimm said, reaching for the tray on which Luna had piled the assorted cups and saucers, “let me get that for you.”
“It’s fine,“
Luna said. “I’ve got it.”
“You’ve been on your feet all morning. Sit a moment.“
His sad blue eyes flashed to meet hers. “You’re still recovering, after all.”
“So are you!”
“Yes, well, I think both of us could stand a break.”
Luna stared down at the cups, breathing a little hard and biting the inside of her cheek in an effort to keep her tongue in check. “Fine,“
she said, releasing her grip on the tray. “You wash up. I’ll make tea.“
Turning away from him in a whirl of skirts, she fetched the kettle and set about filling it at the trimming sink. Then she selected a really strong cardamom-blend from her stash. Something that let you know you were drinking proper tea, and didn’t allow for much other consideration while it was being drunk. She added an extra spoonful to the pot, knowing it would be too strong for most palates. But that’s what she wanted just now.
A subdued Mr. Grimm returned from the kitchen with the two Royal Bastian teacups. Their teacups—his and hers. The ones he’d bought for her during her first week at The Arcane Bouquet. Luna chewed the inside of her cheek all the harder. She had to stop this. She had to stop thinking about anything to do with this shop as theirs. It was his shop. She just worked here. And not for much longer either. She was getting too comfortable, too settled. Too dependent.
“I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Well, she’d find out what she’d do without him soon enough, wouldn’t she? When she was back out on her own. Any day now she expected it—to see those phantoms lurking on the edge of her vision, no longer able to be ignored, closing in fast. Ever since leaving her aunties’ home two years ago, she’d never managed to stay in any one place for more than three months at a time. She’d already broken that record here in Ballycastle. It simply couldn’t last much longer.
And she’d get by without Nigel Grimm. Just as she’d done before she met him. Soon, he’d be nothing more than a distant memory.
Luna poured the tea and handed her employer a cup. As there was only one chair in the nook, he perched on the counter, legs swinging, allowing her the proper seat. He took a sip of tea. His face went red, and he very nearly choked. Somehow, he managed to get his mouthful down without incident, then stared into his cup. “What sort of tea is this?” he asked.
“Cardamom blend,“
Luna replied coldly and took a sip. It was strong. Overwhelming. Not particularly delicious. She grinned, satisfied, and took another, larger gulp, allowing it to scald all the way down her throat.
“I can’t help noticing,“
Mr. Grimm said, moving his cup gently and watching the contents swirl, “that you seem a little out of sorts today.“
He took another trepidatious sip.
Luna wanted to snarl at him, “Can’t help noticing, can’t you? Because you notice everything. Mr. Observant, Mr. Thoughtful. Mr. Slams-Doors-in-Faces.”
Instead, she murmured, “Oh, am I? So sorry about that, Mr. Grimm. I shall endeavor to get back into proper sorts right away.“
She finished her tea with a loud gulp, wincing at both the taste and the burn. “Well, I’m done!“
she declared, getting to her feet. “Shall I open up the shop again?”
She moved to duck past him, but Mr. Grimm slid down from the counter, blocking her way. In doing so, he sloshed tea into his saucer, and a dark wave splashed over the edge and onto his waistcoat. “Now look what you’ve done!“
Luna huffed. Setting her empty cup down with a clatter, she turned and snatched a dancing-mushroom towel from the rack by the nook stove. Without thinking, she swiped at the front of his waistcoat. “Take it off, and your shirt too,“
she muttered. Then realized the words which had just escaped from her lips. She flicked her eyes up, met his gaze for an instant, then looked away again quickly. “Best to get it under cold water,“
she murmured. “Before the stain sets.”
Then, because she couldn’t stand to be there under the scrutiny of his sad eyes, she shoved the tea towel into his hands and made as though to push past him.
“Miss Talbot. Wait.”
His arm extended swiftly in front of her, but he did not touch her. Luna stared at that arm, red fury roiling in her breast. Then her gaze moved to his hand, and she frowned. “What’s that?“
she asked, pointing to an awkwardly done-up bandage. “Have you hurt yourself?”
“Oh.“
Mr. Grimm hastily dropped his arm and tried to put it behind his back. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? Why is it all wrapped up then? And very badly too, I might add. Here.“
She reached out, caught his wrist. “You better let me have a look at it. Did you cut yourself on the pruning shears? You’re always too aggressive with those things.”
“No, really, Miss Talbot, I . . .”
“Hold still!”
He caught his breath, the air frozen on his lips. But he obeyed, and Luna swiftly undid the bandage, pulling back stained cloth to reveal an ugly black streak across his palm. Her eyes widened. It didn’t look like a burn. But it didn’t look like anything else either. The flesh was definitely blistered, not sliced or diced, but it wasn’t exactly like scorch marks. It smelled funny too. It smelled of sorcery.
Luna looked up sharply. “What have you done?”
Mr. Grimm swallowed. “I was . . . helping Garden. With something.”
“With what?”
“You must realize, Miss Talbot,“
he said, some resentment in his tone, “that Garden, being as potent an energy source as he is, requires certain powerful protective spells to keep him safe. Sometimes that means getting my hands dirty, as it were.”
Luna stared at the side of his face, at his cleanly-scraped jaw set in a hard line. “You promised not to work any sorcery in the shop while I’m here,“
she said, her voice low. “You swore on your father’s gravestone.”
“I know,“
Mr. Grimm replied. “And I haven’t. Not in the shop. But I must do what is necessary to protect . . . to protect Garden.”
There was something more here. Something he wasn’t telling her. Luna narrowed her eyes. Part of her wanted to press. Part of her was so irked and angry and frustrated, she didn’t care if they had a big, flaming row. It was just the excuse she needed, after all. The opportunity to blow up at her boss, then storm out of the shop on a cloud of wrath, shouting a furious, “You can’t fire me; I quit!“
over her shoulder as she went, never to look back.
But she couldn’t do that. Because train tickets were expensive.
She traced her fingers across his palm, along the edge of that ugly mark. Mr. Grimm shivered, but didn’t pull away. “I’ve got something that might help with this,“
Luna said softly.
He snorted. “I don’t think there are any teas in your stash to help with Dire burn, Miss Talbot.”
“Oh, don’t you?“
She pushed his hand away with a little more force than necessary, snatched the kettle from the nook stove, and stomped back to the kitchen. There she filled the kettle, popped it on the largest burner, then cast about, looking at her drying bundles overhead for inspiration. With a firm nod, she snatched down a sprig of Saint Hylda’s Wort, another of stinging nettles, then added a shriveled head of calendula. Half of these she ground up with mortar and pestle then mixed into a smear. The other half she placed in a metal ball strainer and popped it into the white Whittlewedge teapot.
When Luna returned at last to the shop counter, poultice and teapot in hand, she discovered Mr. Grimm reading the newspaper she’d bought that morning. He looked up sharply at her approach and put it down, but she could see that he, too, had turned to page six. The offensive face of Lord Bruxley seemed to mock her from that black-and-white photograph.
Luna grabbed Mr. Grimm’s cup of cardamom tea, disposed of the nearly-undrinkable remainder, and filled it up with her new brew. “Drink this,“
she said shortly, then set the teapot down right on top of the newspaper, just where it was sure to smear the groom-to-be’s smug visage. “And give me your hand.”
Mr. Grimm submitted meekly to her ministrations. “Why the tea?“
he asked, holding the cup to his lips. “One would think, for a topical wound, it wouldn’t be all that useful.”
“Dark Magic scalds people from the inside out,“
Luna answered shortly, concentrating on applying her smear to the blisters on his palm. “That’s what Auntie Apolonia used to say. I believe she meant sorcery, though she wouldn’t often talk about anything to do with sorcery. Sorcerer Biddercombe would come out to the cottage sometimes, however, asking for this particular tea. I think it happened when his experiments got out of hand. Auntie always grumbled, but she gave him the tea even so.“
Mr. Grimm flinched. Despite her grouchiness, Luna glanced up at him. “Does it hurt?”
“No.“
His voice was tight.
“Liar,“
she growled.
He snorted softly and murmured, “True enough.“
Then he looked at her again from under a crinkled brow, his expression indescribably gentle, and she had to resist the urge to knock his tea into his face. Why did he have to look at her like that? Why did he have to go and make her feel so . . . so . . . so noticed? So cared for? If, in the end, it only led to a slammed taxi door?
“I think I know why you’re upset, Miss Talbot,” he said.
Oh gods. Oh gods on high, now he wanted to talk about it? Wanted to clear the air, get it all out in the open? Use that patient, big-brother voice of his and explain how she couldn’t go saying things like that to her boss, of all people. How proprieties must be maintained, and modes of decorum, and all that bosh. But why? Why discuss it? She’d overstepped. He knew it; she knew it. And she wasn’t going to do it again, so why couldn’t he just drop it, and—
“I read the society column. In the Bally Daily.”
Luna dragged in a ragged breath. She forced herself to look at him again, her fingers poised in the act of smearing paste on his palm. His expression was solemn.
“I know you’re concerned for the Countess d’Ackerley. Because of the future you read for her all those weeks ago.”
“Oh.“
Luna’s lips rounded, and her gaze flashed to the newspaper. Lord Bruxley’s face was covered by the teapot, but the Countess Claudine still gazed out with those dark, melancholy, and ever-so aristocratic eyes of hers. The photographer had caught her in a moment of silent adoration as she gazed up at her fiancé. But there was something not quite right about that gaze. Something a little too knowing.
“She’s making a mistake,“
Luna growled. “Lord Bruxley is an ass.”
“Undoubtedly,“
Mr. Grimm agreed. “But the upper class have been making bad matches for bad reasons since time immemorial. It’s part of the game for them. And if the countess is getting her wish-come-true along the way, well . . . is it really as bad as all that?”
“Yes.“
Luna’s eyes flashed to meet his again. “Yes, it is as bad as all that. Because he will treat her abominably, and she will be miserable. But I saw what could have been. I saw her happy. Truly happy! And I . . . I didn’t tell her the whole truth. I could have, but I didn’t.”
Mr. Grimm nodded an acknowledgement, his gaze fixed on his own hand. “Sometimes,“
he said softly, “we can’t tell the whole truth. And we must live with the consequences.”
“Sure. But it’s not every day a woman’s entire future is derailed because someone didn’t have the guts to speak up.”
Her words sounded very loud in the stillness of the shop. And once they were spoken, a heavier stillness seemed to weigh the atmosphere, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock and the distant hum of traffic outside.
After what felt like an age, Mr. Grimm cleared his throat roughly. “Miss Talbot, I—”
“You know what?“
Luna pushed his hand away and yanked at the ties of her apron. “I think I’m done for the day.“
She pulled the apron over her head, hung it on its peg, and grabbed her coat. “Still recovering, you know? Doctor’s orders and all that.”
She snatched up her scarf and gloves, then whirled in place, searching for her hat. Mr. Grimm knelt and retrieved it from where she’d chucked it under the counter, beside the trash bin. He handed it to her, murmuring, “I hope you’ll feel better soon, Miss Talbot.”
“Yeah,“
Luna said, jamming the hat onto her head. “You too, Mr. Grimm.”
Then she brushed past him, out from behind the counter, and strode swiftly between rows of cringing blossoms, making for the door.
“Miss Talbot?”
Her heart leaped. She didn’t want it to, but it did anyway. Turning on heel, she looked back at him, not at all certain what she hoped, what she feared, but keenly aware of the blood throbbing in her veins.
He picked up the newspaper, rolled it, and held it out to her. “You forgot this.”
Setting her teeth, Luna stomped back, grabbed her paper, and marched from the shop without another word. The bells tinkled behind her like so many laughing voices, mocking her retreat. She cleared Addle Street during a lull in the traffic and stormed down the sidewalk until she made the turn onto Nettleton, out of sight of The Arcane Bouquet and its windows.
Only there did she stop. Her breath coming in hot, she pressed her back against the corner wall. Tears threatened to rise, but she fought them bravely back. Instead she clenched her gloved hands into fists and shoved them both against her eyes.
“Oh, Green Mother love me!“
she hissed through clenched teeth, her head bowed down into her scarf. “You behaved like an absolute rat today!”
Mr. Grimm’s sad face flashed before her mind’s eye, gazing at her above that sorcery-scorched hand of his. He’d looked so baffled by her foul temper, so ignorant as to its cause. It made her want to smack him! Which wasn’t like her at all. None of this was. She was a happy person, always able to look on the bright side of life, regardless of circumstances.
One slammed taxi door shouldn’t influence her so profoundly.
Strains of a sad violin lilted gently across her awareness, sighing out a soundtrack perfectly in keeping with her malaise. Luna peeked out from behind her gloves to see the street fiddler, inadequately wrapped against the cold, but propped determinedly in the next doorstep over, his instrument tucked under his chin. He looked up at her, brows puckered in concern. His bow swept across the strings, causing the fiddle to weep in a minor key.
Luna snorted. Then she laughed out loud and shook her head. How ridiculous could she be, standing here on a street corner, crying along to her own, personal mood music? She didn’t have time to indulge in such absurdity. She swiped away the single stray tear which had managed to freeze on her cheek, then shook her head and stood up a little straighter. Time to pull it together. Time to do something worthwhile, take action, make a change.
Her gaze drifted to the newspaper in her hand. Pursing her lips, she flipped it open to page six once more and took a long, hard look at the picture of Lord Bruxley and his bride-to-be. Countess Claudine gazed at her man with such devotion on her aristocratic face, it almost hurt to see. But he did not look at her in return. He faced the camera, and his expression made Luna’s skin crawl. All avarice and vice and self-satisfaction. Like he’d just pulled a fast one and thought no one had noticed.
“I noticed,“
Luna murmured, scowling at that image as though she gazed even now upon the real Lord Bruxley. “And we’ll just see if you get away with it, won’t we?”
Purpose surging to life in her heart, Luna bundled up the newspaper, tucked it under her arm, and set out at a quick clip, not up Nettleton, but back toward Pembroke. She’d walked to Lord Bruxley’s house once before. She knew the way.
And she had an engagement party to crash.