“We’ll pay him a visit first thing tomorrow. I’ll take care of my brothers. You meet us outside at eleven o’clock. And bring this map with you, in case we need proof.”
He dropped his hand from her face and stepped back, already regretting the loss of contact, and sent her an easy smile. “Who knows, maybe you’ll be so pleased with the outcome you’ll grant me an extra kiss?”
That snapped her out of her daze. She scowled up at him. “And maybe pigs will fly.”
“Good day, Miss Montgomery. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Twelve
Harriet was no closer to deciphering Morgan’s motives for helping her when she hailed a hackney carriage to take her to Hart Street than she had been the previous night. She’d lain awake long after she should have been asleep trying to ascribe some nefarious, twisted reason for his wanting to get involved.
It was too much to hope that he’d jumped at the chance to help because he wanted more time in her company. There were hundreds of women clamoring for his attention—sweetly docile, beautifully mannered, witty, and charming women who wouldn’t dream of questioning his decisions or mocking him.
Itcouldbe because he relished the thought of a little excitement. London must be quite dull after years of warfare, Harriet supposed. Perhaps she ought to offer to take random shots at him with her pistol every now and again, just to keep him on his toes. She was a good enough shot that she could miss him deliberately.
If she wanted to.
Or perhaps he wanted justice? Despite being a Davies, he’d always had a strong sense of fair play. Even when he’d been tormenting her, there had been lines one simply didnot cross. True, he was the rogue who’d thrown her favorite silver pencil into the stream at Trellech, but he was also the boy who’d punched Ifan Williams in the nose when he’d found him trying to drown a kitten in the well.
Maybe he just wanted to annoy her, and have her in his debt? That was certainly the most likely scenario. He’d even hinted at it with his parting comment yesterday.
Harriet bit back a snort. As if she’d show her gratitude with extra kisses. Just the thought of the two she still owed him was enough to turn her knees to jelly and her stomach to a swirling, writhing mass of nerves.
The cab let her off at the end of Hart Street and she walked toward Heron’s shop with a deep sense of trepidation. She knew she was right about Heron being the copyist, but it was still a serious thing to openly accuse him of the crime.
The huge, shiny black Davies carriage clattered to a stop just ahead of her. The door swung wide—giving a glimpse of the crest painted on the side: a wyvern, a fanciful creature with the wings and head of a dragon and the tail of a snake—and all three Davies brothers spilled out onto the pavement.
Pedestrians stopped and stared.
Each man was impressive in his own right, but collectively they were enough to make any girl’s pulse beat harder. Gryff was the fairest-haired of the three, with mid-brown locks, while both Rhys and Morgan sported darker brown, windswept curls. Comparisons to the wicked Lord Byron had regularly been made, but Harriet had never seen the similarity. None of the Davies boys were remotely pale or languishing. Gryff was tall and imposing. Rhys was charming and playful. And Morgan—she let out a silent sigh of appreciation—Morgan lookedas though he’d been a pirate in another lifetime. He was one gold earring and an eye patch away from being a total ruffian.
All three of them had broad shoulders, outrageously long legs, and faces that made one seriously question the unequal allocation of good looks in the world. Why three such rogues should be so handsome was one of Mother Nature’s greatest jokes.
Or perhaps it was the work of the devil. That was far more believable.
All three of them were dressed in deceptively simple jackets and breeches, but it did not take much of a practiced eye to discern the quality of their garments. Morgan’s coat clung to his upper body with barely an inch of excess material anywhere, while his buff breeches and gleaming top boots fitted with a perfection only achieved by bespoke tailoring.
Harriet forced her feet to move, and was rewarded with a dazzling smile of greeting when Morgan spied her. “Miss Montgomery, good morning.”
Her heart gave a pointless extra beat.
Gryff and Rhys both tipped their hats in greeting as Morgan took her arm and drew her into his side. His gaze flicked to the elaborate bonnet she’d chosen for the adventure. The straw concoction had a wide brim, several ribbons, and a fine net veil that could be pulled down to cover her face.
“That is a ridiculous hat,” he said bluntly. “You look like a beekeeper.”
Harriet smiled. “Oh, I know. But Heron might recognize me. The mapmaking world is surprisingly small. I thought a disguise might be in order, at least to begin with.”
Morgan grunted, which she took to be begrudging acceptance of her brilliance.
“I hope you’ve come ready for a skirmish,” he said.
“Always. Although it seems strange to be saving my powder for someone other than a Davies.”
“Variety is the spice of life.” Morgan grinned. “Did you bring your map?”
She patted the leather satchel she’d donned over her pelisse. “Aye aye, Captain.”
He shook his head at her mockery but sent her a teasing look. “When we get in there, I’d like you to resist the habit of a lifetime and letmedo the talking.”
