Page 13 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

Amanda said nothing. Her silence was answer enough.

“Even after all this time, you seem to have very little sense of what might happen to a woman, even one of your position, if society disapproves of her conduct.” Mama shook her head, fixing her with a pleading gaze. “I only want you to be safe,” she said again.

Must safety always take priority over happiness? Amanda wanted to reply. But she feared her mother’s answer might be yes.

To avoid an argument—some lessons, Amanda had learned well—she rose, kissed her mother’s papery cheek, and excused herself to the schoolroom. Noon found her once more in the garden, drowsing on an uncomfortable iron bench while the boys observed the bees at work in the flowers. Mama was preparing to make morning calls. Perhaps now Amanda might sneak back into her chamber for a nap.

Or would her curiosity flare again as soon as her head hit the pillow?

A woman of good sense would have raised an alarm at the discovery of a man slipping into the garden after dark. A woman of good sense would not have been in the garden after dark to begin with.

A woman of good sense definitely would not thrill a tiny bit at the thought she might have stumbled into an intrigue with a spy.

A spy? Every time the thought occurred to her, common sense tried to dash it away. He’s a clerk in a bookshop. A nosy one who suffers from sleeplessness—just like you.

But did bookshop clerks, even insomniac ones, generally have…a codename?

Magpie… What did it signify? Surely there was a copy of Bewick’s History of British Birds in the library. Maybe she would just go inside and look for it.…

“Mama, come look at this fat little fellow,” called Philip. “He’s gathered up more pollen than he can carry.”

“He’ll manage it,” insisted Jamie, lifting a glass to his eye to study the bee. “Size isn’t the same as strength, you know.”

She rose, trying to shake off her drowsiness—and her foolishness—as she shook the wrinkles from her skirt. Before she had taken a step in the boys’ direction, however, a pebble skidded in front of her.

The very idea that a single pebble skipping across a flagstone garden path would be noteworthy seemed at first to be confirmation of her sensitized, sleep-deprived state. Evidently her mind was capable of making something from absolutely nothing.

Except that something—someone—had put the pebble into motion. Not the boys, who were closer to the house. Not she; her feet hadn’t moved and her hems did not brush the ground. It had come from behind her, from somewhere near the fence and the narrow alleyway that divided the houses of Grosvenor Square from their mews.

I’ll be in touch.

She darted a quick glance toward the tall hedge, trying to decide if she could make out a masculine figure hidden by its branches.

“Come, boys,” she said, steeling herself against her sons’ inevitable protests. “No, now, it’s nearly time for luncheon. Go in and wash up. You can resume your observations this afternoon.”

Philip glanced skyward. “It’s going to rain.”

“Not for some time yet, I’m sure.” Earlier, she had noticed the thickening clouds, but now she did not look their way. “But if it does, think of it as a chance to see where the bees go. Inside, inside.” She spread her arms to usher them toward the house, then paused. “Oh, dear. I must’ve dropped one of my gloves beneath the bench. I’ll just—no, Jamie,” she warded him off, “I’ll get it. Go inside.”

She walked toward where she had been sitting, taking care not to hurry. Jamie and Philip, quickly reabsorbed by their earlier squabble, paid no attention. Hardly had she reached the back of the garden when a low voice coming from beyond the fence said, “Sit down. Don’t turn. Pretend to look for your glove.”

Obligingly, she sank onto the bench and leaned forward, as if searching the ground beneath it.

“Lord Dulsworthy never returned the book.”

“Oh?” She wondered if her reply, sent from somewhere near her knees, could be clearly heard. “That’s not like him. He’s always so…responsible.”

“Can you think of any reason why he might keep it?”

Amanda started to shake her head, then a laugh squeezed itself from her lungs. “Maybe he’s trying to get you in trouble at the bookshop. He didn’t seem to like you very much.”

An answering chuckle, more than a trifle wry, came from behind the bushes. “I have that effect on some people.”

“What happens next? Did you—did you want me to go to his house and look for it?”

A pause. “Are you on such familiar terms with the gentleman?”

She sat up, clutching both kid gloves in her lap. “Before I answer that, I wish you to tell me who you are and what this is really about.” A daring glance over her shoulder was rewarded with a glimpse of his profile, the rest of him hidden by overgrown shrubbery. She ought to have turned and faced the house again immediately, but instead she rose slowly and stepped closer to him. To her surprise, he moved further into the clear.