Chapter Ten
Always be aware that, for every bird in the hand, there may be two in the bush just waiting to attack you.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
Beth wasted no time in dressing. She’d been left behind by everyone now, and while it was no more than she expected, and the ache she felt was purely biological (no doubt from eating ox tongue pie the night before), it did shake her back into her good sense.
I need to act strategically , she told herself as she pulled on her fire-dried clothes.
Intelligence has never been more essential , she averred as she pinned up her hair.
Every minute must be used to my best advantage , she added while folding sheets and blankets into a neat pile. From now on, she had to place her own interests first if she wanted any chance of winning the competition. And that was what really mattered. Not tingly feelings. Not foolish romantic wishes.
** Tenure! **
“I shall be ruthless!” she declared aloud. “After taking these dishes down to the kitchen, and talking to the innkeeper’s daughter as promised, I’ll run for the train, and no one had better get in my way! Especially not that scandalous reprobate, Devon Lockley! If I never see him again, it will be too soon!”
Gathering up her satchel, lifting her chin to the veriest height of dignity, she opened the bedroom door and stepped out.
Just as the bathroom door at the far end of the corridor opened and Devon emerged, fully dressed and wiping his freshly shaven jaw with a towel.
They both came to an abrupt halt, staring at each other. Devon’s face went still; Beth’s heart swooped like a bald eagle doing a courtship dance.
After what seemed like an eternity, Devon blinked. “I was just coming to wake you,” he said.
“I was just going downstairs to order breakfast,” Beth answered.
They went on staring, their expressions growing tight as each tried to determine if the other was lying.
“We can walk down together,” Devon suggested, tossing the towel back into the bathroom without looking.
“Very well,” Beth agreed, restraining herself from rushing to pick up said towel and hang it neatly. Had she needed a reminder of just how wicked this man could be, such careless handling of laundry would have served perfectly! But no such reminder was necessary, not when her lips still zinged with the touch of his kiss, and her brain still zapped with ideas after their late-night conversation, and she felt alarmingly sassy .
Besides, the unkempt fall of hair over his forehead offered more than enough proof of wickedness. He might as well just go ahead and approach her with slow, firm paces, look deep in her eyes, and with a sultry hint of a smile, invite her to brush back that hair. Villain!
A villain who hadn’t left her behind after all.
“Miss Pickering?” he said, and Beth shook herself out of reverie to see him still standing at a polite distance, gesturing toward the stairs. “After you?”
She lifted her chin to the veriest height of dignity—only to recall she’d already done so as several muscles in her neck twinged with the strain. “Of course,” she said primly, and turned on her heel before she could see the amusement on Devon’s face.
She took two steps, then stopped. The sound of familiar voices rose from beyond the stairwell’s corner.
“I hope the housemaid was right and it is them staying here. We really need a straightforward execution today,” said one.
“I’m sure it’s going to end with a bang,” said the other, chuckling.
Beth gasped. Schreib and Cholmbaumgh! Somehow they’d tracked her and Devon to the inn.
Instantly, Devon was at her side. But before they could decide in which direction to retreat, Schreib and Cholmbaumgh rounded the corner and halted mid-step, staring up at them in astonishment.
Without thinking, Beth threw the dishes at the men. As they ducked, shouting, she and Devon ran into the room of beds. Devon slammed the door shut behind them, turning the key in the lock. They leaned back against the wooden panel, and seconds later it began to shudder with furious knocking.
“Let us in!” Cholmbaumgh shouted.
“We only want to talk to you!” Schreib added.
“Do you think us complete idiots?” Devon called out.
“Well, you did get your doctorate from Yale,” Beth said, “so you can hardly blame them.”
He gave her a dark look. She shrugged defensively. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to help it. There must be some contagious aspect to your impishness.”
His eyebrows elevated at speed. “Did you just call me impish ?”
“Cheeky?” she tried again.
The eyebrows plummeted. “Sharp-witted,” he said. “Devilish.”
Thud! The door shuddered again. Beth barely noticed. Looking at Devon, she tried to think of another bantering comment, but her brain was too busy contemplating a career change from science to romantic poetry reading.
Thud!!
“The lock won’t hold for long,” Devon said. “We’ll have to go out the window.”
Without further conversation, he grasped Beth’s wrist, tugging her across the room. They clambered up two stacked bed frames, moving with the ease of professional bird chasers. Devon opened the window, then moved aside.
“After you,” he said, gesturing to the morning air beyond.
Beth tilted forward to peer out. They were situated on the inn’s second floor, as a consequence of which the ground was worryingly far below and, even more worryingly, was comprised of bare stone. A drainpipe only two feet away from the window provided a convenient escape route, but its agèd state warned of a possible shift of genre from adventure to tragedy.
Beth tilted back again, frowning at Devon. “Really, this insistence on ‘ladies first’ is not chivalrous when a risky descent is involved.”
“I thought you’d rather not be in a position where I could see up your skirt,” he said.
Thud, bang! contributed Schreib and Cholmbaumgh, apparently smashing their bodies against the door.
“I believe we can allow some leeway in etiquette,” Beth said, glancing out the window again. The ground winked back with a flash of morning light against a lingering rain puddle. “Besides, you already saw my petticoat last night when I hung it up to dry.”
Bang, thud!
“I’m heavier than you,” Devon argued. “Should the drainpipe come away from the wall because of my weight upon it, you’ll be closer to the ground, therefore safer.”
Beth stared blankly at this dubious argument, Devon stared back, and the pursuers kicked the door so vehemently it cracked.
“Oh, very well,” she said, hauling up her skirts and climbing onto the window ledge. “But this is a mark against your character.”
“I’m flattered you’re keeping notes.” Taking hold of her arm, he steadied her as she reached for the drainpipe.
“You needn’t grip so firmly,” she grumbled.
“Just—careful,” he said. And again as she pulled away to grasp the pipe—“Careful!”
“My gloves are going to be ruined,” Beth muttered as she began her descent. A great crash announced the men’s conquest of the door, and Devon swung himself hastily onto the pipe. Seconds later, Schreib and Cholmbaumgh appeared at the open window.
“Oi! Stop!” they shouted, brandishing their fists.
“While that’s an entirely reasonable request,” Devon called out, “I’m afraid we can’t just now.”
“Dreadfully sorry!” Beth added.
“Damn!” came the response, and the men disappeared from view.
“Hurry before they get downstairs,” Devon said.
Beth frowned. “I’m going as fast as I—”
“Hey!” came a new voice as a window flung open beside her. Startled, Beth clutched the pipe even tighter. A young girl leaned out to gape wide-eyed at her. “Who are you?”
“Professor Pickering,” Beth said. “Forgive me for not shaking hands.”
“Are you the bird lady my dad told me about last night? The one who gave me a feather?”
Beth smiled. “Yes.”
“Is it a real, actual deathwhistler feather?” the girl asked, propping her elbows on the window ledge and staring with fascination.
“Indeed,” Beth assured her. “An underwing covert, which is a type of feather that birds use to—”
“Excuse me,” came Devon’s tightly measured voice from above. “Pedagogical diligence is all very admirable, but this really, really isn’t a good time for a lesson.”
“Right.” Beth gave herself a little shake. “Sorry,” she said to the girl. “I’ll send you a letter all about it when I’m next at liberty to write!”
“Are you doing that contest?” the girl asked as Beth recommenced the descent.
“I am.”
She waved vigorously. “Good luck!” Then Devon passed her window, and her eyes grew so wide she might be compared to the yeti owl of Siberia. “Oh gosh. Are you a birder too?”
“Yup,” he said with a grin.
“If I go to birding university,” she asked as he continued down, “will I meet more handsome men like you?”
Devon laughed. But Beth, reaching the ground, called up, “You should hope not! Handsome men are all too often scoundrels!”
“You think I’m handsome, Miss Pickering?” Devon asked, and only the fact that just then she glimpsed Cholmbaumgh and Schreib through the inn’s dining room window saved Beth from making a sassy, bantering reply. A moment later Devon dropped to the ground beside her and, catching her hand in his, pulled her into a run across the courtyard toward a gated fence, beyond which lay the road.
“Really, this constant towing of me is unnecessary,” Beth complained.
“I’m not towing you,” Devon said. “I’m using you as ballast.” And yet his grip loosened, so that she might easily withdraw from it if she wanted. Beth, however, did have to admit he provided a convenient ballast for her too. She tightened her own grip, Devon pushed open the gate, and they dashed out.
And came to a sudden, jolting halt at the sight of the French fishermen standing at the inn’s entrance, all peering at a map one of them held open.
“Damn,” Devon muttered. He very nearly yanked Beth’s arm from its socket as he began towing her even faster up the street.
Determined not to surrender every nicety, Beth called out in wayward French. “Hello! I see you there!” (“Bonjour! J’ai peur, sauve-moi!”)
Immediately, all four men began shouting and pointing to her. Beth was surprised to hear a tone of anger in their voices. Then Cholmbaumgh and Schreib emerged from the inn, plowing into their ranks, and a skirmish immediately broke out.
“We should go to help our friends,” Beth said, glancing back with concern.
Devon laughed darkly in response. “No, thank you. We’ll be lucky to outrun any of them as it is.”
Just then, a milkman’s wagon drove past the group. Devon’s eyes lit up, and thus Beth received half a second’s warning before he tugged her into the middle of the road.
“Oh no,” she said. “Not another hijacking.”
“Do you want to escape Schreib and Cholmbaumgh and get to the train on time?” Devon asked as he pulled a gun from beneath his coat. Beth stared at it in surprise.
“I thought you gave that to Miss Marin yesterday.”
He cast her a wry look. “What kind of ornithologist would I be if I didn’t keep a hidden weapon?” Extending his arm, he pointed the gun at the milkman, who gave a startled shout and reined in his horse.
“We’re taking your wagon!” Devon called out.
“Dreadfully sorry!” Beth added with a small wave.
They clambered onto the driver’s bench, forcing the milkman to its edge. Snatching the reins, shouting “ Hyah! ” Devon sent the horses into a gallop. The wagon juddered wildly, and bottles rattled against each other in their crates.
“Stop!” the milkman wailed, clinging desperately to the bench. “You’ll spill the milk!”
Devon flashed a sidelong grin at Beth. “Shall I tell him not to cry over it? Or shall I butter him up instead?”
She clicked her tongue with exasperation. “It’s bad enough you keep hijacking people, do you have to add the crime of cheesy jokes?”
She heard the pun a moment after she said it and winced. The man was corrupting her even at the subconscious level!
Devon laughed. “You are the cream of the crop, Miss Pickering,” he said. And it was like he’d kissed her again—the warmth, the tingles, making her blush like a fool.
“Oh God, please stop!” the milkman begged. “Hijack me if you must, but no more bad puns!”
“Sorry!” they said in unison. And Beth lowered her face to hide a smile as the wagon carried them into the sunlit wind.
—
“So this is goodbye.”
She stared at the train ticket in her hand. It had taken almost all her money, but that was fine, she would visit a bank the moment she arrived in London. And then she would buy new clothes, new shoes, perhaps a new field guide while she was at it, something scholarly—
“Miss Pickering,” Devon said for the second time, and she drew a deep breath before raising her head to smile at him pleasantly. He smiled back, of course he did, all heedless flair and confidence, entirely untroubled by their parting.
Her heart drooped. She did not like this man, nor respect him, nor feel any ache at the thought she’d never again talk with him about birds, or kiss him in a tiny, secret room while a storm raged outside.
But oh, what a ruthless liar she was to herself.
“The train is still fifteen minutes away,” he said. “Perhaps we could wait for it together? Solely for practical reasons, you understand—in case our pursuers turn up?”
“Yes,” she said almost before he finished speaking. Then realizing how daft she was, she flushed and turned away. But Devon turned with her, his arm brushing hers in a devastatingly casual manner.
“Hmm,” he said. “Where can we sit?”
Beth considered the matter calmly, as if the thought of sitting with him was not akin to the memory of dancing with him by candlelight. The station comprised two platforms, dissected by train tracks and overarched by a cavernous roof. The southbound one was empty, the advertisements pasted to its wall fluttering a little in a warm, dusty breeze. But the northbound one, on which they stood, bustled with passengers heading for London. Beth sighted Monsieur Chevrolet and Miss Eliza Wolfe, the former seated at a wrought-iron table dressed with lace cloths and a tiny vase of flowers, the latter perched daintily on a travel trunk beneath a parasol held aloft by a footman. They were casting disdainfully murderous looks at each other while their servants brought them tea, arranged their luggage, and in Monsieur Chevrolet’s case, performed an emergency manicure. Beth tried to determine how she might traverse the platform without being noticed herself.
Devon laid his hand on her back. “Why don’t we find somewhere private—?”
“Aaaahhhhhhh!!!”
It took Beth a second to realize the scream hadn’t come from her, primarily due to its being not excited but terrified. Devon instantly moved to shield her, which was delightfully protective blastedly annoying, as she could not see what had happened. More screams arose, and people began to run. Stepping away from Devon, Beth turned, trying to find the source of the panic.
And came within a wingspan of dying as a deadly frostbird swooped down, a sinuous blur of long white feathers and silvery flares, trailing icy sparks that scorched the morning with a promise of carnage.