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Monday Puzzler
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January 9th Puzzler - Quite the Introduction
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OOH haven't read this one but sounds intriguing!
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Have not read this, but I like the Hero. He sounds fun!
Definitely have not read this - sounds super intriguing!
It's Wednesday, Phoenix! Who is the hunk?
Yes, I read this last May. I would give it 5 stars: highly recommended!
“Your pardon. This man is following me.”
Naturally, someone like her would latch onto Potter. He considered himself something of a dandy and attempted to dress the part, although his salary could barely support the burden.
“It’s just Hero. He won’t do ye no harm.”
“Can’t you see him arrested?”
Suppressing a grin, Hero crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. Things were about to get interesting.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why?”
Under the weight of her aristocratic glare, Potter pulled at his sagging cravat. “Because I haven’t the authority. You need a Runner for that.”
“Well, it so happens I’ve come in search of one.” She let out a little huff. “I thought to get some answers and take care of an annoyance at the same time.”
The corners of Potter’s mouth jerked, as if he couldn’t decide whether to smile or grimace.
“Hero’s your man, then, madam.”
Hero raised a hand and wiggled his fingers.
She turned the full force of her glare on him, not that the likes of her could cow him. He’d faced far worse in his day than the disdain of one of the ton’s daughters. “I don’t want this Runner. Find me another.”
Hero pushed himself away from the wall. “Seems yer luck’s deserted ye. The others all be out on cases. There’s just me today.”
Not a complete lie, at least until the others drifted in from their various assignments. If she needed a Runner for a private case, he could use the blunt. Ridiculous what it cost to keep an eleven-year-old boy in school and out of trouble. The cut of her gown and the particular rustle of her skirts proclaimed quality, without taking into consideration the crested carriage or the liveried footman who shadowed her.
“Wot ’choo need a Runner for?”
If nothing else, she aroused his curiosity. A young lady of her station could afford to tend to any tricky personal matters without resorting to a place as public as Bow Street. For that matter, why wasn’t she relying on a brother or a father or a husband to take care of things for her? Did she have no one she could turn to?
“I thought . . . well, I thought . . .” All her haughtiness dissolved as she twisted her fingers together. She suddenly seemed much too young to confront whatever trouble she was in. “I have some questions, and I reckoned someone like a Bow Street Runner would know the answers. But . . .”
Hero stepped to one side, indicating the corridor with a flourish. “Say no more. Me office, such as it is, awaits.”
With the footman glowering in their wake and the maid clinging close, Hero led the duchess—until he learned her name and status for certain, he’d think of her as nothing else—through the winding corridors into the bowels of the building.
The tiny space that served as his office was cramped and dingy, but he liked it that way. There was no window to let in the light, but any window here was more likely to open onto a dreary alleyway, a reflection of the view he saw every day from his flat near Covent Garden.
With a grin by way of apology for the lack of furnishing, Hero took his usual seat atop his battered desk. “Now, what did ye have in mind?”
The duchess hovered just over the threshold, as if she wasn’t quite certain of the protocol involved. Or the propriety, even if that bloody footman of hers continued to glare from the corridor. “Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves properly? I am Lady Heroine Wilde.”
Hero studied her from her ridiculous bonnet to her porcelain complexion and down an impeccably tailored bodice that showed a fine set of breasts off to advantage despite its high cut at the neck. If ever he’d pictured a wild woman—and he had, on numerous occasions—Lady Heroine was the furthest thing from his imaginings. “Are ye now?”
“Am I what?”
“Wild.”
The maid let out a gasp.
Lady Heroine simply lowered her brows. “Of course not. Thomas Wilde, the Duke of Sherrington, is my father.”
“Not your grace, then.” For some reason that thought provoked a smile.
Her lips disappeared for a moment. Lush, pink lips. “Just my lady. And you are?”
“You heard my name. Hero. Just Hero.”
He’d be damned if he’d give her more than that. His true name was his own, and about the only thing left to him. If she insisted on his given name, he’d invent something. Michael. That was a good, solid name. Today, at least, he’d be Michael and not that god-awful moniker his mother had saddled him with.
“All right, Mr.—”
He held up a hand, because God only knew he’d seen that coming. These nobs were nothing, if not predictable. “None of that. Just Hero. Now tell me wot ’choo want t’ know.”
She tugged at her pristine kidskin gloves for a moment while her lower lip retreated behind her teeth. “There’s no easy way to say this. If I thought someone were being poisoned, what would I look for?”
“Poison?” The word prodded him upright and dragged his wandering attention away from her lush mouth. “Who’s being poisoned?”
He reached behind him, groping for the drawer where he stowed his writing implements. His fingers found the handle, and he yanked, once, twice. Damned thing, always sticking, and this awkward angle wasn’t helping him any. Finally, the drawer burst open, and he scrabbled for a pen and a scrap of paper.
“Well?” he prompted. “Get on with it. I wouldn’t’ve thought one such as you needed a Runner, but looks like I was wrong there.”