Page 5 of Ladies in Hating
Iris nudged Georgiana with a surprisingly sharp elbow. “Ought you—” she whispered.
Georgiana shushed her friend with a finger to her lips and a quick jerk of her head.Wait.
Wasit Lady Darling? Or merely an associate of hers? Georgiana did not know. If they revealed themselves too soon, the woman might deny everything. But if they could make out her conversation—hear how the person at the door addressed her—perhaps they might have tangible evidence with which to confront her.
Unfortunately, over the next several minutes, no revelations presented themselves. Though the woman had lowered her hood, she’d turned her back on Georgiana and Iris in the shrubbery. The brief conversation between the unknown woman and the Belvoir’s employee was held in whispers low enough that Georgiana could not make out any intelligible phrases.
As she watched the mysterious visitor converse with whomever was inside the library, the first few discernible rays of wintry sun illuminated the alley. The woman’s cloak wasn’t black—it was more of a worn, well-washed gray. The hem, Georgiana could see, had been picked and rerolled to repair it; it was just slightly too short.
Perhaps thiswasn’tLady Darling. Surely Lady Darling would have enough money from the sales of her gallingly excellent books to afford a new cloak.
The door closed. Her conversation seemingly finished, the woman stepped back. She raised her hands to draw her hood over her hair, but just before she did, the light shifted, and a sunbeam caught upon her face.
Georgiana froze.
The woman’s hair was dark. Her mouth was a decadent curve, as red as wine and twice as intoxicating. Her nose was long and her chin was sharp, and Georgiana knew that if she were close enough to see, the woman’s eyes would be deep enough to drown in.
If she smiled, her face would light the alley. Georgiana remembered.
The woman secured her hood and turned her back to them again. Her hips swayed as she walked away—her figure hadchanged,shehad changed. God, somehow she was evenmorenow, more extravagant, more irresistible—
“Georgie,” Iris whispered. “If you want to go, gonow,or else she’s going to get away!”
Georgiana realized she had stopped breathing. She sucked in a frantic gulp of air and plastered herself against the wall, deeper into the shadows. “No,” she gasped. “No, never mind. I’ve made a mistake.”
“What on earth—are you all right?”
Iris’s voice was low, just above a breath, but somehow, it did not matter.
Somehow, the woman heard.
She spun toward them. Her hood fell back, revealing that mobile face, that opulent mouth. “Who’s there?”
Georgiana did not move. She could not. Her legs were blocks of ice. Her throat had closed.
Catriona Rose Lacey—for itwasshe, there was no doubt of it, even from a distance of five feet and nine years—shoved her hand into her reticule. “Reveal yourself! I have a pistol, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Chapter 3
Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful.
—from Catriona Lacey’s private copy ofFRANKENSTEINby Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Cat Lacey’s fingers were shaking as she closed them around the letters she’d just stuffed into her bag.
Oh God. Oh sainted Margaret. She didnothave a pistol. What the devil was she going to do if some footpad attacked? Throw her correspondence at him? Bury him in a shower of reader notes and bills of sale?
She lifted her chin and projected a confidence that she absolutely did not feel. “Out with it,” she said. “Who are you, and why are you spying on me?”
Very slowly, two figures emerged from their hiding place behind the shrubbery. Cat cursed herself—she ought to have noticed that that shrub was not usually placed there!
Although, on the other hand, the day she started growingsuspicious of shrubbery was perhaps the day she needed to retire from her current occupation.
As the two would-be spies edged closer—one had her hands upraised as if to underscore her total lack of threat—Cat attempted to make sense of the sight before her.
The probably-not-footpads appeared to be two well-dressed women. The one with her hands up was a head shorter and built like a Renaissance Venus, with black glossy hair spilling out in all directions from beneath her hood.
The taller one had ice-blond hair drawn back from her face. She was all cheekbones and elegant lines, her lips parted, her brilliant blue eyes inexplicably terrorized.
