Chapter 9
“My success and my misfortunes, the bright and the dark days I have gone through, everything has proved to me that in this world, either physical or moral, good comes out of evil just as well as evil comes out of good.”
Giacomo Casanova
They departed just before first light, their boots splashing through rain-washed puddles on the quiet streets of Mayfair. The air held the scent of chimney smoke, and a chill clung to Audrey’s cheeks as she pulled her borrowed coat tighter.
Montague would be abed, of that she felt certain. The blistering treatment would leave him weakened and irritable, and it might be days before he ventured beyond his home again. They had learned little of substance, but there was no time to linger. Their next course was clear—Simon Scott.
Audrey walked beside Julius, but her thoughts, traitorous and unrelenting, drifted to the previous night.
The kiss.
Her first.
Even now, the echo of it seemed to tremble across her skin. The soft press of his mouth, the surprising tenderness in his touch, the way her heart had leapt. Each time she drifted into sleep, the memory had returned like a whisper, coiling through her in breathless wonder.
She had awakened more tired than when she had gone to bed.
Why had she stopped him?
That kiss had been … magnificent.
Would she ever be kissed like again? Would anyone in Stirling dare to look at her that way once the truth of her time in London emerged? Her reputation would suffer. Her future would narrow.
And yet, even knowing that, part of her longed for a second kiss.
“Audrey?”
She startled. They had stopped walking. Julius was watching her with amusement written in every line of his face.
Her heart gave a skip.
“Forgive me. I was woolgathering.”
His grin was slow, warm, and wickedly charming. “I have thought of it, too.”
Her breath caught.
“All night, if I am honest,” he added, his gaze drifting, just for a moment, to her lips. “It is not so dangerous, is it? A kiss?”
Audrey flushed, warmth blooming across her cheeks.
“We should hurry if we hope to observe Mr. Scott,” she murmured, unable to meet his eyes.
But in her mind, she whispered the truth.
You are wrong, Julius. It is dangerous.
Not the kiss itself, but what it meant. What it awakened. He was not simply a charming rogue. He had a mind that noticed, a heart that cared, a spirit that laughed through pain. If she was not careful, she would fall for him entirely.
And that was a risk she could not afford.
You must remember your purpose, she told herself sternly. A baron is dead. A killer roams the streets. Julius could have died that night …
She cast him a sidelong glance as they continued their walk. He was humming under his breath, tipping his hat to a dog who trotted past as though it were a visiting dignitary. Light-hearted, irreverent, and yet somehow noble beneath the mischief.
Audrey’s chest ached.
She was no longer certain whether it was from longing or dread.
Simon Scott emerged from his front door promptly at ten. The sky had turned a cheerful shade of blue, and the sunlight painted the street in soft gold. For once, the city felt almost pastoral.
Julius stretched his shoulders as he and Audrey observed from across the street, both in their borrowed disguises and perched on a bench outside a coffeehouse.
His wound no longer throbbed, and for the first time in days, he felt almost whole.
The aches in his body were fading, but the ache in his heart, entirely Audrey’s doing, persisted in a more complicated fashion.
He was content, he realized, to simply sit beside her and share this moment. Their companionable silence was surprisingly rich. The kiss they had shared hovered between them like a hummingbird, a secret that flitted in and out of his thoughts.
Scott, by contrast, was all polished composure.
He walked like a man accustomed to deference, tall and lean with an elegant bearing.
His clothes were fine, tailored to precision without ostentation—simple lines, quality fabrics.
A man aware of his station, but unwilling to flaunt it.
Julius noted the close-trimmed beard and dark brown hair, appreciating the subtle sharpness of his adversary’s aesthetic.
They followed Scott into a coffeehouse of higher repute than the one they had frequented near the vicar’s street.
Julius took a corner seat where he could watch the man unobserved, gesturing for Audrey to sit beside him.
She did so, a little hesitant as she adjusted her coat and pulled her beaver low over her brow.
Julius ordered coffee for both of them, though Audrey left hers untouched, her attention squarely on the suspect. She leaned forward on the rough wooden table, her chin propped on her hand, her gaze fixed.
Julius watched her.
Sunlight slanted across her features, catching the cool gleam of her irises, which were the silver of a moonlight reflected on a lake.
Her lashes were fair and long, her expression thoughtful.
He could not help but marvel at her ability to focus so completely even while in unfamiliar garb and surroundings.
He tried to remember if her father had shared those same eyes. He did not think so. It must have been her mother, whom he had never met.
The thought nudged a memory from the prior year, of a silly game he had played, reciting absurd verses to his friends under the guise of composing heartfelt poetry.
He had used lines from a tradesman’s almanac, the kind full of preposterous declarations meant to woo shopgirls and scullery maids.
His friends had laughed, and Julius had basked in the easy camaraderie of those carefree days.
Now most of those friends were married, entangled in domestic duties and sensibilities, and Julius had grown accustomed to a certain loneliness.
Until Audrey.
He stirred his coffee absently, watching her watch Scott.
She was a puzzle. A woman of science and compassion, of gentle hands and fierce opinions.
And she made him want things he had never expected to want.
Companionship. Laughter. Shared purpose.
A future that might contain more than silk cravats and late-night card games.
She shifted, her gaze sharpening.
“He is leaving,” she whispered, rising to her feet with quiet urgency.
Julius welcomed the interruption. His thoughts had turned too contemplative, shadows of uncertainty clinging to the edges of his mind.
Audrey had been right though. That much he could admit.
Days ago, over poor coffee in a questionable establishment, she had told him he could choose who he wished to become.
He could forge a different path than the one carved by Lord Snarling’s severe expectations.
The trouble was, Julius had no clear idea of who he was outside the part he had long played.
He pulled a few coins from his pocket and set them down on the scratched tabletop, rising to follow her as she moved down the pavement.
Simon Scott had taken a turn onto St. James’s Street, his long stride purposeful, yet unhurried.
It was a fashionable thoroughfare, lined with the polished facades of exclusive establishments and clubs that had long served the city’s privileged few.
Julius and Audrey followed at a measured pace, until Scott disappeared into one of the gentlemen’s clubs.
Audrey tilted her head back to consider the building, its clean lines and restrained elegance made more imposing by the uniformed porter standing at attention near the threshold.
“Shall we go in?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
Julius considered. He tried to recall whether his name—or more accurately, his father’s—was on the list of members. There was a fair chance of it. Lord Snarling made a point of collecting club memberships the way some men collected horses. It was part of his network of power and influence.
“Wait here,” Julius murmured, shrugging off his overcoat and removing his beaver with a practiced motion.
The interior of the club was dim and hushed, filled with rich scents—leather, beeswax polish, and the faint tang of brandy from a decanter nearby.
His boots made little sound on the thick Persian carpets as he passed through paneled rooms lit by filtered morning light.
A steward approached, and Julius offered his full name and parentage.
As expected, the name Stirling granted him swift admittance.
He found Simon Scott not far from an unused hearth, seated in a leather armchair and thumbing through a book with the kind of idle attention reserved for a man with no pressing engagements. There was no urgency about him, no sense that he was evading anything. He looked very much at home.
Julius made a note of it and retraced his steps, pausing only to collect his coat and hat before slipping out the front entrance.
Audrey stood leaning against a wrought-iron lamppost, watching the foot traffic with casual detachment. She brightened at the sight of him, her expression curious.
“What is he doing?” she asked.
“Reading,” Julius replied. “With no apparent care in the world.”
Audrey wrinkled her nose. “How uninspiring.”
Julius chuckled. “Shall we pass the time and return in half an hour? A stroll through the market?”
Her answering smile was swift and delighted. “That sounds wonderful.”
They crossed the street together, melting into the gentle bustle of the market stalls.
The scent of fresh bread mingled with lavender sachets and roasted nuts, while colorful bolts of cloth rippled in the brisk breeze.
Audrey’s attention was caught by a selection of scarves, and she lingered to finger the silken fringe of one in robin’s-egg blue.
The proprietor eyed them both with barely disguised confusion, puzzled by the two gentlemen discussing feminine accessories in quiet tones.