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He began to walk her to the door, those magnificent brows knitting together in concentration. Then he stopped suddenly and

held up a finger. “It just so happens that I might have a story for you.”

Willing to accept breadcrumbs of creativity at this point, she faced him.

He glanced over his shoulder as if he feared the quills might pop out of their boxes to eavesdrop, then leaned in to whisper.

“The other day a gentleman stumbled inside this very shop, his face pale as a turnip. Without a word, he went to the window

and peered out as if he thought someone were following him. And when I greeted him, he nearly jumped out of his fancy buckled

shoes. To ease the stranger’s mind, I thought to make a quip. So, I said, ‘Fear not. I’m hardly a highwayman.’ And do you

know what he did next?”

She shook her head.

“Shrieked like a kitchen maid over a mouse, then was out the door before the bell could ring.” Mr. Fife grinned and hooked

his thumbs beneath his lapels. “Well, what do you think? Quite the character, I’d say.”

“Indeed,” she said and did her best to appear captivated, pasting on a smile.

But oh, how she’d wanted to feel that familiar thrill, that tingle dancing over her scalp and down her spine. She’d wanted

her fingertips to itch for the coarse texture of a pencil in her grasp as she filled a ledger with ideas for a new play.

Instead she felt numb, as if every page inside her were covered in a film of wax that no amount of lead or ink could penetrate.

There would be no miracle today. Not even half of one.

Bidding farewell, Thea left the shop. With her, she carried a parcel of six pocket ledgers, three pencils, and the corpse

of her withered soul.

To make matters worse, it was raining in earnest and she had no umbrella.

Lady Broadbent wasn’t going to be happy with the state of her pelisse. Not to mention, Thea had left the countess in the tea shop around the corner, promising that her jaunt into Fife’s wouldn’t take more than a minute.

Ducking her head, Thea scuttled down the narrow alley. But with her focus on navigating the larger puddles collecting in the

uneven dips of cobblestones, she didn’t see the obstacle in her path. Not until her shoulder collided with a solid mass. Hard.

She must have run into an outcropping of the brick wall. A chimney, perhaps. The impact was so jarring, she could have sworn

she heard her bones breaking like glass. The force of the collision even spun her around like a one-winged whirligig shaken

from a tree... and directly into a thick cloud of tobacco smoke.

She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as a prickle of uncertainty niggled at her.

Before she’d left on her errand, Lady Broadbent had made a point of explaining that the tobacconist was in the opposite direction

of the tea shop.

Cupping a hand over the lip of her bonnet, Thea looked up to the dripping sign hanging from a wrought iron bracket. Painted

on the wood was a red pipe.

Her inner Greek chorus, which delighted in reminding her of all her failings, chimed in with a derisive And thus, she had gone the wrong way. Yet again.

Drat! Turning on her heel, she headed back the way she’d come.

As soon as she reached the mouth of the alley, she paused to look for the tea shop. But just as she peered across the street,

her gaze snagged on something. Or someone, rather.

Standing on the pavement beneath a rain-slicked awning was none other than Sir Kellum Archer—the famed playwright, the toast

of London, and the man who’d gleefully ripped out her soul and crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe like the butt of a

cheroot.

She blinked. It had to be a mistake. He was rumored to be in Paris, writing his next masterpiece. That was the only reason she’d taken the chance to return to London. So why was he here?

Then she saw the reason.

A woman. A beautiful blonde woman in a red walking costume, tailored to her hourglass figure. The sway of her hips must have

been audible, like the beat of a drum, because he turned to watch her approach.

His mouth spread in the same grin that Thea had once thought was reserved only for her. Then the woman threaded her arm through

his. A gesture of ownership. And he did nothing to disprove the claim as he gazed adoringly down to her upturned face.

For the woman’s sake, Thea hoped she had no other aspirations than to be a sycophant. Kellum could be kind when he was being

adored. But Heaven help the woman if she admitted to having dreams of her own.

You, a playwright? An organ grinder’s monkey is more entertaining than anything you’ve written thus far.

Go back to your unremarkable family in your wretched little hamlet, child. Forget about the London stage, just as it forgets

all those who lack the talent to leave their mark. You are not even worthy of a footnote.

The memory lodged in Thea’s throat, the words like shards of glass, too painful to swallow.

Through the interlacing of carriages passing to and fro, she saw him lift an arm to hail a nearby hackney. The dingy yellow

conveyance stopped on the street between them, blocking her view.

It wasn’t until Thea saw a folded white handkerchief materialize before her that she realized she was no longer alone on the

pavement. Not only that, but she was beneath someone’s umbrella. Someone who stood just beyond the frame of her bonnet. A

man, likely, considering the size of the black-gloved hand proffering the handkerchief.

“If I may,” he said from at least a head above her.

She didn’t recognize the low scratch of his voice. A stranger, then. After all, he must have been or else he’d have addressed

her by name.

A shiver tightened her scalp, slipping beneath the damp collar of her pelisse. Clearly, she’d been standing in the cold rain

for far too long. And, peculiarly, the strong scent of wine surrounded her. But she supposed that was better than the odors

that the London streets usually offered.

Accepting the handkerchief, she dabbed at her cheeks and the tip of her nose without turning her head far enough to meet his

gaze. An introduction at such a time would only be more embarrassing for her.

“Thank you.” When she finished, she held out the slightly used square of linen.

“A token.” That large hand gestured with a dismissive wave. “However, if you require further assistance...”

Even without looking at him, she sensed that his gaze was also on the hackney that spurred into motion, the wheels crunching

against wet cobblestones. “Not unless you have a festering head of cabbage to hurl or a few rotten tomatoes in your pocket.”

“In my other coat.”

The corner of her mouth twitched at his quick response. “Pity that. Though, I’d actually prefer a henchman for hire or an

army of marauders. You wouldn’t happen to have them at your disposal, would you?”

“Left them at my flat, I’m afraid.”

“Must be terribly crowded.”

“You’ve no idea.”

His droll reply had her grinning in earnest. It was her first genuine smile in weeks. Months, even.

She drew in a breath that didn’t feel quite as weighted with gloom. “Thank you for coming to my aid. It was a kindness that I will not”—she turned to this stranger, only to find that she was standing alone, the rain collecting on her skin—“forget.”

Just as she was about to survey the foot traffic for a glimpse of him, a black-lacquered carriage stopped in front of her.

A liveried tiger bounded down from the springboard to open the door and lower the step.

“Honestly, Miss Hartley. I was about to send the hounds,” Lady Broadbent chided from the confines, her regal face pinched

with disapproval beneath an artful chignon of dove gray hair. “Come along before you catch your death.”

Thea moved toward the open door, the rain misting on her face as she searched both directions for a tall figure. But the man

wasn’t there. Among the few head-bent and hurried pedestrians, none were carrying an umbrella.

Disappointed, she stepped into the carriage. Settling on the bench, she stared down at the handkerchief and the saturated

parcel of ledgers in her grasp. Then she smiled again.

For the first time in nearly a year, an idea filled her head with thoughts of a new character. A character so clear in her

mind that she might actually be able to open a fresh ledger and write.

He could be anyone , she thought. Even a highwayman.