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Authors: Andrea Penrose
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tins and turn out onto racks. Repeat with remaining batter.
4. Dust with confectioner’s sugar if desired.
“T his way—and quickly, damn it.” Wrapping his long fingers around her arm, Saybrook shoved her past the upturned corpse. “You moved fast as a snake earlier.”
Arianna tore her gaze from the slashed shirt linen and pooled patterns of viscous red. Bile rose in her throat but she forced down her momentary nausea with an acid retort. “For which you should be bloody thankful.”
“I’ll compose a suitably sentimental ode to your audacity later.” He inched the door open a fraction and made a rapid survey of the garden. “Let’s go.”
Ungrateful wretch.
Saybrook stumbled on the uneven gravel but quickly steadied his stride and cut through a narrow gap in the ornamental plantings. Despite the labored hitch of his gait, he moved with surprising speed. Arianna found herself hurrying to keep pace.
Hugging close to the leafy shadows of the ivy-twined wall, he led the way to the side gate, which gave access to an alleyway.
“Left leads past the mews and out to Welbeck Street,” she murmured as he ventured a peek through the wrought iron bars. Her first day of employment, she had scouted out the area, making a mental note of how to disappear in a hurry. “Right goes straight to Wigmore Street. It’s shorter, but there’s usually more traffic.”
“Which means a greater likelihood of finding a hackney,” he said, more to himself than to her. “We’ll chance it.” He shifted his weight, leaning a shoulder to the painted metal. His coat covered the rent in his trousers, but she saw that the wool was growing wet and sticking to his knee.
“Your leg—”
“Sod my leg,” growled Saybrook. “You ought to be far more concerned about your neck.”
She bit back a sharp reply. His face was deathly pale, accentuating the Stygian shadows beneath his hooded eyes.
The gate creaked, and in another moment they were turning the corner.
“Aren’t you afraid that we’ll attract attention?” demanded Arianna. His hand was still clamped like a manacle around her arm. To emphasize her point, she gave a small shake of her canvas satchel. “You are limping, and ladies aren’t often seen carrying such bags.”
Saybrook reached around and plucked it from her grasp.
“Don’t be an arse,” she protested in a low voice. “You’re having trouble enough hauling your own carcass to the next crossing. What I meant was, I would draw less notice on my own.”
“Arse?” His grip tightened. “I was an arse to accept this . . . this . . .”
This what? Arianna waited for him to finish, but he merely sucked in a breath and looked up and down the street.
“If any of the guards spot us,” he added, after hailing a hackney, “I shall say that I saw you walking past the house and wish to detain you as a possible witness.”
“I still say that you should let me go ahead on my own,” she pressed. “We can choose a place to meet up later.”
He answered with a curt, mirthless laugh. “I may be an arse, but I’m not an idiot,” he added. “Though given my earlier incompetence, I can hardly blame you for thinking me a bumbling fool.”
Whatever else he was, Mr. De Quincy was no fool, thought Arianna. She had merely hoped to catch him off guard.
“It was worth a try,” she replied coolly.
“You’ll have to do better,” said Saybrook, helping her none too gently into the hired carriage. He climbed in after her and collapsed in an inelegant sprawl beside her.
She could feel heat emanating from his body. Fever? Anger? Or some dark, drug-deranged emotion that she could not name? It bothered her that she was having such a difficult time figuring him out. Men were, in her experience, primitive creatures, ruled by three basic lusts—power, money, and sex. That made them rather simple to understand.
And manipulate.
But Mr. De Quincy was proving an exception to the rule. Which made him
4. Dust with confectioner’s sugar if desired.
“T his way—and quickly, damn it.” Wrapping his long fingers around her arm, Saybrook shoved her past the upturned corpse. “You moved fast as a snake earlier.”
Arianna tore her gaze from the slashed shirt linen and pooled patterns of viscous red. Bile rose in her throat but she forced down her momentary nausea with an acid retort. “For which you should be bloody thankful.”
“I’ll compose a suitably sentimental ode to your audacity later.” He inched the door open a fraction and made a rapid survey of the garden. “Let’s go.”
Ungrateful wretch.
Saybrook stumbled on the uneven gravel but quickly steadied his stride and cut through a narrow gap in the ornamental plantings. Despite the labored hitch of his gait, he moved with surprising speed. Arianna found herself hurrying to keep pace.
Hugging close to the leafy shadows of the ivy-twined wall, he led the way to the side gate, which gave access to an alleyway.
“Left leads past the mews and out to Welbeck Street,” she murmured as he ventured a peek through the wrought iron bars. Her first day of employment, she had scouted out the area, making a mental note of how to disappear in a hurry. “Right goes straight to Wigmore Street. It’s shorter, but there’s usually more traffic.”
“Which means a greater likelihood of finding a hackney,” he said, more to himself than to her. “We’ll chance it.” He shifted his weight, leaning a shoulder to the painted metal. His coat covered the rent in his trousers, but she saw that the wool was growing wet and sticking to his knee.
“Your leg—”
“Sod my leg,” growled Saybrook. “You ought to be far more concerned about your neck.”
She bit back a sharp reply. His face was deathly pale, accentuating the Stygian shadows beneath his hooded eyes.
The gate creaked, and in another moment they were turning the corner.
“Aren’t you afraid that we’ll attract attention?” demanded Arianna. His hand was still clamped like a manacle around her arm. To emphasize her point, she gave a small shake of her canvas satchel. “You are limping, and ladies aren’t often seen carrying such bags.”
Saybrook reached around and plucked it from her grasp.
“Don’t be an arse,” she protested in a low voice. “You’re having trouble enough hauling your own carcass to the next crossing. What I meant was, I would draw less notice on my own.”
“Arse?” His grip tightened. “I was an arse to accept this . . . this . . .”
This what? Arianna waited for him to finish, but he merely sucked in a breath and looked up and down the street.
“If any of the guards spot us,” he added, after hailing a hackney, “I shall say that I saw you walking past the house and wish to detain you as a possible witness.”
“I still say that you should let me go ahead on my own,” she pressed. “We can choose a place to meet up later.”
He answered with a curt, mirthless laugh. “I may be an arse, but I’m not an idiot,” he added. “Though given my earlier incompetence, I can hardly blame you for thinking me a bumbling fool.”
Whatever else he was, Mr. De Quincy was no fool, thought Arianna. She had merely hoped to catch him off guard.
“It was worth a try,” she replied coolly.
“You’ll have to do better,” said Saybrook, helping her none too gently into the hired carriage. He climbed in after her and collapsed in an inelegant sprawl beside her.
She could feel heat emanating from his body. Fever? Anger? Or some dark, drug-deranged emotion that she could not name? It bothered her that she was having such a difficult time figuring him out. Men were, in her experience, primitive creatures, ruled by three basic lusts—power, money, and sex. That made them rather simple to understand.
And manipulate.
But Mr. De Quincy was proving an exception to the rule. Which made him
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