LITMIR.BIZ

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followed the direction of her hand. “He seems rather inept in his duty of watching out for you, Miss Fairmont. No, I will see you returned safely home.”

      “Ah, good day, Miss Fairmont,” Mr. Jacobson’s son, George, called from behind the counter. “What brings you here today?”

      “Good day to you, Mr. Jacobson,” she returned, even as she stole a glance at Lord Black. Who, she was startled to discover, was watching her intently from behind the rims of his spectacles, which he’d put back on.

      She really rather liked him in those, she mused, despite the fact it was no longer sunny.

      Wiping his hands on his apron, George asked, “Another sleeping tonic, by chance?”

      “Yes. Please.”

      “A tincture of laudanum and bergamot, alongside a dose of the valerian herb?”

      “That’s right.”

      Black’s expression was as dark as his name and he was watching her with unrelenting curiosity.

      “That is a very dangerous concoction, Isabella,” he whispered into her ear. “Very dangerous.”

      “I’m aware of that, but I’m very careful to measure it out exactly as Mr. Jacobson prescribes.”

      He turned her face to his, his fingers resting beneath her chin. “Do you know how many lives Death has claimed after taking tonics like this? Thousands, Isabella.”

      She shivered. “I know what I am doing. I suffered almost daily for nearly a year with these headaches, and … dreams,” she whispered before hurrying on. “I’m quite able to follow a prescription, my lord. I’m not a child. And furthermore it is the only thing that has helped.”

      “Here ye are, Miss Fairmont. Two spoonfuls at bedtime ought to do the trick. And if you find you’re not resting well, take one during the daytime.”

      Reaching into her reticule, Isabella pulled out some coins and set them on the counter. “Thank you, Mr. Jacobson.”

      He nodded and came around the counter, holding open the door to her. “Good day, Miss Fairmont.”

      Sweeping out onto the sidewalk, Black moved in to stand beside her. The sidewalk was bustling, and she was bumped from behind by a steely body. The bottle of medicine fell from her grasp, only to be caught in the palm of a black-gloved hand.

      Black.

      Straightening, he held out his hand where the bottle of medicine was cradled in his palm. “I should have let the bottle smash onto the street, but then you would only have gone back inside and ordered another one. Wouldn’t you?”

      “Yes, I am afraid I would. I am desperate after all. I’ve had this headache since last night, ever since I returned from the maze—” She stopped, embarrassed to have mentioned what happened between them. She didn’t finish her thought, and instead shoved the bottle into her reticule.

      He watched from behind his spectacles, and Isabella felt his eyes burning through her clothes and skin until they pierced the very soul of her. Was he also recalling what had transpired between them? Had he been as affected as she?

      Ridiculous, she chided. She mustn’t let her thoughts stray into that dangerous territory. Passion was for novels. Not her life. What was it about this man that made her forget her own mantra?

      Taking a step back, she prepared to part from him, but he reached for her elbow and held her. “My carriage is just around the corner. Allow me to see you safely home. You, there, boy,” Black called as the newspaper boy who had sold her a copy of the Times ran past them. The lad stopped, his cheeks bright red, his blue eyes gleaming.

      “Did ye hear, me lord, that Herr Von Schraeder is dead! Dead!” the boy cried. “I’ve got to be the first to make it back to the offices. A whole pound if I’s the first to break a news story, and it’s no secret that the sham magician was not liked. What if it were murder?” the lad crowed with enthusiasm. “I bet they’d pay me more than a pound if he were done in.”

      Black pulled him back by his collar. “I’ll give you a fiver if you would be so kind as to cross the street and give this to that man in the blue-and-white livery.”

      “The man talking with Sally?” the boy inquired.

      “That’s the man.” Black handed the boy his calling card. “Tell him that I have Miss Fairmont and I will be bringing her home. She’s not well. Be quick about it,” Black demanded as he slipped the boy a five-pound note. “And see that the task is done before you go screaming in the streets of Von Schraeder’s murder.”

      “Right away, my lord.” The boy grinned, then ran as fast as his thin little legs would carry him.

      “This way, Miss Fairmont,” Black commanded, as he took her arm and walked with her around the corner of the apothecary to his waiting carriage.

      “What did that lad mean that Von Schraeder was dead?” she asked. When he stopped beside her, Isabella was forced to glance over her shoulder. Black was staring at something, but what?

      “My lord?” It appeared to her that he was staring at the Adelphi Theatre and his complexion had grown quite ashen. “Black, is something amiss?”

      Shaking his head, she saw his gaze rove over the theater before he tore it away and looked down upon her. “Nothing at all, Miss Fairmont. Shall we?”

      Reaching for the carriage door, he opened it, then motioned her forward. Inside, it was dark, the upholstery a luxurious black velvet that lent the carriage a rich, relaxing air.

      “Lord Black,” she insisted, but he put a finger to her lips, silencing her. “This really isn’t necessary.”

      “Shh,” he murmured. “You mustn’t tax yourself.”

      “I’m neither a child nor an invalid,” she chastised. “I merely have a headache.”

      “A devil of one if you’ve resorted to valerian and opium.”

      There was nothing to do but accept his hand as he helped her up the iron steps. His hand felt large and warm in hers—strong—and Isabella closed her eyes, allowing herself a brief moment of sensation to absorb his touch and the feel of his hand engulfing hers. She’d never felt her hand pressed strongly in another’s. The experience was at once comforting and arousing, making her wonder where else on her person his hands would feel as wonderful.

      “Isabella? Are you unwell?”

      “No,” she gasped, realizing she was standing on the steps holding Black’s hand. “No, I … my hem was caught, that is all.”

      Ninny, she scolded herself as she sat upon the empty bench. What must he think of her? Did he think her a silly child? She was certainly acting like one.

      Black shouldered his way into the carriage and took the opposite bench. His long legs stretched out, his thighs outlined in his trousers, his shoulders taking up most of the space on his bench. Dropping her gaze to her lap, she flatly refused to look at him, sprawled out in masculine lassitude.

      With a rap of his walking stick on the ceiling of the carriage, the coach lurched forward, and soon they were making slow but steady progress back up the Strand and toward Grosvenor Square.

      She felt nervous and fidgety. The silence was almost unbearable, yet she did not know how to begin the conversation. She could hardly remark upon the weather, for it was gray and dreary, the autumnal sky heavy with the promise of a storm. Nor could she mention anything about last evening, when she had been most unladylike to sit in the dark, all alone, with him.

      However the silence affected her, it had the opposite effect on his lordship. He was a man who was at ease with silence—and solitude. Black did not feel the need to fill the quiet with useless chatter. She did not have to be well acquainted with the earl to know this about him.

      He

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