Page 22 of To Dance with a Devil

Miss Stone’s expression softened just a little. “It’s only that I rather felt that… her heart had been broken. She’s been so unhappy and, despite what she’s put in the letter, I’m frightened. I can’t help worrying that she’s not being entirely honest and that perhaps she has no intention of returning to Scotland.” She took a step closer to him, fear for her friend written starkly in her eyes. “What if she intends to disappear for good? What if we wait and she never gets in touch? If we try to find her then, and it’s too late? We might never pick up the trail.”

Jerome nodded. “I’ll find her, Miss Stone. You have my word. If I discover what she has said is true and there is no cause for concern, I will leave her be until she is ready to return. If, however, it appears she’s in distress or….”

He faltered. Of course she was in distress. Hadn’t Miss Stone just told him he’d broken her heart? Oh, God. What a bastard he was. He had to make things right.

“Thank you, Mr Cadogan.”

Jerome snorted and shook his head. “Don’t thank me, for God’s sake,” he said in disgust, running a hand through his hair and wanting to pull it out by the roots. “This is all my fault.”

Miss Stone smiled at him then and shook her head. “I think perhaps you’re being a little hard on yourself. Bonnie is something of an irresistible force. Being in her company is akin to being swept up in a whirlwind of laughter and mischief, and she’s very persuasive. From the first time you met it was clear to me that you were kindred spirits.”

“You’re too kind, Miss Stone,” Jerome said, wondering if it was possible to hate himself any more than he did. “Now, is there anything else you can tell me about Bonnie’s departure?”

Chapter 8

Dear Mr de Beauvoir,

I hope you are not angry with me for getting in touch again. Although you suggested it wise that we keep a distance from each other, you did invite me to correspond with you, so I have taken the liberty. I cannot, after all, try my wiles on you with mere ink on paper so surely you must be reassured that you are perfectly safe. If my charms in person are not enough to have you fall at my pretty feet, then my fine penmanship is unlikely to accomplish the task.

In any event I wanted to let you know how very much I loved “Conversations on Chemistry,” by Mrs Jane Marcet. I had assumed the subject would be far beyond my meagre intelligence, so imagine my surprise to discover that I not only understood every bit of it, but enjoyed it thoroughly too. I have since discovered that Harriet - the Countess St Clair, who lent me the book, was given it by your good self.

You have whetted by appetite, Sir, and even having done so by proxy I believe it would be monstrous unfair if you do not give me something else with which to continue my education.

Yours in admiration,

Miss Minerva Butler.

― Excerpt of a letter from Miss Minerva Butler to Mr Inigo de Beauvoir.

24th October 1814. Church Street, Isleworth, London.

Inigo de Beauvoir glared down at the letter in his hand and toyed with the idea of consigning it to the nearest flame, or possibly dousing it with acid. Maybe he could blow it up? The problem was, no matter how thoroughly he destroyed the blasted thing, his mind had already committed the words to memory. Short of dashing his brains out on the nearest blunt object, he was stuck with them. Just as he was stuck with the memory of that provoking creature, dressed all in yellow like some innocent daffodil — ha! —pressing her sinful mouth against his.

“Perfectly safe,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Good Lord, a fellow wouldn’t be safe from the likes of Miss Butler if he established a laboratory somewhere near the centre of the earth, though in his current state of mind the idea was one he imagined with longing. Yet her image, the scent of her, and more precisely the soft press of her lips against his, had been etched upon his brain for all eternity, to the detriment of his work, sleep, and peace of mind.

“What are you muttering about?”

Inigo scowled and looked around, only then remembering the presence of his friend, Baron Rothborn. Solomon, or Solo as he was more commonly known to his intimates, was one of the few people whose company Inigo could tolerate. Mainly because Solo was even more antisocial than him. Forced to come to London to attend to some business matter or other, Solo often sought refuge in Inigo’s laboratory, as it was a place he was assured of some peace and quiet. At least, it usually was.

Solo put his book aside with a sigh. “You’ve been pacing and muttering from the moment you opened that bloody letter. Who is she, that the chit has got you in such a lather?”

Inigo opened and closed his mouth and then stood a little straighter, indignant at the implication even though the blasted fellow was spot on. Solomon was always a damned sight too perceptive for anyone’s comfort. “It’s not from a woman,” he retorted. “It’s… from a colleague, and I’m irritated because he’s talking rot.”

Solo arched an elegant eyebrow at him.

Inigo did his utmost to return that implacable look but gave in with a groan.

“I’ve known you too long, Inigo,” Solo said, his lips quirking. “You may be a brilliant scientist but, for the love of God, don’t ever play cards. I can read you like a book.”

“You’ve certainly had enough practise,” Inigo shot back. “Instead of spending your life with your nose rammed against the dusty pages of some ancient tome why don’t you do something… other than irritate me that is?”

“Stop trying to turn the subject,” Solo said, unperturbed by his friend’s ill-temper. He was used to it by now. “Who is she?”

“I told you—”

“Oh, give over,” Solo said, rolling his eyes. “If it was a colleague or a scientific conundrum, you’d be making my ears bleed trying to make me understand what it was all about. As you’ve not said a word but have clearly worked yourself into a lather, it’s obviously a woman. As that’s a subject I actually know something about, you might as well unburden yourself.”