“Bastard!”
They all jolted at the sudden shout. Gladstone’s footman was pelting down the road toward them, followed by the Fotheringham sisters skimming above the road with the aid of helicopter parasols that were sparking and beginning to smoke. Farther back came a hansom cab carrying Herr Oberhufter. Hippolyta Quirm stood in its rear driver’s seat, looking like the warrior queen Boudicca, albeit with more orange lace. She whipped the horses into a speed that made Herr Oberhufter’s hat bob atop his head. Last of all, following at a respectful distance, were three carriages full of assorted servants and luggage.
“Go!” the clerk urged, flapping his hand. Immediately Beth handed the birdcage to Devon and mounted the horse with an efficiency that rejected another romantic moment. Devon passed her up the cage, then hoisted himself into the saddle, wrapping one arm around her waist as he grasped the reins in his other. There was only enough time for her to call out thanks to the clerk before they galloped off down the road, followed by roars from their pursuers.
“Halt!” Oberhufter demanded.
“Get out of my way, fools!” Hippolyta shouted at the Fotheringham sisters.
“Never!” they hollered in reply.
Crash!
Devon glanced back to see the hansom cab tilted sideways against a bush on the verge, the Fotheringham sisters tumbled in Oberhufter’s lap, and his hat rolling away down the road.
“Oh no!” Beth gasped. “Is everyone all right?”
Hippolyta’s furious “damn you, Oberhufter!” provided an answer. Beth slumped back with relief against Devon, and he held her tight, racing toward the hope of some safe, private place where he could embrace her properly, in peace.
Fifteen minutes later, the horse began limping, but almost immediately thereafter they came upon the Sir William coaching inn, in what could have been considered a miracle were they not scientists and, furthermore, this not England, land of hope, glory, and some hundred thousand public houses. They rode into the stable yard and dismounted.
“We’ll have to leave the horse here and continue on foot,” Devon said.
“Where are we even going?” Beth asked.
He squinted at the sun-bleached horizon. “Sheffield? And catch a train to Dover from there?”
“Good idea.” She peeked beneath the cage cover. “Feathers fluffed up, breathing unsteady,” she said as she assessed the caladrius’s condition. “But beak closed and eyes clear. The seed debris on the cage floor is sprouting, which suggests thaumaturgic activity.”
Lowering the cover, she bit her thumbnail, then grimaced at the taste of the dusty glove. Devon tried not to smile in sheer adoration, or for that matter to remove the glove and kiss her thumb, her hand, all the way along her arm to—
“I’m concerned,” she said, and he shook his head to restore focus. “Obviously Gladstone has been provoking the bird to use its power, but a caladrius that’s been drawing illness into itself must cleanse it by flying high into the sunlight. How long can a juvenile survive without doing so?”
“I don’t know,” Devon admitted. “So much of the available information about the bird is mythology.”
Beth sighed, her expression sobering. “Why did I not think about its possible fate before I entered the competition?”
“I didn’t either,” Devon admitted. “I trusted IOS’s professional integrity.”
“So did I. Obviously I should have been more cynical.”
He took her hand before she could attack the thumb again. “Don’t think like that. They should have been more trustworthy. Anyway, we’re here now, and it’s our decisions from this point on that matter. I suggest we take the bird to a sanctuary.”
“Which one?”
“L’Abri à Bergerac,” he said. “It’s where I sent the deathwhistler, and I know it to be reputable. They’ll protect the caladrius even if the entire IOS executive committee comes knocking on their door.”
“That sounds good. So back to France, then. But first, might we purchase some food from the inn? An apple, some nuts, some crusts of bread?”
“I think I can afford to buy us better than that,” Devon assured her wryly.
“I meant for the caladrius. Its seed and water supplies are adequate, but it ought to have a varied diet.”
Devon tried not to roll his eyes with fond amusement. “And you, Miss Pickering? Are you hungry?”
She blinked with surprise at the question. Then shyness darkened her gaze like a summer storm, and Devon would have bet that no one had asked her such a thing in a very long time. “I’ll buy you some lunch,” he said, just to watch the storm deepen and her eyelashes lower sweetly, just to make her feel nice. “Will you wait here with the horse?”
She nodded, and he squeezed her hand gently before releasing it and turning toward the inn. But he’d taken only a few steps before he simply had to look back, compelled by the gravity between them.
Beth was stroking the horse’s neck, murmuring praise and promises of hay. The late morning sunlight blossomed around her, turning her long, loose hair into a wealth of bright treasure. Devon stared transfixed, every other thought forgotten.
And that was how he missed the parrot skimming past the inn before circling to fly north again, singing here, here.
—
Beth watched from the corner of her eye as Devon went through the inn’s side door. The way he’d held her hand, not to mention the thrilling interest he’d shown in her digestion status, created a fluttering sensation all over her skin, as though she wore nothing but a feather boa. She wished she could forget about the International Ornithological Society for a while and convince him that they should take a room in the inn—a room with only one bed and a sturdy lock on its door.
She gasped at the thought, then gasped again because the first one had not been shock at her impropriety but delight at the imaginings it inspired.
And yet, how could she indulge in such imaginings about a man for whom she held so little data? She’d disliked Devon Lockley…been aggravated by him…felt attracted to him…kissed him…fallen in love with him, and it had felt like everything. But what was his favorite bird? Had he ever encountered a ghost owl? Who were his family? Would he mind terribly if she ripped off his shirt and kissed every inch of his naked torso?
“Hello!”
The greeting jabbed her awareness; turning, she found a young stable hand beside her.
“Oh,” she said, blushing as if he might have somehow discerned her thoughts.
He tugged his forelock. Drops of sweat flicked off it to create tiny, murky puddles on his dirt-streaked face. “Can I help you, mi— Hey, wait! You’re that lady from the newspaper!” His gaze flicked from her to the birdcage, then back again at speed, barely giving her enough time to roll her eyes wearily. “The orthilochist lady what’s doing the Birder of the Year competition! Cor blimey!”
