back home. She’d whiled away two hours at Hatchard’s, but she could not live in the shop the entire day, certainly not all night. No matter how tempting avoiding her father’s inevitable scolding was.
“Oh, do come along, miss,” her maid, Rachel, urged her. “It’s like walking with a snail on a lead.”
Rachel was a no-nonsense, sensible girl, one who was unimpressed with intrigues and could not be bribed to send notes to lovers and the like. Not that Phoebe had ever wanted her to, but she might one day, and Rachel was not the girl to do it. Her mother had been canny in selecting her. She was kind and efficient, but could not be wheedled into mischief. Sadly.
“I’m coming,” Phoebe replied, not moving any faster as Rachel huffed and carried on. The maid hurried across Ryder Street, moving quickly to dodge a smart curricle. Phoebe let her go, in no way eager to be home. Glancing down Ryder Street, her attention was taken by the sight of a man hammering on the door of the first of a length of narrow town houses. Elegant, but a touch shabby, it rose three storeys high and the black paint on the front door was peeling. Clearly frustrated, the man yelled up at the window above, apparently to no avail as no one answered him. With a final bellow of frustration, the fellow hit the door and turned, revealing that it was Baron Alvanly who was in such a fit of passion. Intrigued, Phoebe glanced ahead to see Rachel already disappearing into the crowd. Too curious to let the thing pass as she ought, Phoebe lifted her skirts free of the muck littering the road and crossed, just meeting with Baron Alvanly as he walked away from the door.
“Is something the matter?”
“Miss Barrington,” the fellow said, his mouth creasing into a wide smile. “The matter? Oh, yes. Fool that I am, I have locked myself out and my idiot friend can apparently sleep through Armageddon, for I cannot wake him. I fear I must resign myself to a day of traipsing the streets until he is free of Morpheus’ embrace. Still,” he added, brightening considerably. “It seems I might have a companion for my lonely hours.”
“Oh, no,” Phoebe said at once, aware that she was in enough trouble already. “I was on my way home. My maid is just ahead of me, she’ll notice I’m gone in a moment.”
“Well, at least let me escort you. St James’s, isn’t it? Then I might enjoy your company for a few moments.”
Oh, drat it. Would she ever learn not to stick her nose in where she shouldn’t? Curiosity really was best left to cats. Her father was bound to be home by now and if he saw her with Alvanly… oh, no.
“I can get you inside,” she said, suddenly eager to be free of him.
Alvanly laughed. “How? It’s locked. Are you a magician?”
Phoebe returned an uncertain smile, wishing she had a better idea. “Something of the sort. Turn your back, please, so no one can see me.”
Alvanly gave her a curious glance but did as she asked. Phoebe moved to the door, extricated a set of special picks that Jack had given her to practise with as a girl and crouched down. It was a simple lock and well-oiled, and it was child’s play as she kept the tension on the barrel and flicked each pin in turn. There was a decisive click, and Phoebe stood, tucking the tools back in her reticule. She glanced up then, meeting Alvanly’s eyes. He was staring at her with astonishment.
“I think I’m in love,” he murmured.
“Don’t be so silly,” she said, annoyed with him. He’d not once asked how she had managed to get home from the fight, or asked if she was all right. Max would have…. Phoebe frowned, returning her attention to the baron. “Anyway, you can go inside now. Good day to you.”
“No, wait. Miss Barrington.”
He reached out, taking hold of her arm as she tried to move past him. She had little choice as his hand was firm about her forearm.
“You are the most astonishing creature I’ve ever met. Will you be at the March’s ball tomorrow?”
“I will. If you will be so good as to let go of my arm, that is,” she added tartly.
He did, though the look in his eyes remained a little daunting. “Then you must save me a dance. Good day, Miss Barrington.”