Elizabeth had been to Kensington Gardens before. She rather loved it. The flowering shrubs. The beautiful, towering trees. The meandering paths winding through the deep green grass. There was hardly a more peaceful place in all of London. Being there with Fletcher proved both more enjoyable and less.
She delighted in his company. He was witty and kind, never spoke down to her, and treated her as someone worthy of his time, which not all men were willing to do. Yet he also upended her. Her usually ordered thoughts jumbled and fogged. Being with him was a most pleasantly uncomfortable experience.
She spun her open parasol against her shoulder, enjoying the breeze and the vista. “I do wish Kensington Gardens sat closer to Thurloe. I would come here every day.”
“I thought fashionable people made the outing to Hyde Park quite regularly.”
Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens adjoined one another, separated by the meandering Serpentine. “Fashionable people with a great deal of time on their hands come here often. I have left Thurloe more the past few days than in the previous months combined.”
He offered her a sparkling smile. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re taking credit, are you?”
“Of course I am. Men don’t often get credit for things.”
“Pish.” She laughed. “Men receive credit for everything.”
He sighed theatrically. “We are rather despicable, ain’t we?”
“A few of you aren’t terrible.”
“Am I included in that few?”
She offered no response. He laughed. Oh, how she enjoyed his company.
They wound toward the Serpentine, coming across a man who recognized Fletcher on the spot. He was not dressed to the first stare of fashion, but neither did he appear destitute. “Fletch, it’s yourself, is it?” An Irishman, apparently. “Fancy you’re being here.”
Fletcher gripped his friend’s hand vigorously in greeting. “Good seeing you, Brogan.” He looked to Elizabeth. “Miss Black, this here’s Brogan Donnelly, a friend of mine.”
She knew that name well. “A fellow author of penny dreadfuls, I believe.”
The Irishman nodded. “Are you familiar, then, with the lowest rung of literature?”
“Yes, and I am also familiar with the penny dreadfuls.”
Mr. Brogan appeared impressed. “Witty and beautiful.” He gave Fletcher a look of approval. “Don’t tell me a ragamuffin like you is courting this rare gem?”
“I’m doing my best.” He slipped her arm through his. Did he not mean to tell him that they were on a mission to obtain information for the Dread Penny Society? Was Brogan not a member? That seemed unlikely.
Still, if that was the better approach, Elizabeth would follow Fletcher’s lead. She set her free hand atop his arm, assuming the posture of the countless courting couples in the gardens. Fletcher’s eyes met hers, and the look he gave her would have convinced even the greatest cynic that he held her in tender regard. She didn’t know what to make of that. Was he a very gifted actor, or did he feel more for her than he’d let on? She didn’t know which was truer of herself.
“What is it you see in this ol’ bag o’ bones?” Mr. Donnelly asked. “He’s not horrifying to look at, I suppose, but you’re a fair bit above his touch.”
“You ain’t lying,” Fletcher said.
“I don’t think of us that way,” she said. “We’re both writers. We both care about the welfare of children. We’re both deeply intrigued by mysteries.”
Fletcher grinned. Mr. Donnelly did as well.
“Then I wish you all the good fortune you can muster.” The Irishman offered a bow and moved along.
“I hadn’t thought of that difficulty,” Elizabeth said.
“That people will realize we’re mismatched?”
She shook her head. “That people will think we’re mismatched.”
He tucked her closer. “We are, dear. No matter that I’m employin’ my best manners, we ain’t on the same ladder rung.”
She tipped her chin upward. “It seems to me you have your eyes on the wrong ladder.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Perhaps I am.”
She and Fletcher walked on as well, her arm still threaded through his, her hand still resting on his arm. Elizabeth hadn’t realized until that moment how lonely she often was. She enjoyed the company of her fellow teachers, treasured Ana’s friendship in particular, and appreciated her opportunities to spend time with other silver-fork novelists and literary societies. But so much of her life was spent alone, in her office, working on matters related to her school or pursuing the deeply satisfying passion she didn’t dare admit to.
“Have you ever taken a boat out on the Serpentine?” Fletcher asked.
“I haven’t. I have watched the boaters, though. It seems like a lovely way to spend an afternoon.” And more exciting than the sedate walks along the gardens to which she usually limited herself.
“It most certainly is, Miss Elizabeth.” He slipped his arm away from hers but held her hand, tugging her toward the edge of the water where the boats were being watched over by men eager to accept the fee for hire.
“We are going to go boating?” She couldn’t quite hide her excitement. “You don’t think that will be viewed as inappropriate, do you?”
“I ain’t the one to ask, dove.” They reached the Serpentine. “How much for the boat for a time?” he asked a man standing beside a particularly promising rowboat.
He was quoted a not unreasonable price. The offer was accepted.
“You know how to stay afloat, sir?” the boatman asked.
“This ain’t my first time on the water.” He turned to Elizabeth, a challenge twinkling in his eyes. “Have you decided if you’d be putting paid to your reputation if you take a tiny boat ride with me?”
She couldn’t be entirely certain it would meet with approval from the greatest of sticklers, but she didn’t think an outing that was as public as a carriage ride in the park could truly be declared scandalous. And, oh, how she would love to have an adventure.
“We will further convince people you are courting me,” she told him.
He held out his hand to her once more. He must not have objected.
She set her hand in his. The simple touch—through both of their gloves—sent waves of warm awareness over her. How was it this man, who stood in a position to uncover a secret that would destroy the stable life of independence she had carefully created for herself, made her feel alive in a way no one else ever had? Perhaps it was because, as Mr. Donnelly had pointed out, Fletcher wasn’t as bound by the expectations of the upper class. It made him both an adventure and a risk.
They were soon situated. A push from the boatman sent them out onto the water. Fletcher took up the oars, pulling them through the smooth water. They lazily meandered out onto the lake. A light breeze cooled the air, and birdsong echoed from the trees surrounding the lake. It was peaceful and serene. A slow smile tugged at her lips. The moment was perfect.
“Keep that expression on your face, Elizabeth, and I’ll think my wooing is working.”
“Is that not the goal?” she asked.
“That, my dear, is always the goal.” He didn’t look at her as he continued to row, but his tone was a touch too innocent—and amused—for his comment to be anything but good-spirited banter.
“And our spying expedition?” she pressed.
“An added bonus.” He winked at her, pulling the oars as he guided the boat along the lake, parallel to the shore.
“I’ve never been a spy, though I suspect I would be quite good at it.”
He laughed. “I haven’t any doubt in you.”
“None at all?” She couldn’t hold back her smile.
“You sorted that Janey could get word to me and pieced together that Midgley might be part of the trouble at Hogg’s school.”
He left his list at that, but she suspected there was more.
“And?” she asked.
“And you were bang on about this being the right spot for today’s spying.”
Was she?
He motioned with his head toward the bank. Midgley stood on the path near the Serpentine, and he was not alone.
“Is that Mr. Headley speaking to him?”
“It ain’t the Prime Minister.”
The two men were deep in conversation, the topic appearing to be a heavy one.
“Are they chums, then?” Fletcher asked.
“They are acquainted, but I don’t believe theirs is a close connection.”
“Are you certain about that?”
She wasn’t. Not any longer.
“How’s Headley feel about educating the poor?” Fletcher asked.
She looked away from the unexpected meeting occurring on the shore, her thoughts spinning. “When I told him of Mr. Midgley’s comments, he seemed unconcerned.”
Fletcher continued rowing but slower, the boat hardly moving. “On account of him thinking Midgley wasn’t in earnest?”
That wasn’t it, exactly. “It seemed more that he thought my worry was misplaced or unjustified.”
That brought a rise to Fletcher’s eyebrow. “Throwing you off the scent, perhaps.”
Perhaps. “But he wouldn’t have any reason to suspect I knew of the trouble at Hogg’s school.”
Fletcher’s gaze returned to the men, his eyes narrowing. “It’s suspicious.”
“What do we do now?” She had far less experience with this kind of thing than he did.
“Watch,” he said. “Both of ’em.”
“You can do that?”
He assumed an entertainingly haughty expression. “I’ve a few useful talents, Elizabeth.”
“Writing, for example,” she said. “Your most recent installment was quite well done.”
“I’d return the compliment, but you ain’t published anything in more than a year.”
He tracked her writing? That was both flattering and worrisome.
“Running my school has taken nearly all my time,” she said. “That has left me little opportunity for other pursuits.”
“You’ve been attempting to save Hogg’s school as well.”
“What can I say? I like to keep busy.”
“And you like to sort out mysteries.”
The difficulty being, so did he. The more they worked together, the harder it would be to keep her secrets from him. As much as she was enjoying playing spy, she had to be careful else these moments of adventure might cost her every bit of security she had fought for.