“Maybe because you two aren’t Holmes-loving Americans but rather private detectives sticking your noses where they do not belong?” Eudora’s teeth were pointed as knives when she flashed them at us.
This time, Sloane and I held eye contact long enough to allow a brief connection to pass through. Which was, essentially, we’re fucked, time to go.
“I wish,” Sloane said breezily. “I’m an office assistant at a big insurance firm, as you know.”
“And I’m a lawyer, unfortunately,” I said. “I guess I’ve always wished I was a detective.”
“Funny that I’m so coincidentally bumping into the two of you, given what I’ve just learned,” Eudora said. “Peter had an eye-witness view to the two of you assaulting a man in an alley, which doesn’t seem like the kind of thing an office assistant and lawyer would engage in, does it?”
The snarling dog was out. I could see it now, what Sloane had said people’s descriptions of the real Eudora could be.
Sloane held up a solitary finger. “First, have you ever coordinated a staff meeting for forty-five people in an HR department, Eudora? Things get ugly. I’m no stranger to threatening people with violence. Especially when we’re going to serve cake.”
I repressed a smile.
“And secondly,” I added. “Devon and I were enjoying a nice drink at the bar before the bartender tried to roofie us and then have someone attack us in that same alley.”
“I don’t know what your great game is,” Eudora hissed. “But the Sherlock Society doesn’t need two ignorant Americans stomping about and ruining our club. If you’re going to start drama where there is none, you should get the hell out of this city.”
They were almost the exact same words that had been scrawled on the threats left beneath our doors at The Langham Hotel.
“If you know what’s best, if you know what’s smart, you’ll fly home back to your office jobs and legal degrees.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm.
“Ms. Atwood and I aren’t finished with our vacation.” I rocked back easily on my heels, half-tempted to whistle. “So we’ll be staying. Won’t we?”
I turned to Sloane, who was now holding her martini glass with exquisite precision. Her expression telegraphed a message I couldn’t decipher—but it felt like I needed to be paying attention to whatever plan she had brewing behind those eyes. Eyes that moments earlier had been staring into my soul like she was trying to memorize it.
“We will be staying, of course,” Sloane said, cheerful. “Should we get drinks again soon, Eudora? I enjoyed the time we spent together.”
For a moment, Eudora faltered. Then she steeled her spine. “No,” she replied. “If I see the two of you again at a Sherlock Society event, I will call the authorities.”
Sloane and I exchanged a glance. “Very well, then,” I said. “I’ll be prepared to greet the authorities at the next event. Devon, shall we?”
Her smile curved, pretty like a diamond and just as sharp. “We shall.”
Sloane splashed her entire martini into Eudora’s face.
Eudora shrieked, Peter cursed, and Sloane was moving through it all like an Olympic swimmer gliding through water.
I was powerless not to follow, reaching her in time for her to grip my wrist and move us through Midnight Apothecary. Guests were openly staring, the entire restaurant hushed as we moved around tables and made our way through the back door. Sloane flew down the spiral staircase, and I was fast on her heels. The street in front of us was silent, but there was a large, wooded park running next to the bar. The road across from that rushed with cars. Most importantly, taxis.
We didn’t even have to discuss the plan, although I had questions, so many questions: about the martini, Eudora, the bookstore owner, our cover. But I was tethered to my adrenaline, starting to run around the building with Sloane. If our cover was blown, and Eudora was responsible for the threats against us, I wasn’t comfortable with sticking around with nary a soul around.
“If we go this way,” Sloane panted, running. “We can make it to the next street—”
She hit a wall of a man.
Hit him hard enough to send her flying backwards, arms outstretched, scream muted at the last minute.
I dropped to one knee, caught her before she could hit the ground. The urge to protect her from any harm wrapped around my throat.
“You okay?” I whispered against her hair.
“Yeah,” she gasped. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I stood, lifting her easily. I kept my