At this holler, Hippolyta and Beth did exactly the opposite of what it commanded: they looked up, into the canopy of the forest. A man came leaping down from a tree, his long brown coat soaring behind him winglike.
Birds startled and took to the air. For one awful moment, Beth heard the first perilous notes of the deathwhistler’s cry. But even as her heart began to shudder, the man snatched the bird and tucked its beak beneath his arm, rendering it silent. Tawny feathers ruffled wildly, briefly, then settled into calm.
The interloper bowed as much as was possible with a sizable bird in his arms. He was slightly unshaven, and a lock of black hair fell over one dark eye roguishly. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, grinning.
“Mr. Lockley!” Beth’s exclamation shook her vocal cords, which were used to only gentle employment. “What do you think you are doing?”
His grin deepened. “I think I’m stealing your bird, Miss Pickering.”
“Who is this rogue?” Hippolyta demanded.
“Devon Lockley,” Beth explained as the man brushed back his hair. “He’s a professor in Cambridge’s ornithology department.” She had been introduced to him during the annual Berkshire Birders meeting last month. He’d not made much of an impression—shabby coat, nice smile, more interested in the sausage rolls on offer than in talking to her. A typical male professor. He certainly impacted more today, jumping down before them in a style that evoked derring-do, bravado, and no cumbersome petticoats. It was provocative behavior, to say the least, and his unstarched trousers, clinging to strong thighs, only made matters worse. Beth absolutely would not blush, for she was an Englishwoman—but inside, her heart was fanning itself urgently with a handkerchief.
“Cambridge,” Hippolyta said in the same manner with which one might open their steak pie and say maggot. “And what sort of name is Devon Lockley?” she added, never mind that her own name, Hippolyta Albertina Spiffington-Quirm, ought to have disqualified her from asking.
“The sort that unimaginative parents living in Devonshire give their child,” the man said. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Quirm, especially as you so kindly shepherded the pileated deathwhistler into my trap. Both myself and my associate, Herr Oberhufter, thank you.”
“Oberhufter!” Hippolyta immediately withdrew a dainty silver pistol from a pocket of her dress and aimed it at him. But Devon’s smile only quirked.
“I sympathize, madam, but there is no need to do that.”
“There certainly is! Hand over my bird at once, you rapscallion, or I will shoot you!”
“Perhaps I misspoke,” he replied calmly. “What I meant was there is no point in doing that. We took the liberty earlier of removing your bullets.”
Hippolyta gasped and shook the gun, as if this would inform her of its contents.
“We?” Beth asked.
In response, Devon glanced over her shoulder. The ladies turned to see half their servants tied and gagged and the other half absconding back along the path with tools and food hamper. Seated at the wrought-iron picnic table was a large gentleman in a tan suit; he lifted his derby hat to the ladies in cheerful greeting.
“Oberhufter!” Hippolyta exclaimed again. “By Jove, this is outrageous!”
“No, madam,” Devon said. “It is ornithology.”
—
Devon knew he ought to have immediately hotfooted it out of there. Hippolyta was the wiliest, most ambitious birder on the circuit, and she’d just proven the lengths to which she’d go in order to obtain possession of the deathwhistler. But he couldn’t resist sparing a moment to smile at Miss Pickering. He remembered her from a recent meeting in Berkshire, where he’d been utterly bored and had asked for an introduction to the pretty Oxford professor, intending to flirt a little to pass the time. She’d proved so courteously agreeable, however, that his boredom veered toward stupefaction, and he’d been forced to risk the digestive perils of the buffet just to make himself feel alive.
But dang it, she really was pretty, with eyes as blue as the Alaskan cat-catching warbler, a mouth as soft as a morning kiss, and a sweet, heart-shaped face—although it was also a rather sweaty face, and currently scowling at him as if she’d like to stab him with her furled parasol. He wished she would. Pretty was nice; naughty was ever so much better.
He had a job to do, however, and Hippolyta was reaching for her hatpin in a manner that suggested a mastery of naughtiness even he could not handle. So he took an abrupt step forward and snatched Miss Pickering’s parasol.
She gasped. “Good heavens! There is no need to be so zealous! I’m sure we can negotiate—”
“Negotiate?!” Hippolyta cried out with horror.
“I’m happy to negotiate,” Devon said. “Here is my offer: I take the bird, and you wave goodbye nicely.”
With that, he flicked open the parasol and engaged its propeller. Miss Pickering’s eyes widened, and Devon feared she might cry. Poor girl, so downtrodden by Hippolyta, so timid, she was no doubt—
Er, actually, she was beating him with Hippolyta’s parasol. Having grabbed it from the older lady, she spared no effort in whacking Devon about the legs as he began to rise from the path. Delighted, he grinned at her. Then, with one kick, he knocked the parasol from her hand, causing it to fling away into the chasm.
“Sorry!” he said without the slightest remorse.
“I do not accept your apology!” she called out in reply. This defiance cast a lively flush upon her face, and Devon considered some flirtatious provocation, perhaps a blown kiss, just to see if he could tip her into truly bad manners. But the mechanized parasol was already carrying him away.
Until next time, he promised silently, and his body throbbed at the thought of it (or possibly due to the beating she’d given him).
—
Beth seethed in a most unladylike way as she watched Devon fly across the chasm and land easily on the far side. Beside her, Hippolyta had forsaken ‘ladylike’ and moved directly on to unseemliness, with several muttered profanities escaping from between her clenched teeth. (Beth could not fully hear them but nevertheless was rendered shocked indeed.)
On the other side of the chasm, Herr Oberhufter rose languidly, fanning himself with his derby hat. He performed an extravagant bow to the ladies.
“Thank you for your assistance in tracking the bird!” he called over.
“Blighter!” Hippolyta shouted, firing her gun several times at him, thus proving its chambers were indeed empty.
Herr Oberhufter did not even do her the courtesy of laughing nefariously. He turned to help Devon place the pileated deathwhistler into the large iron birdcage Hippolyta had brought for this very purpose. Devon covered the cage with Hippolyta’s picnic tablecloth, thereby creating a calm darkness to appease the bird before it could utter its deadly cries. Then, without further ado, the men walked away, carrying the stolen deathwhistler (which is to say, attended by one of the ladies’ servants carrying the stolen deathwhistler), leaving Hippolyta and Beth in the middle of the forest, miles from civilization, several thousand pounds poorer, and almost certainly not in the running for an award at the International Ornithology Conference in September.
“I’ll pluck your feathers yet, Oberhufter,” Hippolyta shouted after them.
“Too right,” Beth agreed. And, as Devon Lockley turned his head to throw one last crooked smile at her, she wiped the back of her hand across her heated face in the most scandalous manner indeed.
Chapter Two
