“Regardless…” Elinor stiffened her shoulders and backed away. That grin was dangerous. It was exactly the sort of thing that persuaded defenceless young women to get into strange gentlemen’s carriages, which marked the beginning of every warning story she had ever heard. “I don’t require any more assistance, so—”
“Don’t be absurd. You haven’t any money, remember? Would you really rather sleep in a hedgerow tonight than allow my friend to give you supper and put you up at the local inn for a night as an apology?”
“Your friend?” Elinor frowned.
“It’s his carriage, not mine. But he couldn’t get out, because he was too busy. To tell you the truth…” Her rescuer ran one hand through his hair, rumpling it even more. “I don’t honestly think he even noticed the collision. Wingtips, you see. It’s a bit of an obsession.”
“Wing tips?” Elinor echoed faintly. She didn’t feel like swooning anymore—at least, she didn’t think so—but his words still made no sense.
“You’ll understand when you meet him,” said her rescuer. “Come. I swear you’ll be safe and unharmed by either of us. And you can hardly deny your dragon a meal, can you?”
“Oh, dear.” Elinor looked down at Sir Jessamyn, who had curled into the tiniest possible ball behind her feet. “I suppose…” She swallowed.
Every ounce of propriety and common sense was telling her not to accept his offer. Unlike her sister Rose, Elinor had never believed that Fate would ever sweep in to rescue her. Anything that looked like a stroke of luck from the blue was far more likely to be an appallingly bad idea.
But her rescuer was right. She could not deny Sir Jessamyn food. So what choice did she have?
“Here, I’ll carry your dragon for you,” her rescuer said. “Pretty little fellow, isn’t he? I’ve seen a few in London, but none quite so glittery as this one.” He scooped up Sir Jessamyn easily and tickled him under his cobalt-blue chin. “I say, he’s in a good mood, isn’t he? He’s actually laughing at me.”
“What?” Elinor had been reaching for her valise, but now she straightened abruptly. “I think you’d better—oh, SirJessamyn!”
It was too late.
Her rescuer looked down at his slime-covered silver waistcoat for a long moment. Elinor tensed. “It wasn’t his fault!” she said. “You see, when he’s frightened—”
“Yes,” said her rescuer, gazing at his ruined waistcoat. “I can see, actually.” Then he looked up, met her eyes, and began to laugh as he adjusted the little dragon in his arms.
“Well,” he said. “Let’s hope that inn is close by, eh? Because—forgive me for saying this, but—you’re not the only one who could do with a bath.”
* * *
With Sir Jessamynsafely back in her own keeping, Elinor opened the door of the carriage to find that the inside had been as elegantly designed as the exterior…or at least, the top half had been. She assumed that the same must have been true for the rest, too, but it was rather more difficult to tell. Both of the seats and the footwell in-between were completely filled with books and scattered sheets of paper. Even the fair-haired gentleman who sat inside the carriage, frowning down at a thin pamphlet with total absorption, was covered with massive flurries of books and papers from his knees up to his waist, as if the pages were slowly rising up to devour him.
She gaped at him from the doorway as even more pages fluttered past her ankles to fall onto the ground like leaves.
“Just tip some more into the footwell to make yourself a space to sit,” said the man behind her. “Trust me, it’s the only way.”
“Well…if you’re quite certain it won’t be a problem…” She edged inside, shuffling through calf-high piles of paper as carefully as she could. Holding Sir Jessamyn in one arm, she pushed aside just enough books to glimpse a dark green leather cushion across the gentleman who was still absorbed in his reading. She perched on the edge of the seat, horribly aware of the mud that coated her gown and trying desperately not to touch anything.
It was a doomed attempt. There were more books in this carriage than she’d seen in all of Hathergill Hall.
Her rescuer pulled the carriage door closed behind him and swept a broad swathe of books off the seat across from her. It was only as he sat down that his friend finally seemed to notice his presence.
“Oh, are you here again, Hawkins? I have to tell you, De Groot—”
“Tell me later, old man.” Mr. Hawkins rapped the roof of the carriage, and it rolled into motion. “We have company.”
“We do?” The owner of the carriage peered up over his spectacles and blinked with visible surprise when his gaze passed over Elinor and Sir Jessamyn, seated directly across from him. “I say. What a perfectly marvellous specimen ofdracus domesticus. Look at those ear ridges!” He leaned forward, dislodging a stack of paper from his lap and sending it cascading across Elinor’s feet.
Sir Jessamyn’s ears flattened against his head, but—much to Elinor’s relief—he didn’t chuckle, even when the man’s silver-rimmed spectacles nearly brushed his head. Instead, he made a strange, clicking sound in the back of his throat, and his eyelids fluttered half-closed. He tilted his head back to expose his glittering, blue-and-green neck.
For heaven’s sake, Elinor thought. Sir Jessamyn was preening. The little dragon looked positively coy.
“Beautiful,” murmured his inspector, in a reverential tone. “Beautiful, beautiful. Just look at that arch! Now, if De Groot thinks he can explainthatwith medieval symbolism—!” He waved his pamphlet threateningly at his friend, with such vehemence that Sir Jessamyn scuttled back and pressed himself into Elinor’s stomach.
Mr. Hawkins, on the other hand, wore a look of resignation. “I dare say,” he said. “But the point remains.” He coughed meaningfully. “Perhaps you may have noticed another occupant of your carriage, Aubrey? One without any ear ridges?”
“Eh?” Mr. Aubrey blinked at his friend. “Another occupant, you say?”
