LITMIR.BIZ

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realized a hackney had no business heading down the stable row behind the mansions. Therefore, still judiciously concealing myself, at great personal danger, may I add, within a mass of prickly shrubberies, I watched its approach and then, quick as a startled hare, jumped out into the alleyway just as some numskull—no names, please—whistled loud enough to bring down a mountain and the occupant of said hackney cowered into the darkest reaches of the vehicle.”

      “Wonderful. Even when my luck is in, it’s out,” Coop said in disgust.

      “Not entirely. If I might return to my storytelling? The nag in the traces took umbrage at the whistle, reared up—chasing me back into the briars, may I add, so that I wouldn’t end my evening with a stomping—but I managed to reemerge in time to use my knife to inflict a fairly long slice in the rear canopy of the hackey.”

      “Hopefully rendering it recognizable in the daylight,” Rigby supplied in some awe. “That’s more than I could do, I’m afraid. The hackney was on me before I could do more than realize I’d never be able to catch it, and then it was gone. Except—and you’ll pardon me for this, Darby—that wasn’t a hackney.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      Rigby took a sip of wine, clearly to delay his explanation until he was certain he had all attention on him. “It was meant to look like a hackney, but the horseflesh was straight out of Tatt’s or I’m a monkey.”

      “You’re a monkey,” Darby said flatly. “But you know, thinking back on it, and considering I was more intent on keeping my one eye on the occupant, you could be right. The animal was nervy, wasn’t it? Hackney nags don’t move beyond a lazy walk if a cannon goes off next to them.” He looked at Coop, who was gnawing on his bottom lip, deep in thought. “What do you think? Nothing blends in more on the streets than a hackney. Is our blackmailer, far from being pinched for pennies, only masquerading as someone less than affluent?”

      “Or well placed,” Coop said, mentally combining this news with the proper spelling and phrasing in the notes, the chapbooks. “Who better to move among the ton than a member of the ton. Oh, and from deductions I made tonight, this person might also be female. Or a short male. Or,” he added, sighing, “a lad hired from the streets.”

      “Multiple-choice deductions now, Coop?” Darby teased. “Tell me again about this blackmailer of yours. Precisely what is he—she, or possibly them—threatening to reveal to the world?”

      “I won’t tell you again because I didn’t tell you in the first place, although I commend you for trying now, when I’m clearly in a weakened state. Which you would be, as well, I should point out, if you’d just spent the past several hours in Miss Foster’s company. So you can sit back again, Rigby. I’m not about to bare my soul to either of you.”

      “Well, that’s too bad,” Rigby said. “I rather promised Clarice I’d have news for her tomorrow when I pay my daily morning visit to Grosvenor Square. She’s particularly interested in those several hours you just mentioned.”

      “Ah, the beauteous and finely dimpled Miss Clarice Goodfellow, soon to be Lady Clarice Rigby, your blushing bride. It occurs to me that I’m the only one of us left.”

      “Left for what, Darby?”

      “Left unattached, Rigby. How badly has infatuation fuddled your brain?”

      It took a moment for Coop to digest Darby’s initial remark, as he was still attempting to conjure up a mental picture of the person he’d seen in the alleyway. “What? How would you be the only one left?”

      “You’re engaged to Miss Foster, Coop,” Darby pointed out, shaking his head. “How soon they forget.”

      Rigby’s shout of laughter did nothing to make Coop feel any better. “It’s so immensely gratifying to see you’re both amused. I’ve left her with the option of tossing me out on my ear once all this is over.”

      “Dare I say she’s being a really good sport about ‘all this’?”

      “Yes, Darby, you could. Although there’ll be no decision to make if I can’t stop the blackmailer before he publishes. She’d have every reason to cry off, and everyone’s sympathy, to boot.”

      “Now, Rigby, why do you suppose I’m suddenly wondering if our friend here is more upset about the prospect of Miss Foster crying off than he is being of exposed as a— Damn, Coop, couldn’t you tell us something? Just one small something?”

      “May I remind you that I’m sworn to secrecy?”

      “From us? We who are selflessly flinging our lives on the line for you? Oh, shame, Cooper, shame,” Rigby said, and then winked.

      “Tell you what,” Coop said, considering the thing. “Ask me questions. I’ll answer yes or no. Three questions, and that’s all. Agreed?”

      “That seems fair, doesn’t it, Darby? All right, here we go. I’ll go first. Coop, what’s the gel’s name?”

      “Oh, for the love of—Rigby, pour yourself another drink, and allow me to handle this. Here we go, question one. Is the woman important?”

      “And that’s better than I could do? Haven’t you read the chapbooks? Of course the woman is important. She’s the whole reason we’re here. Don’t let him answer—ask another question. A better question.”

      “I’ll stick with this one if you don’t mind. Coop? Is the woman important?”

      Leave it to Darby to see past the obvious. “Not in herself, no.”

      “No?”

      “No, Rigby,” Coop repeated.

      “Hmm, I had wondered, but I will admit your answer comes as a small shock. All right, let’s try this one. Is there a signet ring?”

      “No. And you’ll have to do better than that if you’re attempting to appear brilliant. Miss Foster already deduced as much.”

      “Are you at all romantically interested in Miss Foster?”

      “Rigby, for God’s sake, you’re asking that as our third question?”

      “I rather had to,” Rigby said sheepishly. “Clarice made it quite clear that I was to report back to both her and the duchess. In some detail. Oh, by the by, the duchess believes Miss Foster is full to the brim with spunk. Her Grace admires spunk. The duke was just pleased that he spied a fellow hawking meat pies on the corner when they left the chapel.”

      With Gabe and his Thea out of town, Rigby’s betrothed—formerly maid to Thea but now Miss Clarice Goodfellow of the Virginia Goodfellows—was camping with the Duke and Duchess of Cranbrook, and would until her wedding. Which was rather the same as saying Rigby had all but taken up residence in Grosvenor Square, as he couldn’t seem to exist for more than a few hours without breathing the same air as his beloved.

      “Go again, Darby. I won’t count that question against you.”

      “I suppose that’s sporting of you,” Rigby admitted. “Although it does me no good. I suppose I’ll just have to make something up on my own. Even if I can’t see why you won’t answer.”

      “Not won’t, can’t. I don’t know the young lady even twenty-four hours. Nobody knows such things in less than a day.” And now he was lying to his friends.

      “Yes, they do. I took one look at Miss Frobisher and knew I couldn’t care for her romantically if someone held a pistol to my head. You remember her, don’t you, Darby? The one my aunt was pushing on me a few Seasons back? Stands to reason that if you can tell who you don’t want in an instant, it’s just as simple to know who you do want. Look at Clarice. I took one look. Saw one smile. And here I am, soon to be a happily married man. Now will you answer, Cooper?”

      “Once again, Rigby, no.”

      But the man wasn’t about to give up. This, Coop quickly decided, was another strike

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