acquaintances (first at Morrell’s, where they had not seen any man of that description, then at Durnsford’s, and Grand Hotel, and so on and so forth, through the entire list of likely hotels), the more convinced she became that her Ripton was this Ripton’s object of interest. All the details were correct—save one.
“He doesn’t stutter,” she said as they departed the Hôtel d’Angleterre.
Ripton cast her a blank look, which all at once narrowed into sharp interest. “No?”
She shook her head. “He does have dimples, and a mole on his left cheek. But he speaks very fluently.”
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“How do you know so well what he looks like, anyway? Did you encounter him before? Why didn’t you catch him then?”
His hesitation struck her as odd. But then he shrugged and said, “I had several very good descriptions from the bankers in Constantinople and Smyrna. He was using my letters of credit, you see. They remembered him quite clearly.”
“Oh.” That made sense.
At the Hôtel d’Australie, a very dingy-looking place, they found their first solid clue: the man behind the desk had seen a gentleman matching such a description, but not as a guest. “You will want to try the taverna on the corner,” he smirked. “But best you go before sundown, if you take my meaning.”
The taverna was not difficult to find, marked as it was by an old-fashioned swinging sign emblazoned with a bottle of spirits. As they approached, a swarthy sailor emerged, scratching at his hair in a manner that suggested vermin considerably less pleasant than fleas.
Amanda felt a stir of alarm and excitement. She had never set foot in a sailor’s den.
“Perhaps I should take you back to the hotel first,” Ripton said.
The suggestion astonished her. “You mean to say you kidnapped me for nothing?”
He pulled a face. “Only that—”
“Or that, having kidnapped me, you now think to shield my delicate sensibilities?”
He rolled his eyes. “Very well, then. On we go.”
The taverna’s door opened to reveal thick clouds of pipe smoke and the muted, gruff tones of masculine conversation. The low-beamed ceiling required Ripton to duck at regular intervals; he guided her to a trestle table that promised splinters for the carelessly placed elbow, then went to the bar to make inquiries.
Squinting against the irritation of smoke, Amanda tried to appear like the sort of woman who would frequent such environs. Such a woman would no doubt place her chin in her hand and slump a little.
Or perhaps not. Her own mother had been possessed of excellent posture, and Mama, in her youth, had served food at a pub in Little Darby—an accomplishment that Papa had found a source of endless amusement. “Imagine her,” he’d liked to say over the dining table as Mama thumped down a pot of stew or a juicy Sunday roast. “Slinging ale for sporters!”
“Country gentlemen,” Mama had sniffed. “I’ll beg you not to speak of it to those bound to think otherwise.”
But certainly this crowd could not be considered gentlemen. Clothed in ragged, patched coats, their hands reddened and their mouths tight, they bent over tankards and scowled at hands of cards. Amanda felt grateful that they ignored her, for she constitutionally lacked, so Papa had put it, Mama’s “disciplinary airs.”
Ripton returned, two glasses of wine in his hands—disgusting stuff, full of sediment. “The publican says a man of our description has come in three afternoons in a row, generally around half past five. We’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”
That was suspiciously polite of him. Indeed, now that she thought on it, he’d been oddly courteous ever since the incident with that poor boy.
Perhaps the devil was developing a conscience!
She rewarded him for it with her kindest smile. “I must say, it doesn’t seem a likely haunt for my . . . former betrothed. He preferred a more hygienic ambience.”
“Yes, I imagine he did,”
“He doesn’t stutter,” she said as they departed the Hôtel d’Angleterre.
Ripton cast her a blank look, which all at once narrowed into sharp interest. “No?”
She shook her head. “He does have dimples, and a mole on his left cheek. But he speaks very fluently.”
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“How do you know so well what he looks like, anyway? Did you encounter him before? Why didn’t you catch him then?”
His hesitation struck her as odd. But then he shrugged and said, “I had several very good descriptions from the bankers in Constantinople and Smyrna. He was using my letters of credit, you see. They remembered him quite clearly.”
“Oh.” That made sense.
At the Hôtel d’Australie, a very dingy-looking place, they found their first solid clue: the man behind the desk had seen a gentleman matching such a description, but not as a guest. “You will want to try the taverna on the corner,” he smirked. “But best you go before sundown, if you take my meaning.”
The taverna was not difficult to find, marked as it was by an old-fashioned swinging sign emblazoned with a bottle of spirits. As they approached, a swarthy sailor emerged, scratching at his hair in a manner that suggested vermin considerably less pleasant than fleas.
Amanda felt a stir of alarm and excitement. She had never set foot in a sailor’s den.
“Perhaps I should take you back to the hotel first,” Ripton said.
The suggestion astonished her. “You mean to say you kidnapped me for nothing?”
He pulled a face. “Only that—”
“Or that, having kidnapped me, you now think to shield my delicate sensibilities?”
He rolled his eyes. “Very well, then. On we go.”
The taverna’s door opened to reveal thick clouds of pipe smoke and the muted, gruff tones of masculine conversation. The low-beamed ceiling required Ripton to duck at regular intervals; he guided her to a trestle table that promised splinters for the carelessly placed elbow, then went to the bar to make inquiries.
Squinting against the irritation of smoke, Amanda tried to appear like the sort of woman who would frequent such environs. Such a woman would no doubt place her chin in her hand and slump a little.
Or perhaps not. Her own mother had been possessed of excellent posture, and Mama, in her youth, had served food at a pub in Little Darby—an accomplishment that Papa had found a source of endless amusement. “Imagine her,” he’d liked to say over the dining table as Mama thumped down a pot of stew or a juicy Sunday roast. “Slinging ale for sporters!”
“Country gentlemen,” Mama had sniffed. “I’ll beg you not to speak of it to those bound to think otherwise.”
But certainly this crowd could not be considered gentlemen. Clothed in ragged, patched coats, their hands reddened and their mouths tight, they bent over tankards and scowled at hands of cards. Amanda felt grateful that they ignored her, for she constitutionally lacked, so Papa had put it, Mama’s “disciplinary airs.”
Ripton returned, two glasses of wine in his hands—disgusting stuff, full of sediment. “The publican says a man of our description has come in three afternoons in a row, generally around half past five. We’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”
That was suspiciously polite of him. Indeed, now that she thought on it, he’d been oddly courteous ever since the incident with that poor boy.
Perhaps the devil was developing a conscience!
She rewarded him for it with her kindest smile. “I must say, it doesn’t seem a likely haunt for my . . . former betrothed. He preferred a more hygienic ambience.”
“Yes, I imagine he did,”
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