Page 27 of Lady Like

Outside the shop, the high street is bustling. The smell of sugared fruit just on the edge of burning wafts off a nearby cart, and Harry considers that a pie on the walk home may be just the thing.

“The yellow gives me pause,” Emily says, stopping to retie her bonnet.

“You’ll carry it with aplomb,” Harry assures her. “If Rochester doesn’t compliment you on the color of your dress at the Derby, I’ll eat it.”

“Are we still going to Ranelagh Gardens tonight? For my interesting anecdote about an interesting outing?”

“The box isn’t reserved until half seven,” Harry says. “Shall I walk you back to your cousin’s?”

Emily frowns. “What for?”

“Respite from my company.”

Emily rolls her eyes. “Oh stop.”

“What? You’re surely weary of me.”

“I know what you’re doing.” Emily juts her chin up toward Harry, bonnet slipping backward. “You can’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” Harry asks, feigning ignorance. “That you enjoy my company?”

Emily presses a gloved hand upon her lips. “I shan’t.”

“If you stay silent, it’s the same as a lie.”

“Is it?”

“Come now.” Harry grabs Emily by the wrist, prying her hand from her mouth. “Just say it once. Tell me you enjoy me.”

Emily shrieks, half surprise, half laughter as Harry pulls her in. “Release me.”

“You do, don’t you?” Harry presses Emily’s wrist to her heart, and Emily bends against her like a tree braced into the wind.

This flirtation is growing more blatant by the minute, but Harry can’t help herself.

Emily’s cheeks are pink, mouth curled in a smile, and Harry is still thinking of the moment they shared in the shop, the way playfulness had become suddenly charged.

How easily she could grow addicted to that feeling.

Even now, she knows she’s courting it to a dangerous degree. “Say it just once and I’ll let you go.”

Emily twists in Harry’s grip, though the fight is weak enough that Harry is certain it’s just for show. “I find you irritating!”

“And?” Harry drags out the word. “Say it.”

Emily purses her lips, gaze darting downward before glancing up at Harry through her lashes and God, but Harry is possessed by the mad desire to kiss her upon the wrist. Were this any other woman but Emily Sergeant, she would have, even if it earned her a slap for the boldness.

But Emily Sergeant is made of a different matter.

Harry finds her preferences skew toward flinty women—usually those who despise her—so the attraction doesn’t surprise her.

It is that as Emily’s cold exterior begins to thaw, Harry finds herself leaning in closer.

Which is…different.

“Miss Lockhart,” Emily says slowly. “While it pains me greatly to admit it—”

“Go on.”

“And though I fear I shall come to regret these words—”

“Such preamble.”

“And thus reserve the right to rescind them at any time.” Emily wiggles her wrist in Harry’s hand, but Harry holds firm. Emily throws her head back. “I concede that perhaps it is true that today, and today only, I find I have somewhat enjoyed—”

But she is interrupted when something hits Harry in the chest.

One minute she’s standing next to Emily, the next she has been thrown several steps backward from impact and her front is dripping with red.

Blood? Has she just been shot? She remembers one of the stagehands from the Palace—a veteran of the Napoleonic Wars with a dead arm from a bullet at Waterloo—who told her he never felt the pain, just the impact.

“What happened?” Emily cries. Her face is freckled with red. “Are you all right?”

Harry reaches down and touches the front of her dress, only to realize it’s not blood smeared there, but fruit. She’s not been shot—she’s had a cherry pie flung into her chest. Looking around, she spots a figure fleeing the scene, a hand thrown over his face to conceal his identity.

Harry holds up one finger to Miss Sergeant. “Will you excuse me?” she says, then takes off at a run after her attacker.

Two blocks later, Harry manages to snag him by the back of his jacket as he turns down an alley. She shoves him into a window, rattling the casements.

She isn’t surprised that she catches the pie assassin—she’s fit and long-legged, and he’s small and chuffing. What does surprise her is that Emily Sergeant appears by her side, winded, and that carefully knotted bonnet free and flopping against her shoulder.

Before she’s even properly caught her breath, Emily cries, “What the devil is the matter with you?”

Harry thinks for a moment Emily is shouting at her, then realizes that no, she’s scolding the assailant.

And she isn’t finished. “You strike my friend with a pie and then flee? The very least you can do is apologize, if this was an honest mistake, and if it was intentional, then I must ask, are you cruel or stupid or both? Was this meant to be some kind of demented prank? Apologize now, or I will alert the constabulary to your maleficence and see that you are disciplined sufficiently.”

“Easy, that’s enough.” Harry holds up a hand to stop Emily. As enjoyable as it would be to continue watching her verbally fillet the scoundrel, she needs him to explain the motivations behind his senseless but absurd crime.

Emily huffs, arms folded, then barks at the man, “Explain yourself, sirrah!”

The man—God, he’s only a boy, just out of short pants by the looks of him.

The top of his head barely passes Harry’s shoulder—how he managed to fling the pie high enough to strike her directly in the breast is as great a mystery as why.

“The Duke of Edgewood sends his regards!” he cries, his defiance undercut by how close he is to tears.

“Oh Jesus Christ.” Dread punches its way through the buzz of alarm and confusion ringing in Harry’s chest. She had thought enough time had elapsed that the duke’s thirst for revenge had passed.

They had dueled in February, for God’s sake, and now it was nearly May!

Duels were meant to end feuds, not progress into protracted pastry-based revenge—though Harry supposes burying the hatchet is easier when one of the parties ends up dead.

Harry lets go the boy’s collar and shoves him away from the wall. “Get lost, pup. Tell your duke I got his message and I’m terribly afeared.”

As the boy takes off at a sprint, Harry turns to Emily, ready to give a hand-waving dismissal of the peculiar attack they just survived.

But before she can, Emily asks, “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so. Irritated, mostly.” Harry touches the point of impact, only to find that her hands are shaking.

If this were a bullet, she thinks, hand folded over her heart, this is when the pain would start to set in.

Best to keep chatting like nothing is wrong to convince them both.

“I paid a shilling for that new hem and now the whole dress is ruined. To say nothing of the waste of a good pie.”

Emily lifts a hand, like she might attempt to brush the pie off Harry, then reconsiders, as the mess is beyond brushing. “I can get the stain out.”

“With all due respect to your domestic abilities, I don’t think anything short of a cleansing fire will affect this dress.”

“Let me try. With a bit of vinegar, I’m sure it can be salvaged.” Emily folds her hand into the crook of Harry’s elbow, and leads her back to the street. “Come on. Let’s get away from here.”

And Harry, God help her, stunned and dazed and dripping in pie, lets Emily Sergeant walk her home.