Chapter Five
The prickles along the nape of her neck had vanished for a while, only to burst across her skin again when she and Mr. Peregrine reached her shop.
Fortunately, the man hadn’t tarried and left right after escorting her over.
As much as she questioned his motives after yesterday, it was hard to hold onto them when he acted like a proper gentleman.
Let’s not think about that right now.
She placed her reticule on the counter, scratching Prince’s head when he jotted over, before retrieving the two letters she’d received.
One was from Mr. Fitz, who kept her abreast of her matters in London.
The second was from Clemence, her former maid, keeping her informed of any developments in her old household.
She quickly skimmed over Clemence’s one first.
Oh. So Duvessa was still raging day and night about her disappearance but had stopped sending footmen all over London in search of her. She now believed her stepdaughter had run off to Wales or Scotland.
Calliope’s mood lifted.
This was exactly what she and Mr. Fitz had wanted. Now all she had to do was wait for her solicitor’s response to her own enquires about her landlord, the lease, and what might have happened to Mr. Rollings.
The bell above the door jingled.
Her whole body jerked. Calliope braced for a shadowy figure in black, but instead, a young woman wearing soft green muslin stepped inside, her cheeks flushed and her lips curved in a bright, guileless smile.
“Good morning!” She glanced over the shelves in open delight. “It smells like heaven in here.”
“Thank you,” Calliope murmured. “Feel free to have a look around.”
The girl nodded. “I walked by three times before deciding to come in. Your window display is charming. Are those . . . violet candles?”
“They are.”
“Well, then I must have a bunch. I have a friend with the same name, so I must gift them to her for her birthday.”
Calliope’s mouth curved despite the tightness that formed at the word friend. It was one of her biggest dreams to meet a friend here in Brighton. “That seems like sound logic.”
“I certainly like to pretend it is.” The woman stepped toward the shelves, running her fingers along the bundled sets. “It’s so lovely in here, unlike some places. Warm. You can instantly tell great care has gone into every element of the shop.”
“I try,” Calliope murmured, heat spreading across her cheeks. She took great pride in her candles and shop, and no one had ever complimented her like this.
“Have you been here long?” the woman asked.
Ah, this question again. “Only a few weeks.” She hesitated, then added. “I’m Calliope. Calliope Turner.”
“Holly Tremont. But please, just call me Holly.” She grinned at Calliope. “Violet will be so jealous. Your shop already feels like it belongs here while hers still looks like a florist had a brawl with a haunted attic.”
“Oh?” Calliope’s interest spiked. “Your friend opened a shop here in Brighton?”
“Soon. It’s a few streets over. The Bloom Room. It’s a mess, but Violet is determined.”
Calliope already liked her. And this girl, Holly, as well. There was something extremely magnetic about her. Easy in her own skin. A sharpness beneath the sweetness. “I’ll have to stop by some time.”
“We’d love that.” Holly picked up a candle and sniffed. “And this one. It smells like tea and thunderstorms. Perfect.”
“That’s the black tea and oakmoss.”
“Sold.”
Calliope laughed. “You said ‘we.’ Are you helping her with the shop?”
“You could say so, though I’m exploring more than I’m helping.” She reached for her coin purse before pausing. “Oh, before I forget, was that your friend who you spoke to earlier?”
Calliope stilled. “Pardon?”
“Tall, golden, smug as sin.”
“Mr. Peregrine? He is not a friend, just a customer. Do you know him?”
She shook her head. “He looks familiar, but I can’t place from where.”
Ah.
Would she know about Maxen Fury, Calliope wondered?
Honestly, after what had happened to Mr. Rollings, she ought to feel more fear.
Even guilt for that matter. She’d run away and left the man behind, after all.
Instead, all she could think about was the way her landlord’s gaze burned into her—ever so watchful, like she was a puzzle he was already halfway to solving.
It made her feel . . . noticed. And infuriatingly alive.
Should she ask?
It couldn’t hurt, could it?
“I wonder if we share the same landlord,” Calliope tested.
“Landlord? I’m not sure,” Holly said thoughtfully. “But I can find out. The shop is opening in a few days. I’ll send over an invitation.”
Well, it was worth a try. Calliope smiled. “Thank you.”
Holly nodded. “If anyone troubles you, send them to The Bloom Room. Violet will wrap them a bouquet of nettles. My husband is also very good at discouraging nuisances.”
“What about you?” Calliope asked with amusement.
“Oh, I’ll just watch with glee.”
Calliope laughed, wrapping the candles. “Useful to know.”
“I find women make the best weapons.” Holly’s gaze sharpened just a touch. “Especially when the world expects us to be ornaments and follow their rules.”
Calliope’s smile faded a little. “I tend to avoid such worlds.”
“Then you’ll do just fine. I sense you have good instincts. How much do I owe you?”
“Your first bundle is free of charge.” She couldn’t bring herself to charge the woman. She wished to make more connections, and friendship, she believed, was best begun with kindness.
Holly’s grin spread. “Then I shall return the sentiment when you come visit The Bloom Room.”
Calliope inclined her head. Maybe her dream would come true sooner than she had imagined. “I look forward to the opening.”
Holly tucked her package under her arm. “Then I shall see you again soon.” Calliope laughed again when Holly waved enthusiastically before hurrying off.
Prince stretched out his legs, not a care in the world, and Calliope lowered onto the stool.
Maxen Fury.
She hadn’t dared to say his name aloud. Not even to herself. Even his name had a dark-prince sense curling around each vowel. She didn’t trust him. Not even a little. And yet, her pulse hadn’t gotten the notice.
If she were clever—and she’d like to imagine she was—she would turn her attention elsewhere. To her dismay, the part of her, the very part that had learned to survive by making herself small, the very part that hated the way he made her feel seen, exposed—that part leaned in.
And stars, why didn’t that feel absolutely petrifying?
*
Maxen sat at a table in Fury’s, a glass in his hand and a mood fouler than Brighton’s shoreline fog.
Behind the bar, Knight kept his post, his body half-lost to shadow, while Maxen replayed the afternoon in his mind.
He’d followed Peregrine after he’d deposited Calliope at her shop only to be led on a merry route of pompousness.
A hatmaker. A tailor. A stroll on the beach.
It was as if the man knew he was being followed and had toyed with him.
He ground his teeth.
Annoying blackguard.
Dagger slumped into a chair at his table, hooked another one close and flung his boots up on it. “That woman—”
“You leased her the place behind my back,” Maxen stopped him.
“I leased it to the bird, yes, but I didn’t expect you to take such interest. Dangerous interest.”
“And why is that?”
“She’s a woman. A liability. We have enemies from all seven corners of Britain. If she turns out to be no threat, you risk placing her in danger.”
Maxen turned his attention to his brandy. “Seven corners, you say.”
“How ever many there are.”
“She’s certainly something,” Reaper chimed as he sauntered over, plucking a bottle from behind the bar and popping the cork with his teeth. “At least when I’m not tailing our noble Prince of Brighton. Who knew you were such a brooder, frère? Oh, right, we all knew. But such focus. Such dedication.”
Maxen tossed back half the liquor in his glass. “Why are you speaking?”
Reaper gave a mock gasp. “To deliver the heartfelt concerns of your loving brothers, obviously.”
Maxen drained his glass.
Dagger leaned over, tapping against the bar with his finger. “You’re distracted. We can’t have you distracted.”
“I’m alert.”
“You’re acting strange,” Reaper pointed out.
“I am acting in the interest of our business.”
Dagger crossed his arms. “You never get this involved with marks.”
“She’s my tenant, and you’re bloody annoying.”
Reaper chuckled. “We’re always annoying.”
True.
Dagger clapped him on the shoulder. “All we’re saying is that you don’t need to handle the matter of her.”
“I need to figure her out.” The moment those words left his mouth, he cursed. Did he really just bloody say that out loud? To his brothers? If they weren’t annoying before, they’d certainly be now.
Reaper whistled. “Well, cock on a duck, would you listen to that? Our frère has needs. Seems old Dagger over there did you a favor.”
Maxen glared at his brother and yanked the bottle from his hands, filling his glass. “You really don’t value your teeth.”
“I’ve long since grown immune to your threats, frère.”
Dagger snorted.
Maxen sneered into his drink. With brothers like these, who needed enemies threatening to topple their empire?
“Do we need to reinforce our concerned brotherly concerns?” Reaper went on.
“Because I’ve got a list.” The arse held up his hand and counted off.
“One: Max is acting weird. Two: He’s not sleeping.
Three: He’s loitering outside her candle shop like a pitiful poet.
Four: Dagger might have leased the property to a spy. Five: We might all die.”
Bloody hell.
Knight grunted from his spot behind the bar.
“Then I die,” Maxen muttered.
“Shite off,” Dagger said with a scowl. “You don’t die.”
Reaper gave a long-suffering sigh. “You don’t love me, do you, frère?”
“I’m in hell,” Maxen bit out. Could his brothers get off his damn back? “Where are the others?”