He stepped in front of her to begin the descent down the stairs, Della appreciating the consideration even though it was not necessary. Her whole being felt as though it had been zapped by some kind of kinetic energy. They had a clue about where Sarah’s husband could be, and it only took pretending to be his betrothed—not a difficult assignment—for it to happen. She couldn’t keep herself from waving her hands in the air in her excitement. “We’re so close! Henry could be home with Sarah tonight!”

He paused on the stairwell in front of her, turning to meet her gaze. His expression was serious, and her stomach fluttered.

“Have you thought of what you’ll do if it turns out that Wattings is—?” He paused, waiting for her to fill in the word.

She bit her lip. Then raised her chin and replied. “I can’t believe that a love so true could die. I won’t believe it. Not until I see absolute proof. Until then?” She tossed her head. “Until then, he is alive.”

And she strode past him on the stairway, keeping up a brisk pace until they reached the bottom.

I can’t believe that a love so true could die.

Had he only just realized that underneath the bright acerbity of Lady Della’s personality was a romantic? A hopeless one at that?

And why did that make him feel just slightly better about the world?

Although knowing she was a romantic should make him run far, far away. What would happen if—no, forget that, when—she fell in love with him?

Because she would fall in love with him.

He knew he was irresistible. But unfortunately she was as well—he was unable to resist the allure of her, no matter the danger of coming too close to her flame. He would get burned. They would both expire in some lustful fiery conflagration, and he would die a happy man.

He beckoned to a hackney, then opened the door for her to get inside, wrinkling his nose as he followed after her. Judging by the smell inside, the cab had apparently been egalitarian in its ridership, having borne a horse or two to their eventual destination.

Or the cabby was just not that clean.

She met his gaze, her wry smile acknowledging the odor.

“It’s a good thing I am not fussy,” she remarked, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and holding it up to her nose. “But I wish it were not quite so fragrant in here. I don’t want to arrive at where Mr. Wattings might be smelling like a stable.”

“I had thought we would go tomorrow,” Griff said, taking his own handkerchief out from his pocket. “If we are attending a party this evening, which I presume we are, we won’t have enough time to prepare and find Mr. Wattings. Especially now that we both likely smell.”