Page 40 of The Marriage Method

Like him, Nell was busy scanning the streets about them. She seemed to miss nothing, not the unwashed louts staggering across the fetid alleyways, the children shouting as they played, or the shadowy figures lurking between the buildings. “I was trained to wield a sword,” she replied absently. “A sword cane isn’t very different.”

“Trained by whom?”

“Various teachers.” She spared him a glance. “Many of our faculty are visiting members. They stay for a time, then move on, imparting what wisdom they can during their tenure.”

“Sword fighting,” he said flatly.

“Fighting fighting,” she said. “Swords are optional.” Her gaze met his on a rueful plea. “Please don’t let it distract you. We must keep our focus.”

He searched her eyes. “Have you any other tricks I should know about?”

“It wasn’t a trick. It was a skill. And yes, I daresay I have. But now is hardly the occasion to provide an accounting of them. For one, we haven’t the time. For another—”

“As you say,” he acknowledged tightly. “We mustn’t be distracted.” He led her around the next corner. “But this conversation isn’t over. Not by a long chalk.”

Her eyes narrowed. She looked, for an instant, as though she wanted to say something more. But she didn’t. Her attention returned to the cramped street ahead of them.

Miles frowned, his mood worsening by the second. She’d been telling him from the beginning that she could take care of herself. Perchance she had meant it.

He didn’t know why the realization should leave him feeling as cross as a bear with a sore head. He respected strength and intelligence in females, far more than any other qualities. It was a woman’s strength that had raised him out of the slum and set him on the path to where he was now—independent, successful, practically a gentleman.

Little surprise that he’d never had any use for damsels. He had even less liking for playing the white knight. Still, a man liked to know where he was at with a girl.

“I warn you,” he said. “The reaction your face inspired at Mrs. Pritchard’s is nothing to the one it will provoke at a public house.”

Rather than discouraged, Nell seemed to be heartened by the notion. “Good,” she said. “If they’re captivated by my face, they won’t notice my questions.”

“Your questions?”

She flashed him a half smile. “You may ask questions, too, of course, if the opportunity arises.”

Miles huffed a short laugh. “Generous of you.”

“Well,” she said, “you are the reporter.”

And what are you, I wonder? he thought. The unspoken query came with no trace of suspicion or regret. No, Miles realized, with a growing sense of disquiet. It was fascination he was feeling.

The pub was down the next street. Miles had been there before, years ago, when he’d been writing a story on a series of dock robberies. He’d little thought then that he’d return again under such unusual circumstances—on his wedding day, accompanied by his new bride.

In looks, it was much as he remembered. Dark and dismal, with a great wooden beam over the entrance and a patched glass window clouded by grease and soot.

Steeling himself for physical confrontation, he opened the door for Nell. She preceded him into the smoke-filled barroom, her cane clacking on the dirty slatted floor. The scattered wood tables that stood about the place were half-filled with men and women in various stages of inebriation. Several more leaned against the bar, nursing pints of ale and glasses of whiskey and gin.

Nell made straight for the barman. He was wiping down a section of the counter with a soiled rag as he conversed with a red-nosed woman in a stained gray dress.

Miles could have predicted what would happen. Indeed, he had predicted it. The moment the man caught sight of Nell, he abandoned the woman in front of him. His face broke into a grin.

“Welcome, miss,” he said, not seeming to notice Miles’s presence. “What’s your pleasure?”

“A glass of gin to start,” Nell replied as if she’d been frequenting public houses all of her life. “And a favor.”

“A favor, is it?” Still smiling, he set out a glass on the counter and poured out a measure of gin. “What’s that, my beauty?”

“I’m looking for a friend of mine from Mrs. Pritchard’s,” Nell said with a flutter of her lashes. “She comes here on her half days.”

Miles watched her work her wiles, his respect for her ingenuity growing by the second. She seemed to call on it effortlessly, as though it were less a practiced art and more a natural, God-given talent. A talent for deception, no less. An excellent thing in a reporter. Less so in a wife.

“You one of Lily’s girls?” The barman chuckled. “She’s moving up in the world.” He finished pouring. “Verity’s in the corner, by the window. Only one of Lily’s girls here tonight.”