not strangers. It felt utterly divine. And it must have been the vodka and his body and a wayward craving to keep him… but I did something I hadn’t done since I was sixteen years old.
I dipped my fingers into his jacket pocket and snatched the first thing they brushed against. A business card, by the feel of it. Slipped it into my purse.
“That thing I was looking for? I might have found it,” I said. “Which makes me a very lucky woman, indeed.”
The animal prowling behind his measured gaze gave me actual goosebumps.
“Who are you really?” he asked softly.
“Devon Atwood. Who are you really?”
“I don’t think you are.” His expression remained mildly curious. “You see, in my other life, I was trained by the best lie-detectors in the entire world. And while you are very, very good, you are also lying to me.”
I was momentarily stunned.
A first.
“Spoken by a man who has perpetrated a sin of omission,” I countered.
A slight arch to his brow. “I know a thing or two about sin. And that’s not what I’ve done.”
Desire twisted in my belly. Those strong fingers flexed—only once—along my spine, drawing me closer. “Do you always try and kiss liars?”
His lips quirked at one end. And then he stepped back, letting me go. I had to steady myself against the bar and prayed he didn’t notice. “Don’t you worry. You’ll know for certain when I actually kiss you.”
My hand clenched my stolen treasure—the business card. “And you’ll never know for certain if I was lying.” I swayed past the sexy stranger, laying a hand gently on his arm. “Good night, man-on-vacation.”
I felt his eyes on my hips for the duration of my slow walk out of the ballroom. Was grateful he couldn’t see the heat that sent a flush to my cheeks. Instead, I walked as quickly as I could to a back hallway, fishing out the card I’d pickpocketed.
I read the words written there. Felt my brain cells explode in the best way possible.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, heart hammering in my chest. The card read: Abraham Royal, Owner. Beneath that, the name of his company: Codex.
Codex.
The renowned private detective firm that Henry Finch, Bernard’s former assistant, now worked for.
Abraham Royal.
The man who hired Henry right out from under Louisa.
Now what in the hell was Abe fucking Royal doing in London? And what were the random chances he was simply enjoying a lecture from a woman who claimed to know all about Bernard’s location?
I tapped the card against my lips. That man wasn’t on a goddamn vacation. And maybe, if I played my cards right, he’d lead me right to Bernard.
I strode right to the front desk at The Langham. Revealed my most charming smile. “Hi there,” I said. “I was wondering if you had any rooms available?”
6
Sloane
Eudora handed me a tiny, china cup with steam rising from the black tea. The gentle matron had reappeared on her features—today she wore an even frumpier sweater with threads loose at the sleeves. Her earrings were book-shaped, and she’d donned a deerstalker hat.
We were sitting at 221B Baker Street—the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and the current Holmes museum where Eudora volunteered twice a week. Sitting in armchairs next to a replica of Holmes’s fireplace gave me an out-of-sort feeling I had to suppress.
I was, after all, supposed to be a cheerfully enthusiastic fanatic.
“This is my fifth time here,” I said, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. “Does that make me a nerd?”
“Oh, of course not,” she said, waving a hand. “I volunteer here twice a week, my dear. And it is, to some, a god-awful tourist trap. And yet…” She trailed off, indicating the red-wallpapered space around us. “I feel happy when I’m here amongst Doyle’s ideas and inventions.”
Sipping my tea, I thought about what I’d done last night after securing a room at The Langham and moving my suitcases and laptops: curled up and re-read A Study in Scarlet. When I’d crafted Devon Atwood and her Sherlockian obsession, I knew I’d have to read every single novel and short story in order to blend in with the crowd of scholars and fans.
I found myself absurdly drawn into the mysteries—the sense of Victorian London, the intriguing deductions, the aspects of the mystery that never made sense until the very end. It called to the part of me that loved solving things. And while I wasn’t prone to the stalwart fanaticism I’d witnessed here, I did, kind of,