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He stepped forward, fingers brushing the cool fabric as he reached to tighten the tapes of the waistcoat. The proximity, the warmth of her so close, the light floral scent rising from her nape, all of it conspired to disrupt him. His hands were bare. His resolve, perilously thin.
The overcoat is a blessed necessity, he told himself fiercely.
“It requires a valet to assist,” he replied, voice gravelly, his restraint hanging by a thread.
“No, I fail to comprehend what your disguise is,” she continued, oblivious. “Are you not simply dressed as Lord Trafford?”
He faltered a beat, his fingers pausing in their work.
It was a mercy that his indulgent tailoring habit meant he had more coats than sense. He flung open the doors to reveal several layers of velvet and superfine, like a gentleman’s rainbow of questionable spending habits. But he had never been accused of moderation. If he were, he mused grimly, he would have failed at being a gentleman of misadventure.
“Julius?”
Her voice recalled him from his reverie. He blinked, attempting to summon the thread of conversation she had been following.
“This is last year’s fashion,” he replied finally, with a dismissive wave. “Everyone knows I would not be caught dead in anything so out of style.”
Audrey groaned behind him in dramatic protest. Julius chuckled. Her frustrations were endearing.
Taking pity, he offered a more serious explanation. “It cannot be helped. The overcoats and beavers will help us blend in. When we return, we shall be cautious to ensure we are not followed home. It has been several days since my attack, and we shall be well away from my father’s residence.”
“Well, it is fortuitous that the rain is coming so we may button up the overcoats without attracting attention. I suppose if we have to follow Montague into a club, we will keep the coats on despite the impropriety?”
Julius grinned. She appeared more preoccupied with the etiquette of coat-wearing than the notion of tracking a potential murderer.
“You are not a lady of excellent reputation this morning,” he observed, eyes gleaming. “Being a gentleman means you make the rules.”
“Which is unfair,” she grumbled, tugging at the hem of her borrowed coat with a frustrated flick.
“Ah, but when you are weary of repressive etiquette,” he said, slipping one arm into his own coat, “there is nothing to stop you from taking a respite as a man.”
She turned to him then, the candlelight dancing across her features and catching in her silver eyes, which shimmered with mischief and sudden understanding. A curl had escaped from beneath her hat, and it clung to her cheek, soft and incongruous beneath her otherwise masculine garb.
“Where there is a will, there is a way,” she replied, her voice low and sure.
Julius’s lips curled into a slow smile, his gaze lingering just a breath too long.
“Precisely.”
Audrey and Julius arrived on Henry Montague’s street at first light, though there was little distinction between night and dawn. A dense curtain of cloud cloaked the sky, turning the morning into a world of mist and shadow. The lamplighters had not long extinguished their flames, and the slick cobbles underfoot gleamed from the overnight rain.
Her current disguise was far more confining than the loose workman’s garb of the day before. The cravat at her neck was tied too tightly, its snowy linen stiff and unyielding, cinching her throat like a noose. The crisp collar of her shirt was starched to a soldier’s severity, forcing her to hold her chin unnaturally high. Audrey fought the urge to tug at it like a child. It was all rather suffocating but tolerable, she supposed, if it allowed her further access to the inner sanctums of men. Not merely men but gentlemen. The privileged elite.
The gentleman at her side, however, wore his privilege with a curious blend of performance and genuine warmth. Though Julius could play the fop in public, in private he exhibited none of the hauteur she had braced herself to endure. He spoke to Patrick and Rose with the same interest and liveliness he extended to his friends in the beau monde. He was irreverent, playful, and maddening, but there was an undeniable undercurrent of kindness beneath the mockery.
Indeed, Rose had wept when Julius’s fever broke. Despite their quiet efficiency, both she and her husband had clearly been shaken by concern. Any request Julius made was fulfilled without hesitation. That kind of loyalty was not purchased. It was earned.
Audrey found herself growing rather too fond of him. She wished, rather desperately, to remain on this adventure as long as possible. Since her father’s passing, she had believed joy to be a thing of the past, but now, in a too-tight waistcoat with rain beading on her lashes, she felt excitement in her very bones. She was happy, and the realization stole her breath.
They loitered in the street, their coats damp at the shoulders, the occasional fat drop of rain splattering onto the brims of their beavers. Julius exclaimed in delight upon spotting a coffeehouse at the far end of the block. Though the shutters were still drawn, he assured her it would open soon, offering them an excuse to remain near.
At last, around eight o’clock, Montague emerged from his front door just as the rain eased from a steady fall to a reluctant drizzle. Julius, ever alert, sprang up and tossed a coin onto their table with the casual grace of one accustomed to lingering in leisure.
“Fortune smiles,” he murmured.
Montague strolled directly in their direction, saving them the effort of shadowing him from afar. They waited, adjusting their hats as he passed, then rose and trailed after him down the wet, echoing street.
He led them for several blocks, then turned and knocked at the door of a modest establishment. They paused at the corner until a servant admitted him, then hurried closer, glancing discreetly up at the signboard above the door.
