Page 9 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

N either of the young women had been to Bow Street before, let alone the Runner offices.

When the coach rolled to a halt in front of the stately home on Bow Street, Beecham offered to walk with them inside.

But even in front of Bow Street it wasn’t a good idea to leave a carriage unattended, so the young women went in alone.

The hustle and bustle of Runners and the general London public filled the room. Noise echoed off the walls, a distracting cacophony. A counter at the back of the room had several clerks waiting to take statements from people.

Almost everyone in the office was a man—both the clerks and the people reporting crimes or seeking assistance.

Annette and Damaris stayed close together, lifting their chins against any scrutiny they received.

“I don’t suppose as a daughter of a baron you’ve done this sort of thing before,” Damaris murmured in Annette’s ear.

Annette laughed. “No. And you, as the daughter of a solicitor, are you any more familiar with the justice system?”

They giggled while they waited in line. Once they stood before a clerk, Damaris took charge.

“Mr. Foster,” she greeted, reading the man’s name on the badge. “I must report a crime—or, rather, a crime about to happen.”

The man, in his late twenties, just picked up his fountain pen and waited for her to continue.

“There is a young Frenchman who recently arrived, and he’s been hovering nearby her—our—shop and asking questions about our customers.” She cleared her throat. “He intimated that he’d arrived via a smuggling vessel.”

“Miss,” the man cut in. “We’re the Runners. We’re not the excisemen.”

“I am aware,” Damaris said, refusing for once to be cowed. “Please allow me to continue.”

The man gestured for her to keep speaking.

“He asked many questions about a ball hosted by the duke and duchess of Westbrook. And when I visited his rooms today, to see why he wanted this information, I saw gunpowder and a letter with instructions on how to create a small explosive, like a hand grenade.”

The man pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and looked up at them. “Miss, are you aware of how old-fashioned hand grenades are? Now we have proper cannons; few armies carry them.”

“Yes, sir,” Damaris said, frustration squeezing her chest. “I understand that. But what we saw was a much smaller mortar that could be made by one person and deposited somewhere, close enough to a group of people that some would die if it went off.”

He frowned at her. “This seems highly unlikely. Why would this happen?”

“He’s a Frenchman who despises Napoleon,” Damaris said.

“I believe he wants to plant an explosive device that will harm both English and Russian members of Society. I believe the explosion will appear to be caused by agents of Napoleon to harm the British nobility present at the ball tonight. But when it also hurts the Russian diplomatic party, it could break the alliance between them.”

The clerk set his pen down. “That seems overly complicated.”

Annette stirred beside Damaris, then clasped her hand and squeezed.

Damaris, fortified by the touch, pushed back. “But it is possible. A Frenchman with access to gunpowder should be investigated, do you not think, sir?”

“The Duke of Westbrook will never allow Runners in his home, especially on the night of a ball. Do you know what those types are like? Awfully high on the instep.”

Damaris grimaced and nodded, seeing from the corner of her eyes Annette also agree with sympathy.

“I understand sir, but I am genuinely frightened for the safety of the most powerful and noble people in our country. Would it not look terrible if there was an attack and people were wounded—or worse, died—and it came out later that this statement did not merit at least an inquiry from Bow Street?”

He frowned at her, as if wanting her to know he was being maneuvered. “Very well. I’ll include this in the day’s reports. Give me the address of the room he’s let, as well as the man’s name, and someone will investigate tomorrow morning.”

“But that will be too late!” Annette burst out.

Damaris subtly pressed her foot against Annette’s, reminding her to stay quiet. Although she had no discernible accent, Annette was right to stay in the background and not draw anyone’s attention. Damaris didn’t want any of Cousin Philippe’s trouble to envelop Annette and her mother.

“It’s already nearly five of the clock in the afternoon,” the man pointed out. “You should have come to us sooner if you wished us to act. Look, I’ll place this at the top of my pile. But I make no promises.”

Damaris and Annette sighed as one.

“Very well,” Damaris said reluctantly. “We understand. Thank you, sir.”

The man wrote down all relevant information, including Damaris’s name and direction. She hoped and prayed that her parents would never find out about this report or the afternoon jaunt before it.

With drooping shoulders drooping and stifled sighs, the young women turned and left.

“What are we going to do?” Damaris whispered, clutching her reticule tightly to her chest. “That wasn’t a promising response.”

Annette blew out a breath between pursed lips and shook her head, her bonnet swaying with the movement.

Damaris suppressed the urge to touch those pursed lips and smooth them back into their perfect rosebud shape. “I’m sorry it’s so difficult.”

As they left, Damaris asked Beecham to return Annette back to the modiste shop.

He grunted as if to say, finally she shows some sense , and helped them into the carriage.

Once inside, Annette untied her bonnet and flung it aside, sighing heavily. “It’s useless. Perhaps Philippe isn’t doing anything anyway.”

Damaris sat beside Annette this time rather than across, hoping she could provide emotional support. She thought carefully. “Do you truly think so?”

Anette frowned and looked out the window. “I know not.”

“I think it’s still worth pursuing. What if he succeeds? What if innocent people die in an explosion tonight? I’m supposed to attend that ball. And if Bow Street or the War Office track him down, what happens to you? You’re French and you’re his cousin. Would you be imprisoned, too?”

Annette blanched and looked at Damaris. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

Damaris leaned back against the squab. “I’m attending the ball in just a few hours. Perhaps I can track him down?”

“What about anyone he’s working with? What if he’s just handing the device off to them?”

Damaris took a breath. “I think you should come with me.”

Annette blinked. “What? How?”

The coach swayed as the Beecham drove them around a corner.

“I can get you in as my lady’s maid, perhaps.

” Damaris shrugged. “We’re not there as honored guests.

We’re just there to make the ball into a crush.

So the duchess can crow about how many people attended.

You can talk him out of his terrible idea, and then we can have a lovely evening in the retiring room.

I’ll sneak in some champagne and pastries. ”

Annette smiled, revealing the lovely gap between her teeth. “I love pastries.”

“I thought so,” Damaris returned with a smug smile, leaning toward her friend.

Annette reached out and took Damaris’s hand in hers, squeezing gently. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For today. For helping.”

“Of course,” Damaris said, suddenly unable to breathe. She looked at their gloved fingers and wished she could remove the fabric between their skin. The images of the women in the pamphlet rushed back to her, as well as Annette’s admission of her own experience.

Would kissing Annette be as good as Annette claimed it could be? Damaris was curious. She’d never even been curious about kissing a man. Nothing about it appealed to her, just like kidney pie.

But Annette was like meringue—light and sweet and drenched over something sharp with flavor that made you sit up and take notice. Damaris loved meringue. Maybe…maybe she should try kissing Annette. Maybe she’d hate it. But maybe she’d love it.

Annette’s thumb stroked the back of Damaris’s hand. “You’re a good friend,” she was saying, turning toward Damaris.

It was now or never.

Damaris had to know. She’d lose her nerve if she waited any longer. She grabbed the back of Annette’s neck and leaned in, pressing her lips to Annette’s.

It was…amazing. It was outrageous. It was sharp and soft and everything under the sun—Damaris couldn’t begin to describe it.

Her bonnet was shoved back by the impact.

She’d smashed into Annette so hard her lip had cut against one of Annette’s teeth.

But her lips were just as plump as Damaris had imagined.

“Umph,” Annette got out.

Damaris jerked away, grabbing her bonnet and putting it firmly back in place.

“I—I do apologize,” she said. “I beg your pardon.” Her cheeks heated.

“I should have asked. Or warned you. Or something. I…I do not know how it is done. I’ve never received a kiss from a man, let alone initiated anything myself. ”

Annette stared at her, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

“Oh, I haven’t ruined our friendship, have I?” Damaris wrung her hands. “Am I a bad kisser? Or do friends not kiss each other? Which part have I failed in? And can you ever forgive me?”

Then Annette’s expression began to change. Delight slowly spread across her face, and her lips curved into a knowing smile. “You kissed me.”

Somehow Damaris’s cheeks grew hotter. Her hands flew to cover the blush she knew was spreading there. “I apologized!”

“Would you like to learn? How to initiate a kiss with a woman?” Annette practically purred.

Damaris suddenly felt as if the carriage had turned on its side.

Everything seemed upside down, especially her stomach.

And the heat in her cheeks was worsening—and spreading down her body, making her breasts ache and something twist deep inside her.

This was—this was—this might be too much.

But it was her chance, her one chance, before they parted and Annette remembered she was just Damaris Dunham, solicitor’s daughter, with nothing very interesting or appealing about her.

She bit her lower lip and nodded.