The Bride Wore Scarlet by Liz Carlyle Page A

wanted?” he said. “Not membership in the Fraternitas ?”
    All the humor fell away then. “Oh, I definitely did not say that.” Her low, throaty voice sent a shiver down his spine. “What I am saying is that this . . . well, this is a start, perhaps.”
    â€œA start,” he echoed.
    Her smile warmed like the sun. “Yes, and a rather promising one at that,” she said. “Yes, Lord Bessett, I should be pleased to accompany you to Brussels, and to heed your barking and snarling as best I can. Now, am I officially invited?”
    For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
    Wordlessly, Anaïs de Rohan thrust her hand out across the tea table.
    With grave reluctance, Geoff slid his fingers around her smaller, cooler ones, and shook it.
    I n the early afternoon, a London peculiar settled in along the river; a foul, foggy haze so thick coachmen passing through it could scarce see their horses’ heads, and so odiferous the stench made a man’s eyes water.
    Along Fleet Street, the newspapermen hastening up and down the pavements in hope of making their afternoon deadlines were slamming into one another amidst curses and shoves, while below, a loaded dray rattling up from Blackfriars failed to heed an approaching mail coach.
    This unfortunate misjudgment sent the dray careening onto its side, left the four coach horses shuddering and stamping in their traces, and left Lord Lazonby standing at the foot of Shoe Lane up to his ankle in loose coal. Cursing his luck to the devil, he shook the filthy black dust off his boot and strode past the quarreling drivers, each of whom had seized a fistful of the other’s coat.
    Picking his way across the street through the blocked traffic, Lazonby strode through the brume, then turned down the passageway that led to St. Bride’s. The curses and clatter along Fleet Street were soon muffled, as if his ears had been stuffed with cotton wool.
    With the cunning of a man who knew what it was to be both the hunted and the hunter, Lazonby moved around the church more by feel than by sight, then up into the churchyard. After picking his way gingerly amongst the gravestones, he chose his spot; a mossy little nook just behind one of the largest markers by the north windows.
    Righteous fury simmering in the pit of his belly, the earl propped himself back against the cold stone of St. Bride’s and settled in for what might be a long, damp vigil.
    Perhaps half an hour later, footfalls, muffled and disembodied in the fog, came toward him from the direction of Bride Court. His jaw set tight with ire, Lazonby watched as Hutchens—his second footman for all of three months—materialized from the gloom. The damned fool still wore his red livery. That, and the sound of Hutchens’s nervous, nasally breathing, made him impossible to miss.
    Though he generally gave no thought to his attire, choosing instead to throw on whatever his new valet had laid out upon the bed, today Lazonby had dressed with care in shades of charcoal and gray. He blended into the fog and stone like a wraith.
    Jack Coldwater, however, had worn his usual dun-colored mackintosh. The conniving little bastard came round the corner of the church, literally feeling his way past the last of the gravestones as he squinted into the gloom.
    â€œI don’t like the looks o’ this, Jack,” Hutchens complained when he neared. “Graveyards give me the shivers.”
    â€œGiven what you’re costing me, you can bloody well shiver till hell freezes over,” said Coldwater tightly. “What have you got?”
    Lazonby watched as Hutchens rammed a hand into his pocket. “Dashed little,” he said, presenting a fold of paper. “He’s to go to Quartermaine Club tonight—a regular bacchanal they’re having, I hear. And I saw his valet brushing out his second-best coat, and that likely means another little pump-’n’-tickle at Mrs.