Page 18 of How to Fall for a Scoundrel

“Any particular type of bird?”

Morris shrugged apologetically. “Dunno. One with a beak. Crow? Raven? I didn’t get a good look.”

“Mind if I take a closer look at that coat?”

Morris obligingly shrugged out of it, revealing a rumpled bottle-green military jacket and pair of ragged trousers beneath.

“Are you hoping the previous owner left a calling card in one of the pockets?” Ellie asked as Harry inspected it.

“I am, but unfortunately there’s nothing here to help us.” He glanced up at Morris, but instead of giving him back the coat, he handed it over to Ellie. To her amazement, he started to remove his own handsome topcoat.

“I tell you what, Sergeant Morris. Let me take this coat, and I’ll give you mine in exchange. We’re of a similar size, and you’ll do far better in a coat that fits you. This, might I add, is by far the superior garment. The finest cashmere twill, made from goats, not sheep, produced by Ternaux of Paris, and lined with a silk-wool blend.” He held it out to Morris, who stroked the sleeve.

“Gawd,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent. “That’s softer than a whore’s—” He snapped his mouth closed, belatedly realizing he was in the company of a lady, and a red flush crept up his neck. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”

Ellie smiled serenely, having heard such terms, and worse, while investigating some of her previous cases. “Softer than a kitten’s fur?” she suggested wryly.

“Aye.”

Giving into temptation, she removed her own leather glove and touched the coat herself—something she’d wanted to do from the very first moment she’d seen Harry at her door. The fabric was as outrageously luxurious as it looked, and she marveled at the carelessness with which he surrendered such a treasure.

Perhaps, since his was ill-gotten wealth, it was easily gained, and easily lost, but ifsheowned such a beautiful thing, she’d have fought tooth and nail to keep it.

Morris threaded his arms into the sleeves and tugged it up over his shoulders, then gave a pleased nod at the better fit.

Harry gave him a jovial slap on the shoulder. “There. An almost perfect fit.”

That wasn’t entirely true—the ex-soldier was demonstrably slimmer than Harry, both at the shoulders and the waist, and since he was also shorter, the coat reached to his shins, instead of falling just below the knee. It was,however, far better than the mysterious criminal’s coat, which Harry folded over his arm.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a guinea, which he pressed into the sergeant’s hand.

“Thank you for your help, Sergeant Morris. Much appreciated. And if you make your way over to Feather Court, in Covent Garden, behind the Drury Lane Theatre, ask for Long Meg at the Traveler’s Rest tavern. Tell her you’re a friend of Ambrose Cox, and she’ll give you a hot meal and a place to stay until you can get back on your feet.”

Morris stared at him in disbelief. “What about Mutton?”

“He’ll be welcome too. Meg loves dogs.”

“Ambrose Cox.” Morris nodded, half to himself, as if to remember the name. “I’ll do that sir, thank you. Gawd bless you.”

Harry waved off his gratitude. “No more stealing, agreed? It’s a sorry end for a man, dancing the Tyburn jig.”

“I swear to you, sir. Never again. You ’ave my word. Come on, Mutton. We’re off to Feather Court. Good day miss, sir.”

When Morris had loped off, Harry headed back toward the carriage and Ellie trailed in his wake, buffeted by conflicting emotions.

The scoundrel’s observational skills were impressive, but she’d been equally touched by the kindness he’d exhibited. Instead of shaming the ex-soldier for his crime, he’d made him feel understood, and his no-nonsense compassion had left the man with his battered pride intact. He’d made accepting charity easy, instead of humiliating.

Ellie huffed to herself. It was one thing to disapprove of a selfish, unscrupulous scoundrel. It was much harderto dislike a man who showed consideration for others. If she wasn’t careful, she might be in danger oflikingthe man.

Harry tossed the greatcoat inside the carriage, helped her up the step, then clambered in himself.

“Cork Street, please, Carson,” he called up to the driver.

Chapter Ten

“Who’s Long Meg?” Ellie asked, as soon as they set off. “A courtesan?”

Harry’s dimples flashed. “No. She’s an old friend.”