Page 5 of Schemes & Scandals

My cheeks heat. “I was hoping to get it signed, but I’m guessing that’s not a thing.”

“I have seen signed books. I even purchased several for Isla. But they came that way at the shop.”

I try not to look disappointed. “Got it. And after that performance, I can’t imagine he’d want to sign hundreds of books.”

“Perhaps...” Gray looks about and puts a hand to my back. “Let us go this way. There’s a corridor into the back rooms where Mr. Dickens would be.”

I dig in my heels against his steering. “I’m not waylaying him while he’s resting after his performance.”

“No, but if we are down there, and he happens to walk out, and he happens to notice a young woman clutching one of his books and looking very hopeful...”

I should refuse. Especially since, if I do catch Dickens’s eye, it won’t be because of the book. I look like a cross between a milkmaid and a young Marilyn Monroe, all bold curves and blond curls. I’ve finally begun to accept that this is me now. My body, not that of a cold-blooded thief named Catriona Mitchell. But I still hate using this body to my advantage. Well, unless I’m solving a case. Then all bets are off.

Even as I inwardly balk, though, my knees unlock, and I let Gray steer me. I tell myself I’m giving Isla more time with McCreadie. Am I also giving myself more time with Gray? Of course not. I see him every day. We spend hours working together. Okay, yes, holding cadavers and taking notes isn’t the same as a social outing, but still...

Our relationship is a professional one with a personal angle, that angle being friendship. If part of me has started hoping for more, well, that’s on me. Gray has given no sign that he feels the same. Which is fine. That’d be far too complicated.

Gray leads me through a door and then down a few stairs and along a hall. It feels as if we’re about to enter the bowels of the Assembly Rooms, but instead, we come out into a small reception area with at least twenty people milling about chatting and enjoying glasses of wine. Gray straightens, pulling on his upper-crust airs.

He steers me through with that gentle hand, his fingertips barely touching my back. As we pass a table, he deftly plucks two glasses from it. He hands me one, and we settle into a corner, where he positions himself with his back to the other guests and his front blocking me, to keep them from looking at us too closely.

“Let us eavesdrop a bit,” he murmurs. “See whether there is any indication that these fine people expect the illustrious author to join us.”

I nod, sip at my drink, and try not to make a face. I thought it was wine. It’s not.

“Port,” Gray says. “Poor Mallory.”

Port is not to my taste. It’s another thing, like sugarplums, that I only read about in Regency and Victorian novels, where it sounded delightful. Dinner ends, and you all retire with glasses of port. Yes, I know it still exists in my time, but I’d never tried it, so I didn’t realize it’s just overly sweet wine.

Gray opens his mouth to say something else, when a voice says, “Duncan?”

The familiarity of the address has me looking up sharply. First names are for family and close acquaintances. I’m still working on calling him “Duncan,” as if I’ve absorbed the culture. So hearing someone call him that in public is the first thing that gets my attention. The second is the way his head jerks up. Distress flickers over his face.

“Dr. Duncan Gray.” The woman’s voice grows closer now, though I still can’t see her with Gray blocking my view. Then he slowly turns.

The woman is older than us—maybe in her late thirties. She’s gorgeous, with raven-black hair, perfectly cut features, and bright blue eyes. Her brilliant green dress makes me feel as if I’m still wearing my drab day gown.

It might seem as if it’d be wonderful to wake up a decade younger, but it’s awkward in many ways, and this is one of them—where I feel the gaze of someone older sweep past and dismiss me as a mere girl.

“This is not where I expected to find you, Duncan,” the woman says as her fingertips tap his jacket sleeve. “You have developed a taste for literary culture?”

“I read,” he says, a little tersely. “But I am here with my sister Isla, who is a great admirer of Mr. Dickens’s work. As is Miss Mitchell here.”

The woman’s gaze flicks over me again, and she gives Gray a look I can’t quite read. Should I slip away and let them talk? Or is that the last thing Gray wants? I can’t tell.

I give him the choice by murmuring, “I’m going to set down this port, Dr. Gray. It is not quite to my taste.”

He doesn’t argue, and I make my way toward the nearest table. I can still hear them behind me.

“I heard you hired a young woman for an assistant,” the woman says. “A former maid. I take it that is her.”

“Yes.”

The woman sighs. “Oh, Duncan. I ignored the titters and insinuations, and I commended you for being so open minded. I know you had a terrible time finding assistants, and I was glad you had located one. But... Really, Duncan? I expected better of you.”

“Miss Mitchellismy assistant.”

He grinds out the words, and I set down my drink.

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