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 shewereto 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 awhomp, 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,nota boy.
Two, Selina’s face was about to make a very abrupt acquaintance with a cobblestone.
And three, these gloves werecertainlygoing to be ruined, and she reallylikedthese 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.
Ohno.
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 likethat.
Or at all. Ever.
“Beg pardon,” she mumbled, sidling away, eyes downcast and fixed on his dusty boots. She couldn’t look up. She thought maybe there was another child somewhere to his other side, but she dared not turn her head to check.
But then, horror of horrors…
He recognized her anyway.
“Selina?”
Ohblast.
She tipped her head back to meet his gaze. And then back, and back farther. The bonnet, which had been quite superb at disguising her appearance, was remarkably poor at allowing for normal social congress.
