Mr. Flogg’s brow creased in the shadow of his bowler hat. “They’re geniuses; of course they’ll think of it. Drat! We’d better organize a surprise to meet them at Oxford University should they turn up there. Something to slow them down a bit.”
“What kind of surprise?”
Mr. Flogg merely smiled fiendishly and bounced his eyebrows.
“Ah,” Mr. Fettick said, perking up. “That kind!”
Setting down his coffee cup with a clank, Mr. Flogg stood in a manner that would have been dramatic were he not a pasty-faced fellow with a prissy little mustache. “Quick! To the telegram office!”
—
Following a hasty meal in the Hildegard of Bingen Breakfast Room, Beth caught a hackney cab to Paddington Station. Entering the terminal, she immediately looked around for
“Miss Pickering!”
At the familiar voice, her pulse stumbled. Turning, she smiled politely.
“Hippolyta.”
“Thank goodness, by Jove!” the woman boomed, ringlets and ruffles flouncing as she rushed forward to take Beth’s hand. Footmen followed in her wake, barely visible beneath armloads of luggage. “I’ve been beside myself!”
“Er,” Beth said, looking down at the yellow gloves Hippolyta had given her.
“You know how bad I am at stitching! They’re my favorite gloves, and the seams are beginning to fray! But you’re so clever, I’m sure you can have them tidied up in a jiffy.”
“Um,” Beth said, to no effect. Hippolyta hustled her aboard the train in such typical style that she began to wonder if she’d only imagined the past two days.
“Oberhufter is traveling east like a fool,” Hippolyta said as they settled into a first-class compartment, “despite all signs pointing clearly to the caladrius being in the Cotswolds.”
“Actually, I—” Beth began.
“It shall be my great pleasure to laugh in his face when I win Birder of the Year! Has there ever been a more aggravating person in all the field of ornithology?”
“You—”
“No, indeed!” Sighing loudly, she frowned at the compartment doorway. “I can’t believe no one has come to ensure we’re settled in and have all we require. Such poor service!” She leaned back as one of her footmen spread a blanket over her lap, then forward as another rearranged the pillow behind her. “Elizabeth, be a sweetheart and go inform the steward that we require tea and biscuits, would you?”
“Yes, of course,” Beth said automatically, rising from her seat.
“And tell him to remove that ridiculous mustache of his before he returns. It reminds me in the most disagreeable manner of my late husband.”
Beth entered the corridor with some trepidation. It was crammed with people hurrying to organize themselves before the journey began, and the air hung turgid with cigar smoke and perfume. “Sorry…sorry…pardon me…sorry,” she murmured as she wove a careful passage. But no one heard her over the clamor, or even saw her, apparently, as elbows, suitcases, and shoe heels impacted with her body. Beth found herself driven to the verge of frowning. Why people—?!
(That was the full extent of the sentence. Extroverts need not trouble themselves asking for an explanation.)
Halfway to the dining car, she paused to lean back against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Never before had she felt so driven to homicidal inclinations. (Although not really. After all, murdering someone on the train led to appalling consequences, such as bloodstains, delayed timetables, and fictionalized accounts in cheap novels.)
“I told you so,” came a voice through the open door of the compartment next to her. “ ‘Birders on the Oxford Express.’ ”
“I’m impressed. Your instincts are sharper than a lapwing’s claw, old chap.”
Beth’s innate curiosity made her glance through the open door. She saw two men in dark suits and bowler hats, each with a briefcase resting on his lap. They did not look like ornithologists, despite their conversation. They looked like they belonged to the species of gentleman who travels around selling commodes.
“What if she lets herself be influenced by that atrocious woman?”
“Then we bring out a deadly—”
He stopped, and as two mustachioed heads whipped in her direction, Beth hastily looked away. Seconds later, the compartment door slammed shut.
Bother! Just when the conversation had been getting interesting! Beth had no qualms about eavesdropping, since it was how a lot of biological science got done, but she couldn’t extrapolate anything from that brief snatch of information. Perhaps if she leaned closer…
“Hello, Miss Peckerine,” came a rich, amused voice.
Beth almost gasped as she looked up to see Devon walking past. He’s here! her heart cried out with joyful excitement. He’s here, her brain echoed in significantly darker tones. He flashed her a hot glance, and Beth felt herself begin to melt. In a panic, she said the first thing that came to mind.
“Villain!”
He stopped in his tracks.
Oh dear, she thought, pulse scattering wildly through her body, as he reversed himself for three steps then turned to face her. He wore a black gabardine coat to his knees and a gray shirt, black trousers, oh my goodness rugged black boots, as if he were intending to scout for a nocturnal bird or set a woman’s heart aflutter. And still no tie, waistcoat, or even the basic masculine dignity of a hat. Passengers muttered complaints about him blocking the corridor as they sidled past, but Beth did not even notice. All she saw was his
“Pretty dress,” he said, and Beth melted to such a degree she had to press her legs together.
“Why are you here?” she demanded.
He lifted his gaze, and as their eyes met again, it felt like coming home. Which was ridiculous, Beth told herself. She’d only known the man a short while. He was the opposite of home. He was an unmapped horizon, or a bar chart without category names along the x-axis. She’d been right to leave him in Canterbury, and thank God here he was—er, so she could leave him again, that is! She would push him away this very instant and march off down the corridor!
All right, perhaps not this instant, but the next one, for sure!
