His Fire Maiden

Chapter 12

Having confined all aspects of espionage to skulking behind closed doors or hiding in small spaces, Vivienne was uncertain how easy it would be to track Reginald as he set out for town the next day. As it turned out, it was quite simple.

A man of uncommon height and breadth of shoulders wearing a black carnival mask while riding astride a gray gelding was not a sight one overlooked. John Coachman—who participated because he had no choice in the matter but wore an exceedingly sullen expression when Vivienne told him of her plan—needed only to follow the trail of stunned onlookers like the proverbial breadcrumbs in the forest. Soon they were only four coach lengths behind him. Impatient, she craned her neck, putting her head as far out the window as she dared. Reginald's head remained high and forward, his seat light and trained. He cut through the traffic, seeming oblivious of the commotion he caused. Vivienne's chest tightened, watching him so. He had too keen an eye not to see the rudely gawking halfwits who hadn't the decency to let him pass in peace.

Unfortunately London traffic got the better of them on Piccadilly, and the crush of omnibuses, carts, and carriages soon swallowed him whole.

"Blast." She punched the seat and sat back in a huff as the coach creaked to a halt.

From the window came a plaintive bleat as a flock of sheep waddled by, leaving behind the acrid stench of urine and lanolin. She muttered again, expecting a cow to poke its wet nose through the window at any moment.

John Coachman's blond head peeked in as he opened the box. "S'all right, milady. He's gone to the British Museum, I'm sure of it."

Vivienne perked up. "How can you be sure?"

His brown eyes crinkled. "He's been going there every Wednesday since as long as he's been here in London."

"Every..." She ground her teeth to keep from shouting. "Then why didn't you simply tell me that when I endeavored to follow Lord Reginald?"

The earnestness of his expression was genuine. "But my lady, you only asked me to follow Lord Reginald, not tell you his habits." The traffic around them moved, and John's head snapped up. "Here we go, then," he said quickly and then closed the box. The coach gave a lurch and went off at a nice clip.

Her ire died down as they pulled up before the British Museum. She bade John to wait and entered the cool quiet of the stately neoclassical front building. A guide took her mantle and informed her that extraordinary exhibits were currently being held in galleries one and two. Having never been inside, Vivienne hadn't realized the sheer size of the place. She despaired of finding Reginald. Unfortunately, her quiet word of inquiry to the stout guide yielded nothing more than a raised shaggy, white brow.

"The privacy of our patrons is sacrosanct, madam. I'm sure I would be remiss in my duties if I did not treat it as such." His stern expression broke for a fleeting moment. "However, you may wish to examine the paintings of our Pre-Raphaelites in the Red Salon. I vow you shall find them most enlightening."

She found Reginald in the center of the otherwise empty Red Salon.

Vivienne stayed back, hiding in the outer corridor just behind the doorway. He stood for several long minutes gazing up at a portrait upon the wall. She dared not move closer to see what it was, but something about the tilt of Reginald's head, the way his shoulders hunched, spoke of longing and loneliness.

"Though lovely, that gown is hardly inconspicuous."

Vivienne inhaled with a rush, Reginald's sudden words causing her heart to promptly stop before starting up again madly. She cursed herself for being seduced by duchess satin the color of new butter and a high-flaring collar of starched bronze organza.