Page 77 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
She tugged his coat. “Sit down.” Instead of meeting his gaze, she looked at the spot where he ought to sit. She folded her hands and placed them on the edge of the table. Waiting.
Fascinated by her demeanor, he sat. She moved with elegant vigilance and seemed stronger than her slim figure let on. Her hair was in a loose bun on the side, peeking out from a felt bonnet held in place with a purple bow. Her hands were slim, her fingers long, and her nails trimmed sensibly. She looked rather more athletic than was usual for a lady.
“You have my interest but not my ticket.”
“I don’t believe you have a choice, Mr. List.”
“Milord is the correct address in England, Lady …”
“Sophia is enough. And I will call you Wolfgang.”
He leaned back at her declaration and crossed his arms. “Who gave you permission to use my Christian name? And how did you find me?”
“The priest. Whose name you should tell me, so our stories line up when I am your baroness at the ball.”
Now he wrapped his knuckles in the palm of his other hand and leaned forward. “You’re mad. It’s really a shame because you are so pretty, Sophia.” He wanted to get up, but her death stare stopped him again.
“Have you met Eve Pearler yet?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I have befriended her daughter-in-law. She expects me for tea later this afternoon.”
“Who’s that?”
“Oh, come on.” She waved the question away like a pesky fly. “She’s your target and mine. We have to work together if we want to take her down along with her entire diamond dynasty.”
How did the chit know that?
He plopped back against the wooden bench. There was more to her than met the eye. And even though she’d just outed his mission and stepped into his territory, he had a feeling he would quite like her intrusion.
* * *
An hour later,after they’d left the coffee shop, she had her arm in the crux of his elbow. They must have walked like this for a long time, for his hand was growing a dull blue, and his nails had lost their pink. They’d been strolling along the gravel path in St. James’s Park and had come to the duck pond. A few large-beaked birds with white feathers were sleeping on one foot at the edge of the canal that yawned along the park.
“Did you know these are Russian, too?”
“The ducks?”
“They’re not ducks but pelicans. The Russian Ambassador gave King Charles II some pelicans as a gift, and here they are.”
“And are you planning to stay here, too?”
She sputtered a laugh. “What a gift I would be, the ballerina spy.”
“You’re a dancer? So you are from Moscow, then?” He’d asked her too many questions already, and answering went against her reflexes to protect her cover. Her impermeable heart. But if they were going to pretend to be engaged, he might need to learn a few things about her.
Her heart dropped, and her gaze followed to the rough stones on the ground. Bits of shredded leaves and sand were mixed in, and some black-and-white substance she could only attribute to the birds. She bent down and picked up a decent-sized rock. It was almost oval. She weighed it in her hand, bumping it up and down. What should she tell the handsome baron, who was walking more elegantly with her than she probably deserved? She’d never had a solo at the great opera, but she’d been putting on a show for years. She swung her arm and flicked the rock into the water.
The entire flock of birds, ducks, geese, pigeons, and pelicans, took flight, unleashing a wave of wind from uncountable beating wings. A noisy endeavor that resembled a stampede in the air rather than the elegant taking of flight that one would expect from birds in the royal backyard of St. James’s Palace. The pond was desolate within seconds. Some lost feathers tumbled through the air.
She grimaced. “Oops!”
He gave her a smile of surprising warmth, never letting go of her arm. “That was a rather impressive toss for a girl.” Didn’t he think she’d been mean to the feathery creatures?
“I’m a woman, not a girl.” She thrust her nose almost as high in the air as the birds.
“Certainly not,” he said, scanning her face.
