“IOS,” she announced, holding forth a silver badge in much the same manner as a police inspector arriving at a crime scene. Beth noted the engraving of a phoenix, symbol of the International Ornithological Society, before the woman pocketed the badge once more. “Mrs. Hassan, Kent division. By complete and pure coincidence, I just happened to be present. Which one of you bagged this bird?”
“It was my scarf that allowed its capture,” Miss Wolfe said immediately. The crowd of passengers gave her a hearty cheer, and she smiled and waved to them.
“I provided vital supervision, without which disaster might have ensued!” Monsieur Chevrolet offered. Cheers sounded again, intermingled with a few whistles in appreciation of the gentleman’s fine mustache.
Mrs. Hassan turned to Beth. “What about you?” Her tone made it clear that she’d witnessed the whole thing. “Perhaps, in a thrilling display of ornithological skill gained from your university education, you and the handsome young Professor Lockley here partnered to capture the deadly bird and save everyone?”
“Ooh!” said the crowd.
Beth looked to Devon in the hope he’d supply a response. But he seemed as taken aback as she felt.
“Handsome?” Monsieur Chevrolet muttered sulkily.
“How did you know who he is?” Miss Wolfe asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“And I wouldn’t call him young,” Monsieur Chevrolet added. “Besides, he got his degree in America.”
“Pardon me, I must dash,” Beth murmured, and turned to hurry away before anyone could further inflict conversation upon her. But she’d not gone a dozen steps before Devon appeared at her side.
“You were wise to leave,” he whispered. “Whoever claims that bird’s capture will have to transport it to an aviary, which means being diverted from the competition.”
“I wonder if that was the intention all along,” Beth said. “Perhaps someone wanted to eliminate competitors. Why else would they deploy a trained frostbird?”
“Shh,” Devon hissed. Glancing around warily, he caught her arm and guided her even farther along the platform. Beth considered rebuking him for yet again manhandling her, but refrained out of fear he’d stop doing it.
“I agree with you,” he whispered. “I also think the lapwing in Paris was trained; otherwise it’s hard to understand how we all survived, including whoever stole it from the Fotheringhams.”
Beth stared up at him. “The lapwing was stolen?”
“Yes, the—” He stiffened, abruptly somber. “Damn.”
Alarmed, Beth followed his gaze to the station’s entrance, where a group of men were strolling onto the platform. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s our French friends!”
At Devon’s sigh, Beth frowned reprovingly. “They’re nice people.”
“You say that about everyone.”
“Not everyone.” She gave him a pointed look, and he grinned in response, biting his lower lip in a way that sent her stomach reeling.
“Why, Miss Pickering, whatever has befallen your good manners?”
“You have,” she said sternly, although humor danced beneath the words. Turning away lest she start giggling, she waved to the fishermen. “Bonjour!”
“If only Hippolyta Quirm could see you now,” Devon murmured, tapping his knuckles against her arm amiably. Her stomach, only just recovered, swooped all over again. But the fishermen had noticed them and began to run, shouting with a wrath that took her by surprise.
“Merde alors! Agresseur de femme!”
“Goodness me,” Beth murmured a second before Devon shoved her protectively behind him. In the next second, the fishermen arrived, shouting mere inches from Devon’s face and brandishing their fists. Beth tried to step forward so she might calm the situation, but Devon extended his arm, barricading her.
“Really, this is silly,” she said. “Just let me explain…”
But there was no point: none of the men listened, nor even seemed to require her existence to justify their dispute. She was on the verge of walking away, to find a quiet spot in which to read while awaiting the train, when a cheerful voice sounded behind her.
“I say! What ho!”
The men’s voices stumbled into confused silence. Everyone looked around at the young Canterbury Times journalist, Mr. Spencer, who had joined them. He held notepad and pencil in anticipation of an interview.
“My French is a bit rusty,” he said to Devon, “but I believe they’re accusing you of beating the young lady. Do you have any comment? Perhaps the stress of competing for Birder of the Year drove you to it?” Turning to Beth, he aimed the pencil at her like a weapon. “Ma’am, have you any bruises I might detail for my readers? I’m certain they—”
Devon scowled. “Bruises? This is preposterous!”
“Prépuce?!!” the fishermen raged. One lunged for Devon, who hastily stepped back, almost knocking Beth down as he did so. This whipped up a veritable storm of French fury.
“Mr. Lockley has not beaten me!” Beth averred, quite horrified.
The journalist noted this down. “In that case,” he said helpfully, “may I suggest you offer some proof that you are friendly with each other? Perhaps a gesture that transcends language, if you know what I mean.”
He winked so broadly, it was a wonder he didn’t pull a facial muscle.
Devon expelled a sigh of exasperation. Turning to Beth, he gave her a look so intense, her stomach forgot swooping and donned a sparkling leotard to begin performing arabesques instead. “What do you think?” he asked. “Shall we illustrate our goodwill toward each other?”
Beth thought back to their demonstration of marital association for the innkeeper yesterday. A brief hug seemed like a reasonable solution to the current dilemma. “Yes,” she agreed.
Devon immediately stepped close and set an arm around her back. Beth girded her loins in anticipation of being embraced.
Instead, he swung her into a dip.
The world swayed, filling with sunlight. Staring up at Devon, she felt her sudden bewilderment melt in the heat of his regard. He raised one eyebrow questioningly, and all at once she realized his intention. For about half a second, she considered saying no. But words to that effect could not be found anywhere inside her (although to be fair, she did not exactly search for them). She gave the slightest nod, and Devon smiled.
