Page 45 of A Deal with the Devil

She spotted several customers who recognized her with mild panic, as if she were going to start shouting over the violins that she had just received a new romance centering on a many-tentacled kraken prince that might interest them. She nearly chuckled at the thought and tucked herself quietly among the chairs set out for dowagers and wallflowers. In a few minutes, no one would remember she was here at all.

Perfect.

It was lovely to drink champagne and eat leek tarts and parmesan biscuits. To hear music again, so beautifully played.

It was even lovelier to slip away to the library.

It only took a single glance to know that Lord Portsmouth did not deserve his library.

It was, quite simply, magnificent.

Polished oak shelves, lamps in every corner, and hundreds of books from wall to ceiling, immaculately bound and sorted. She let out a little sigh, as if she had just wandered into a thousand-year-old church full of the bones of saints and holy men.

She did not want to admire a single thing that belonged to the earl. But all organized alphabetically, dusted, with painted titles in gilt catching the lamplight, it was a remarkable sight.

And it would take her hours to inspect. Glorious hours, but hours she did not have to spare.

Her first turn about the room presented a shocking lack of novels and poetry. A crime, in her opinion. And a little unusual in a house that had seen three wives to date. She plucked books off the shelves, flipping as quickly as she could, searching for little notes.

She did not find any. And, regrettably, she was found.

“Oh ho, what have we here, gents?”

Three young men, drunk, bored, and indulged, stumbled into the library. One of them winked at her. He was tall and golden and clearly considered himself as charming as a prince from a fairy story.

Kitty never did like the princes. She preferred the dragon. Every. Single. Time.

And she was fairly certain tonight was not going to change her opinion on the matter.

She knew how to recognize men like Lady Susanna’s husband, who escorted his wife to discuss shocking novels in a small shop outside of Mayfair. Men like Clara’s new sea captain husband.

These were not such men. These were the worst Mayfair had to offer. They oozed entitlement and privilege and arrogance. Not to mention wine. Her aunt was perfectly correct on that score: gentlemen did drink wine. By the barrelful, apparently.

And they were between her and the door. She curtsied and tried for a quick exit regardless. She already knew it was not going to work.

“Where are you going?” the dark-haired one drawled. “You’ll hurt our feelings.”

Kitty had several things to say about their feelings. None of them were complimentary. Nor would they be remotely helpful in this particular predicament.

Not only did she prefer the dragon, but she also vastly preferred scrubbing day-old egg off the shop pavement on the hottest day of the year to this.

“Pardon me, I am expected,” she murmured. Her pulse was a distracting, fretful sound in her ears. She was a mouse trapped in the larder and did not care for it.

“No one’s missing you.” The third gentleman snorted derisively, but she still liked him best, as he was far more concerned with the brandy decanter on one of the tables than her.

“Anyway, this is supposed to be a celebration.” The golden prince sauntered nearer. “And it’s deadly dull.”

Kitty had no intention of being the entertainment. “I really must go.”

“I don’t think so.” He closed in, grinning.

When Devil stalked her into a corner, there was something thrilling about it. A recognition that though he was perfectly dangerous, he meant her no actual harm.

Not so here. She considered throwing a book at the prince’s head. It might buy her just enough time to dart toward one of the doors. It might not. At least it would be satisfying.

“St. John, what are you—” A young woman glided into the library, her sudden smile just as sharp and poisonous.

Kitty swore under her breath. This would not help matters. She knew it instantly.