Rivals in the City by Y. S. Lee Read Free Book Online Page A

please. On the thirteenth of October, A.D. 1860, Miss Quinn had no ready retort to a speech made by Mr Easton.”
    She half-laughed. “James, do shut up.”
    “Perhaps if offered sufficient inducement.”
    She glanced about swiftly and discovered a minor miracle: they were, just for a minute, utterly alone in the foggy dark. She clasped his head and pulled him down for a long, luxurious kiss. It was their first proper kiss in many months, and – fear intruded – possibly their last. She pushed that thought from her mind and focused only on the warmth of his lips, his subtle scent, his hand stroking the length of her spine. When they eventually broke apart, she whispered, “How was that?”
    His breathing was ragged. “An excellent beginning.”
    “The breeches aren’t a distraction?”
    His small puff of laughter tickled her neck, her ear. “I doubt an earthquake could distract me at this point.”
    “Really? Mmm. Let’s try it again.”

Five
    Sunday, 14 October, morning
    Gordon Square, Bloomsbury
    M ary was wearing a white muslin frock and carrying a frilly silk parasol: absurd choices, considering they were standing on a stony beach in northern Scotland under a flaying winter rain. She seemed impervious to the weather, however, and was using her parasol to strike the pebbles, one at a time. “One of these is hollow,” she cried to him, scarcely audible over the shrieking wind. “When we find it, we’ll have it.” “Have what?” he roared back. She looked incredulous. “The answer, of course.” Her tapping became louder and louder, eventually resolving itself into a series of impatient double-raps on a wooden door. James struggled awake into a foggy grey morning not much warmer than the Scottish beach, and realized he was in bed and very much alone.
    “Enter,” he said, around a yawn.
    The door opened silently, but it wasn’t Mrs Vine with his morning coffee. It was George, struggling to balance a tray with a coffee pot, a pair of cups and saucers and a plate of sugared biscuits. He was wrapped haphazardly in a heavily embroidered velvet dressing-gown and most of his hair was plastered to one side of his head. Still, he looked fully awake, and that was sufficiently unusual to make James sit upright.
    “Whatever’s happened, George?” The elder Easton was normally a slugabed who languished in his house slippers long after James had breakfasted and left for the office.
    “Can’t a man deliver his brother’s coffee tray now and again?” asked George. “Strikes me as a thoughtful and affectionate thing to do.”
    “In this house, it only serves to make the brother extremely suspicious.” James rescued the tilting tray from George’s hands and placed it on his bedside table, then shrugged on his own dressing-gown, which was of sober navy-blue wool, in stark contrast to George’s dandyish taste. “Here, I’ll pour. Did you lose the teaspoons en route?”
    George looked annoyed. “I wondered what that noise was.”
    “Pull up a chair.” James poured two cups of steaming coffee, adding large amounts of cream and sugar to the first and passing it to George. “Here you go.” He sat on the edge of his bed, took two sips of scalding coffee and replaced the cup gently in its saucer. He was as ready as he would ever be. “Now, what’s this all about? It certainly doesn’t feel like good news.”
    George took a tentative sip and screwed up his face. “I can’t taste the sugar at all. Good Lord, I can’t believe you drink this stuff black, Jamie.”
    James tried not to flinch at the use of his childhood nickname. “Stir it with your finger.”
    “It’s bitter! Are you sure you put enough in?”
    James half-laughed, half-groaned. “George, if you don’t shut up about the substandard coffee, I’ll use my chamberpot to give it a good swirl round. You might like it better, then.”
    “There’s no need to be disgusting. Are you feeling unwell?”
    James considered. “Banging headache. I