Today's Reading
CHAPTER TWO
... I do remember Peter Kent. He knocked you into a mud puddle at Broadmayne, didn't he? And stole your horse. And wasn't there something about a wedding at St. George's, two sheep, and a duel?
—from Will Ravenscroft to his sister Selina, posted from Brussels
Selina settled her poke bonnet firmly onto her head, ducked out of the back alley behind her publisher's office, and emerged into the sunshine of Bond Street.
It was extremely large, the bonnet, its brim jutting out past her face like a green silk prow. It clashed horribly with the pink pelisse she wore knotted over her yellow-striped, outrageously flounced walking gown, and if she kept her head tilted downward, her face was almost entirely obscured.
She wasn't disguised. She hadn't needed to wear the rough serge servant's dress she'd kept stuffed in the bottom of her wardrobe for well over a year, a fact that struck Selina as something of a relief.
If Lady Selina Ravenscroft, younger sister of the Duke of Rowland, were to be caught wandering about London in servant's garb, the scandal sheets would be wild with it by morning.
But in this—a shockingly out-of-fashion outfit, her hair tucked away beneath the bonnet and her face shaded by its outlandish brim—she wasn't precisely in disguise. She was simply barely recognizable, which was exactly how she preferred it.
And if she were to be recognized in this ridiculous ensemble, that wouldn't be enough to engender a scandal. Well, perhaps a very mild one, given that she was walking about without a chaperone or maid. But she need only cross two streets to where the Rowland carriage waited—her delightfully bribable maid Emmie snugged inside—and then she'd be safe. No scandal today.
No scandal so far.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before someone found out the truth about Lady Selina Ravenscroft.
She angled a glance back at the office of Jean Laventille—the radical Trinidadian immigrant who was both her publisher and her only confidant. It was, decidedly, a mistake. Because with the poke bonnet's brim blocking her vision and the flounces dancing around her body, she didn't see the little boy who darted across her path until it was too late.
They collided with a whomp, and Selina felt the breath rush out of her. She tried to stop herself from kicking the boy in the calf and overbalanced instead.
"Hell's bells!" said the child, voice sweet, dark-fringed eyes wide as saucers.
And Selina flung her hands out in front of her, her mind busily registering a series of facts:
One, the child was, perhaps, not a boy.
Two, Selina's face was about to make a very abrupt acquaintance with a cobblestone.
And three, these gloves were certainly going to be ruined, and she really liked these gloves—
And then she was caught around the chest by one strong masculine arm and set, cautiously, back on her feet.
"Good God, Lu," said the owner of the arm. "You're lucky I didn't accidentally stab this woman, because even peers of the realm aren't exempt from the legal consequences of murder."
And—Oh.
Oh no.
Selina knew that lightly accented voice. She knew the owner of the arm. She knew that particular brand of easy words and nonsensical charm, and she knew without looking that the expression on the man's face would be a slightly feral grin.
Peter bloody Kent.
She couldn't look up. She couldn't turn her gaze even one fraction, because then the brim would reveal her face, and he would recognize her. And she really, really didn't want him to recognize her.
She was alone, not that Peter would care. But he might wonder what she was doing out here on Bond Street by herself. He might ask. He might have seen her come out of Laventille's office, for heaven's sake. She couldn't be connected to the publisher, because then she might be connected to Belvoir's, and then she would be so thoroughly entangled in the web of deception she'd crafted that she might never find her way out.
Also, he'd practically rescued her, which was mortifying. And, God, she was wearing this patently absurd costume.
Not that she cared what he thought of her costume. Not that she thought about Peter Kent like that.
Or at all. Ever.
...
