“Mr. Taylor? He’s a patron of the arts and a Parliament member—very wealthy but untitled. He’s become the unofficial leader of the Reformists Party.”
“I don’t like him.”
“I don’t either,” Tristan said grimly. We walked a few paces, both of us quiet. Then I said, “I got your postcard.”
“Did you like it?” He glanced at me, his eyes nervous.
“I did.”
That made him smile all the way to the end of the alley, where we turned left. A pub sat right on the corner. THE PRINCE REGENT, the sign read. Tristan held the door for me. I let go of his arm to step inside, but I held on for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Inside the pub, friendly sights, smells, and sounds arose from every corner.
Hello, old friend, I thought. Heavy-handled pint glasses clinked and clunked, and the sweet smell of beer filled my nose with every inhale. A burly man was working behind the bar, filling a pint with Guinness. His motions—the way he pulled the tap and tilted the glass so a perfect white foam built over the liquid—were second nature to me.
I could easily imagine my mother moving about this pub. Yes, it was much gloomier than the Moon on the Square, but I could see her tending the bar, chatting with the customers,coming up to relieve me so I could take a break in the back even though she never did.
“Here, sit down.” Tristan motioned me to a booth built into the wall. I slid into it, glad to focus on something other than my mother. He sat down next to me. The bench was short, and our elbows brushed against each other. The warmth of his skin and the smell of his aftershave were intoxicating. “First things first.”
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and eased aside the black cape so he could see my shoulder. Carefully, he started to dab at the blood. Even though his movements were assured and deliberate, his touch was a whisper, soft and gentle.
“It’s fine,” I said. His breath lightly tickled my cheek.
“It looks like a cat mauled you,” he said, his attention fixed on my shoulder. “That man ought to be arrested.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
Tristan raised his head then, and his blue eyes met mine, our faces impossibly close. I could just lean forward the tiniest bit and our lips would meet and—
Oh my.I looked away then. If I hadn’t, I would’ve been lost to him—his blue eyes, his fingers gently moving about my shoulder. I forced myself to straighten up and move back so we weren’t practically nose to nose.
“It’s strange,” I said, making my tone conversational. “There were so many people around me, but no one helped. That would never happen in Shy.”
“That’s the city for you.” Tristan sighed and shook his head. “In one sense, it’s nice because no one really cares about you, so you get to be and do whatever you want. But it’s also terriblebecause, well—no one really cares about you.”
The man from behind the bar came up to our table, his huge arms folded across his barrel chest and his dour gaze flitting from me to Tristan and back again.
“If you sit, you order,” he growled.
“I know, Grayson,” Tristan said. “Have I ever just sat without ordering? I’m your best customer!”
“My best customer who always orders a half pint of the cheapest beer available. Do you think that half pints pay for this place?”
“Be fair. Do you think a reporter’s salary pays for such luxuries as full pints? But look. I’ve brought a pretty face with me this time. That automatically raises your stock, because...” Tristan winced and gestured to the dour-faced men gathered around the bar. Grayson didn’t laugh, but he uncrossed his arms and nodded.
“So, what’ll it be?”
“Two teas today. But Grayson, someday I’ll break a huge story, and then I’ll be back here and it’ll be beers for everyone on me—full pints!”
“That’ll be the day.” Grayson walked away, grumbling under his breath.
Tristan turned back to me.
“So now you know,” he sighed.
“What?”
“That I may be handsome, but wealthy... not so much.”
