Chapter Seven
Fortune favors the bold ornithologist—which is to say, having a fortune will get you all the favors you need.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
Returning to the station an hour later, they found the clerk leaning against the ticket desk, still smirking as he watched them trudge in. “Let me guess,” he said. “The price for horses has increased somewhat since yesterday.”
“Seven hundred pounds,” Devon said grimly. “And when we explained the situation was urgent, it went up to eight hundred. I’ve never encountered a more unscrupulous lot of people, and I teach university students.”
“We didn’t bother trying the whole town,” Beth explained. “We came back here to see if our associates left our luggage behind; then we’ll start walking.”
“I may be able to help you after all,” the clerk said. He glanced at something behind them; looking back, they saw only a black-suited, briefcase-toting gentleman of the type ubiquitous in England, standing farther down the platform as he innocently perused the train schedule. “As it happens, I have a horse you could borrow,” the clerk explained, drawing their attention again. “She’s old but still has a leg on her, and I’m willing to take—”
“Two hundred pounds,” Devon offered promptly. And, as the clerk hesitated, he added: “I’ll also fill out any necessary forms. In triplicate. ”
—
“Only one horse.” Beth sighed as she watched Devon check the tack on an ancient gray mare. She tried to be glad for him that he’d obtained his own transport, but it was going to be a very long walk north to Canterbury, where the nearest train station was located.
On the other hand, she was relieved to be parting from the dastardly fellow. Men had always been vague shapes at the edge of her awareness, rambling on about sports or telling her how to do something she’d mastered in adolescence. The exception was Professor Gladstone, Beth’s head of department and former mentor. An octogenarian who smelled of pipe smoke and slightly damp tweed, he had eyes permanently narrowed from too much peering through binoculars and no small finger on his left hand after it was bitten off in the wilds of Colombia by a feral undergraduate suffering from coffee withdrawals. As a young woman, Beth had been awed by the professor, but his repeated suggestions that she try to smile more and show her intelligence less, so as not to intimidate her male peers, destroyed that feeling. And no other man had even approached her interest.
Devon Lockley, on the other hand, had literally dive-bombed it, then set up camp right in the middle of her brain. And worse—after just two days in his company she’d begun using loose language, arguing, even veering dangerously close to banter. Much more of this and she might become sassy . Going their separate ways was entirely wise, sensible, proper, and other words found in the index of an etiquette manual. It was only that the prospect of blistered heels from her damp shoes weighed heavily on her mood.
She summoned a bright smile. “I wish you good luck,” she told Devon pleasantly. “If you happen to meet Hippolyta, would you please pass on my regards?”
“Tell her yourself,” Devon said without glancing back as he arranged the stirrup.
The words struck Beth like a punch to the stomach. Her smile became so bright it might have served as a lighthouse, warning against hidden rocks.
“Well,” she said. “Goodbye.”
She waited a second, perhaps a second and a half, before concluding he was going to ignore her. Then widening her smile to a degree that hurt, she turned away.
Devon caught her by the wrist, and she looked back at him confusedly. A similar confusion creased his face.
“I meant , ‘tell her yourself when we catch up to her.’?”
Beth’s mind went blank, all its protocols lost in surprise. “Oh.”
Devon angled his head, regarding her with a mix of amusement and incredulity. “Did you think I’d just abandon you in Dover?”
“Why not?” she asked. “I’d abandon you, were the situation reversed.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Besides, if I left you here, you’d probably blunder into a group of smugglers and be so busy apologizing for having disturbed them that you’d fail to notice they’d tied you up and shipped you off to scrub floors for some crime lord in Australia.”
“I wouldn’t mind going to Australia,” she said primly. “I’ve always wanted to see the fanged emu.”
Devon rolled his eyes, but he was grinning, and Beth warmed at the sight of it. Before she could chide him (or, God help her, giggle) he set his hands on her waist and lifted her into the saddle. Astonished, disoriented, steamy , Beth caught hold of the saddle horn to keep her balance. Devon swung up behind her, and as his body pressed against hers, she went from steamy to flaming hot faster than an active volcano.
“I…sorry…I can ride astride,” she said.
“Sure,” Devon answered easily. He waited while she squirmed, shuffled, and tugged at her long skirts, trying to rearrange herself without revealing too much leg.
“Um,” he added after a moment, clearing his throat.
“Er,” he said shortly thereafter.
Then suddenly he was dismounting, his boots hitting the ground with a decided thump . Confused, Beth looked down at him as he pressed his forehead against the horse’s flank.
“Is something the matter?” she inquired.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just need a minute.” His voice was rather trembly, and Beth thought with some alarm that he might be falling ill.
“Perhaps you ought to sit down,” she said.
“No, no. It’s only a muscle spasm.”
“Oh. In that case, you should massage it.”
He laughed.
While she awaited his recovery, Beth gnawed her gloved thumbnail, squinting northward and trying to estimate how long the journey to Canterbury would take and what birds they might see along the way. But her thoughts were interrupted by a shout; looking up, she noticed the French fishermen beside the dock, talking excitedly as they pointed to her.
“Oh! Hello!” she called out, waving.
Cursing, Devon instantly hoisted himself up behind her in the saddle and reached for the reins. “We need to leave,” he said. “Now.”
“But it’s our friends! And this is a perfect opportunity to clarify that you’re not an angry husband.” She went to wave again, and Devon caught her arm.
“There’s no time.”
Just then, the fishermen began to sprint toward them, roaring and brandishing a thin, pointed object.
“I beg your pardon,” Beth said, “but there is always time for good manners. Besides, I left my umbrella behind, and they clearly want to return it.”
“That’s not your umbrella,” Devon said. “That’s a bloody fishing spear. Hold tight.” He flicked the reins, urging the horse to gallop. “Gee-up!”
Nothing happened.
He flicked the reins again. “Gee-up!”
The horse lifted its head, perused the neighborhood for a moment, then began to stroll forward.
“Arrête, agresseur de femme!” the fishermen roared, drawing closer.
Beth twisted, trying to look over Devon’s shoulder at them. “They’re saying ‘Wait, kind lady!’?”
“Yeah, somehow I doubt that,” Devon muttered. Knocking his legs against the horse’s sides, he thus inspired it to shift up from a stroll into an amble.
“Nous allons te tuer!” shouted the fishermen.
“They’re inviting us to tea,” Beth translated.
“Ha! Run, you beast!” Devon squeezed harder and the horse at last began to trot.
“Aider!” Beth called to the fishermen. “Aider!”
“Don’t you mean adieu ?” Devon asked tartly.
“Of course, yes. Adieu! ”
But it was too late. The horse had rediscovered its spirit and was gaining speed. “They will think us so rude,” Beth complained.
“I can live with that,” Devon said. “Focus on imagining yourself finding the caladrius.”
Beth attempted to do so, but her imagination seemed more inspired by the circumstance of Devon’s arm wrapped about her waist, his body supporting hers, the two of them bouncing together in the saddle as the horse galloped toward town. Indeed, she became so inspired, she would have stepped down for the sake of her dignity, had that not been a sure way to ruin her dignity forever, considering the speed at which they traveled.
“Oh dear,” she said.
“Are you all right?” Devon asked at once.
“Just a muscle spasm.”
A small moment of silence followed. Then: “Oh dear, indeed,” he said. “Just keep holding on. I’ll get you there soon.”
—
In the shadows of the Dover train station, Mr. Flogg slid a finger across his mustache, smoothing its dark hairs as he watched Devon and Beth gallop north. “You were right, Mr. Fettick,” he said. “Separating them from the other ornithologists was a brilliant ploy. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours and they’re already working together closely.”
“Yes, ‘A Golden Team!’ indeed,” Mr. Fettick agreed. “There’s a lot of potential in this rivals-to-lovers concept.”
“It’s publicity magic!” Mr. Schreib enthused from where he stood alongside Mr. Cholmbaumgh, rolling a paper cigarette in a rather awkward attempt to fully embody his role as a thug. “Much better than just having Lockley as the lone hero. Everyone loves a romance.”
“I’m not sure IOS will,” Mr. Cholmbaumgh said. “After all, there can only be one Birder of the Year.”
“That’s true,” Schreib said, frowning worriedly. “Someone’s going to end up a loser, and then what will happen to the romance tale?”
But Mr. Flogg dismissed this concern with a wave of his hand. “An all-round happy ending isn’t necessary.”
“Hm,” Schreib murmured doubtfully.
“The bird’s capture is the important thing. After that, people will move on to the next sensational news. Besides, we haven’t figured out the details. For now, much work remains to be done.” He pointed at Schreib. “You go alert the local newspaper as to events. Now that the professors have begun their road trip, all manner of ‘Delectable Moments’ will occur, and someone needs to report on them. You”—now he pointed at Cholmbaumgh—“go talk to those French fishermen. Give them some reason to visit Canterbury. They add a fun international flavor.”
“And what will you be doing?” Cholmbaumgh asked boldly.
Mr. Flogg’s mustache flicked. “As the brains of this operation, Fettick and I will be doing the most important work of all.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Consulting with each other over coffee. Now saddle up, everyone, ha ha. We have a romantic adventure to organize, and I will be very cross if it ends up being madcap.”