Page 43 of A Deal with the Devil

“I never do.”

“Which is why we’re still all alive,” Brutus said.

Devil’s expression did not change, even though it made him want to squirm like a young lad with his first compliment, while also taking the city to the sword, when his men looked at him like that. He would not let them down. They had been through too much together. Mud, blood, freezing their arses off at night, sweating sickness between being shot at. Inept officers in charge who did not care for much beyond their luxuries and renown.

“What do you want me to do?” Brutus asked.

“Nothing,” Devil said. “I’ll go to the clubs, let myself be seen. And heard.”

Brutus snorted. “Aye, that ought to do it.”

Kitty ruminated on the book and the inked note for the rest of the day and did not come to any brilliant conclusions. It was a coincidence—it had to be.

An odd one.

And by the time the sun set, Kitty was no longer certain she believed in coincidences. Still, it left her no further ahead. It was hardly a map to Lady Caroline’s location. For one thing, there had to be thousands of oak trees in England.

She needed to know who the note had been meant for. The thieves had not found it. Or had they left it behind? That made no sense at all. None of it did. All Kitty knew was that she needed to know more about Lady Caroline and Lord Portsmouth.

And then the invitation arrived. Presumably it had been sent to the house, but Aunt Priscilla had also sent a note to the shop. Lord Portsmouth was hosting a dinner—no doubt originally meant to be a celebration of his recent nuptials to Evie.

Over Kitty’s dead body.

The Caldecott family’s presence was not a suggestion. It would quell some of the rumors if they were in attendance. Evie had not run from the earl and everything was proceeding at pace. Look, her older sister was right there drinking pink champagne and eating mushroom caps filled with soft cheese. Or whatever it was that was served at such dinners.

Aunt Priscilla’s note was not subtle: Do not embarrass us and do not forget that Evie is in Paris.

Kitty might have preferred a night joining the mudlarks sifting through the stinking mud of the Thames for teeth and treasure, but they needed everyone to assume Evie was in Paris. Or at the very least, not hiding from Lord Portsmouth. He especially needed to believe it for as long as possible. Or, at least, be willing to pretend he believed it.

Not to mention that it would be so much easier to sneak through his house and rifle through his belongings with an invitation.