Page 7 of The Duke and Lady Scandal (Princes of London #1)

The entire time he’d been on Moulton Street, Drake had been aware of Miss Prince’s nearness, that he could stride straight into her family’s charming little antique shop if wished. And, very logically, he’d listened to the inner voice that warned him not to risk another encounter with the spark of a woman.

So it was a shock to see her standing in the middle of Hawlston’s Coffeehouse. To see her in daylight, with the windows at her back, showing him that her hair, which had seemed chestnut brown yesterday, was in fact auburn. Streaked through with sparks of red, not readily apparent unless the light struck them just right. That suited her entirely. As did the buttery glow of the shop’s overhead gas lamps.

It wasn’t that the dim light in his office had hidden her appeal, only that this illumination brightened her eyes and highlighted the most shocking bit of all.

Miss Prince wore a decidedly pleased look on her face.

The sort of look one gives someone they haven’t seen in far too long. She was pleased to see him. Which caused an odd flicker of awareness in him. He had the urge to reach for her. Which was nonsensical. They were all but strangers.

Yet it was ridiculously appealing—that gentle curve of her lips. So much so that his breath hitched for a moment in his chest, and all the chatter and busyness of the coffeehouse fell away.

Seconds ticked by until his addled brain dredged up a bit of cool logic.

She wasn’t pleased to see him. His presence proved that he’d listened to her, that he gave her story merit. Enough to venture out and make inquiries. That’s what she’d wanted most when she visited his office. He’d sensed her fear that she would not be believed or that he might tell her she was overreacting.

There was still a possibility she’d heard nothing more than idle bluster, some ne’er-do-wells’ musings. But if he ignored her story entirely and someone did make an attempt on the Crown Jewels? He’d be derelict in his duty, and he could never forgive himself. Not to mention that Haverstock would never give him a bloody promotion.

He glanced at Mrs. Cline to bid her good day, but she was already halfway down the counter speaking to another customer. When he turned back, Miss Prince was striding toward him, and her expression had bloomed into an outright smile.

“You came,”

she said as she approached.

Drake thought it best they didn’t have this or any conversation about the matter in the coffeehouse, so rather than respond to her comment, he strode toward her and then brushed past.

Cinnamon and lavender and the smell of beeswax polish assaulted his senses as he passed her.

“Out front,”

he told her quietly, hoping she’d take his meaning and follow.

He ignored Fitz, and strode toward her shop, out of view of the coffeehouse windows.

When he stopped and turned back, he found her on his heels and not looking nearly as delighted by his presence.

Good. He didn’t need to overthink her smiles. He didn’t need the lady stuck in his thoughts at all.

“I take it you haven’t seen the men again, Miss Prince.”

“I haven’t.”

Her voice dipped and she crimped her brow as if admitting a failing. “But I’ve only been in the shop for a few minutes.”

She glanced at the toes of her boots before facing him again. “In truth, I avoided my usual morning visit. I didn’t wish to see the three again, but then I realized my foolishness. If I see them again, I could assist you.”

“I do not require your assistance.”

The idea of her involving herself in this kindled every protective impulse he possessed. “Trust that I have the matter in hand.”

In his periphery, Ben saw Fitz staring at them from across Moulton Street without any subtlety or attempt to conceal his gaping.

“I was the one who heard them, Inspector, and they might return to Hawlston’s.”

“They may.”

“And you won’t visit every day,”

she pointed out, “but I will.”

“As will a man who will be reporting to me if he sees or hears anything of interest.”

He glanced in Fitz’s direction.

She did too. “Oh, I see.”

One brow peaked, and she seemed to reassess him on the spot. “Good. That’s more than I expected, if I’m honest.”

Ben imagined Miss Prince had a difficult time being anything but honest. And he felt an unwelcome flare of pleasure at the fact that he’d managed to exceed her expectations.

“Now, I hope you can put this business out of your mind.”

He couldn’t order the lady about, but he damned well hoped she’d refrain from meddling. Though, only having met her once, he would most definitely place her in the category of ladies most likely to meddle.

He waited for some reply. Prayed for the merest acknowledgment that she would content herself with running her shop and whatever else usually occupied her.

“I will do my best, Inspector Drake.”

“Excellent. Then I bid you good day.”

“Good day to you.”

She made no move to return to the coffeehouse or to enter her shop, just stood and watched him as he waited for a carriage to pass and then made his way toward Fitz.

The urge to turn back nearly overwhelmed him, but he’d trained himself to avoid temptation.

“I’m confused, Duke. Did you come to inspect the coffeehouse or court that pretty redhead?”

“She’s none of your concern.”

Ben frowned. Hadn’t he just said as much to himself?

Fitz chuckled at that. “But she’s yours, it’s clear to see.”

The glower Ben gave the man seemed to quell his merriment.

“Can I finally have a cuppa?”

“As many as you like. Use your discretion to decide how long to stay but do visit daily. Track your time and provide me with a report.”

Ben withdrew a pouch he’d filled generously. “A deposit for the fortnight.”

Fitz bounced the coin-filled bag in his palm. “Generous as always. I’ll start straightaway.”

Ben waited until Fitz had entered Hawlston’s and then allowed himself one final glance at Princes of London.

She was back in the coffeehouse. Seated but moving, of course. She chatted with a young dark-haired lady at one of the tables near the window. He noted how she had a tendency to reach up and push stray strands of hair behind her ear, and it made his fingers itch.

How would those glossy auburn strands feel against his skin? Would she blush if he reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear?

No. Those were things he could not have. He needed to put Miss Prince out of his mind.

Yesterday, she’d made an impression. Today, he’d been transfixed by watching her. If he kept encountering the woman, she’d only consume more of his thoughts.

For the rest of the afternoon, Allie busied herself with tidying. The back room now smelled of polish, and the inventory room was better organized than it had been in months. She’d even found a few pieces that Dominic had received but never listed in their inventory ledger. The great cost of being as single-minded as her brother was that he couldn’t be bothered with details. The mundane bored him to tears. But in running a shop, doing the mundane tasks well meant a great deal.

One of the items she unearthed was a Japanese vase she knew one of their regular customers would adore, so she finally allowed herself a moment off her feet and sat down to pen a letter to the dowager countess who Allie suspected would snap the vase up.

From her spot at her work desk in the back room, she could see Mr. Gibson at the front counter. He’d taken a tray full of watch parts out with him, though the steady stream of customers had kept him busy. As the winter holidays approached, they always got busier.

Allie finished her letter and had begun writing out the countess’s address when the bell rang above the shop door.

She looked up to catch sight of a gentleman dressed for the evening in white tie and a dark ebony coat. He looked as if he was ready for the opera or dinner at an expensive restaurant rather than a browse at an antique shop. Mr. Gibson greeted him with the same measured tone he offered each new customer.

Allie began her search for a stamp among the piles of notes and papers on the desk they all used. She found one, apparently their last, and scribbled out a reminder in her notebook to buy more.

Then the customer’s voice filtered in from the front of the shop and she froze.

It was a voice she recognized.

Her pen skidded across the page, streaking ink, and she held her breath, straining to hear.

“I do not believe in simplicity, and I demand perfection.”

Allie laid her pen aside and concentrated on listening. Yes, there was no denying it. He sounded very much like the ominous tall man at Hawlston’s.

Moving as quietly as she could, she tiptoed over and positioned herself near the threshold. Then she peeked through the half-open door.

The customer was indeed tall, but he looked nothing like the man in the alley. She could only see him in profile, but he was clean-shaven with light brown hair. And he seemed wider, less lean, though his layers of clothing could account for the change.

“If I provide you with a gem,”

the customer said to Mr. Gibson, “can you cut it to my specifications?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Show me some of your work, if you would.”

The man flicked a gloved hand out and Mr. Gibson reached for the calling card he offered.

Allie noted the jump of Mr. Gibson’s brows after he glanced down at the details on the card. “I will be pleased to, my lord,”

he said. Then he led the man to the jewelry counter.

Pressing her back against the wall, Allie willed her breathing to steady, willed her mind to stop leaping to conclusions.

The man’s accent was clipped and precise, and that made sense if he was a nobleman. But why would a nobleman involve himself in a scheme to steal jewels from the monarchy that gave his very title legitimacy? But, of course, that might be the heart of the matter. Perhaps the man was not loyal to the Crown. His sympathies might lie with the Irish cause for home rule or with one of the workers’ unions.

Allie glanced at the man again as he followed Mr. Gibson to the locked case where they displayed their finest objects and jewels.

The similarities were undeniable. He carried himself with the same confidence as the man she’d seen—albeit briefly—outside Hawlston’s.

“Do you have a loupe?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

Mr. Gibson handed the man the magnifying monocle he carried with him everywhere.

Allie watched as the man lifted the loupe to his face, and her belly dropped into her boots. It was him. She had no doubt. Something about the curve of his cheek as it met the lens. He was the man she’d seen at Hawlston’s.

The nobleman lifted his head and snapped his gaze toward the back-room doorway as if he sensed her perusal. Allie sprang back, flattening herself against the wallpaper and holding her breath. She prayed he hadn’t seen her.

Several minutes ticked by, and every moment she feared the man would burst into the back room and . . . She wasn’t certain what he’d do, but surely he would not wish for someone who could identify him if he was going to engage in such a brazen attempt at thievery.

Her breath rushed out and her heart felt as if it was trying to leap from her chest, but all she heard from the front of the shop was Mr. Gibson’s voice as he described two of the rings he’d cut and a matching sapphire necklace. The other man murmured quietly in response. Then the men’s voices faded, as if they’d both stepped toward the front of the shop.

She dared not peek out again, for fear the nobleman would spot her.

A moment later, the bell chimed, and she could only guess that the man had departed.

Still, she waited, straining to hear. Finally, she could make out Mr. Gibson’s footsteps cutting a path toward her. His eyes widened when he stepped into the back room.

“Are you all right, Miss Prince?”

He examined her with genuine concern. “I heard scraping around back here and thought you might have encountered a mouse.”

“No, not a mouse. Grendel would have heard the creature before either of us.”

Allie blew out a few long, relieved breaths and pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart rate to settle. “Do you have the card he gave you?”

“The customer?”

“Yes, I need it.”

“It’s up front.”

Allie rushed past him and spotted the gilded rectangle on the counter and snatched it up. It was printed on scarlet paper, thick and expensive, with elaborate gold details.

It read Lord Thomas Holcroft, Belgrave Square, London, and Allie’s hand shook as she examined it.

Finally, she had something. Some tangible proof that the man existed, and she needed to get it to Inspector Drake immediately.

“Is something amiss?”

Mr. Gibson had followed her to the counter.

“What did he say?”

“That he wishes to bring me a gem, a diamond, to cut to his specifications.”

“Did he say when?”

Mr. Gibson nodded. “He said he would deliver it to me tomorrow afternoon.”

“Personally? He himself will return?”

“That seemed to be his implication, yes.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,”

Allie repeated breathlessly. “There’s not much time. I must go.”

“Miss Prince, will you please tell me what’s upset you so?”

He gestured toward his own face. “You’ve gone as red as a ruby, and you’re breathing as if you’ve just won a foot race.”

“I believe that man may be up to something nefarious.”

She didn’t want to tell him more. No need to cause him to worry when Inspector Drake would no doubt wish to keep the matter quiet.

Mr. Gibson frowned. “Do you know the man? What gives you reason to suspect him?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say more. Not yet.”

Allie drew closer. “I may be wrong, but it’s worth getting this information to someone who can sort the matter out.”

“Shall I decline Lord Holcroft’s custom if he returns tomorrow?”

“No, not at all. We need him to return, and we need to be ready.”

Allie reached for her coat and scarf and donned both while Mr. Gibson regarded her with a mixture of concern and doubt.

“I know I’m not making a great deal of sense, but I must go. Would you mind closing up on your own?”

“Not at all, but I am concerned about you, Miss Prince.”

A sigh escaped him, and it seemed weighted with sadness. “I’m afraid this is just the sort of thing your brother feared before he departed.”

Allie’s shoulders tightened and she clenched her jaw at the reminder. “I know it may seem that I’m acting impulsively, but I’m not.”

At his dubious expression, she gave a tiny smile.

“All right, perhaps I am, but I must. This matter is urgent, and if it turns out well, I vow that Dominic will be proud of me.”

He nodded but offered her a warning look very much like her brother—or her father—would have.

Allie slid the nobleman’s card into her coat pocket and made her way out to the street to hail a hansom. This afternoon, she’d told herself she’d likely never see Detective Inspector Benedict Drake again, but it seemed she would. She had exactly what he needed—a clear lead that would allow him to properly investigate the matter.

This time, at least, he would be pleased to see her.