Gabriel’s own hair was uncharacteristically disheveled. He retrieved his coat from the ground and wordlessly put it on.

Effie went to him without thinking and reached to neaten his cravat. “I can tell you’re aching to lecture, scold, or interrogate me, but I trust it can wait until a more convenient time. Later this week, perhaps?”

He didn’t reply, only stared down at her in brooding silence. A lock of dark hair had fallen across his brow. Effie brushed it back. It was surprisingly thick and silky under her fingers, tamed by an expensive pomade. She’d caught the elusive fragrance of it as he’d helped her down the wisteria—bergamot and spices, like his shaving soap.

Gabriel was uncommonly still as she fussed over him, uttering not a single syllable. But a strange look had come into his pale blue eyes. Effie couldn’t interpret it, but something inside of her warned her to cease her ministrations. One shouldn’t be petting a wolf as though he were a spaniel.

Dropping her hands, she backed away. “Forgive my presumption,” she said. “I abhor a wrinkled cravat.”

“Miss Flite—”

“And rumpled hair,” she added. “It’s so untidy.”

His brows sank. “Euphemia—”

“You shall doubtless want to return to the musicale as well. May I suggest you wait five minutes so we don’t appear together?”

“Effie.”

She stopped. Her heart fluttered madly. “Yes, Gabriel?”

“You can expect me later this week,” he informed her.

She took another unconscious step back. “In Brook Street?” Lady Belwood would have ten fits.

“Not in Brook Street,” he said.

“Where, then?” Another step backward. “I have an exceedingly busy schedule. It would help if I knew when and where to anticipate you.”

She still had the offices of the London Courant to visit, and Ellis Street to surveil, not to mention her inquiries into Devil’s Acre and Church Lane. Gabriel’s presence would be less than desirable at any of those places, especially if he was going to interfere with her methods or attempt to stop her from conducting her inquiries altogether.

He’d rescued her, yes. And he’d undisputedly made her heart beat faster. Still…

Just because a lady shared a deep, smoldering kiss with a gentleman didn’t mean that gentleman need be privy to all that lady’s business.

Gabriel observed her steady retreat as if he could read her mind. “I’ll find you again,” he promised darkly. “You may depend on it.”

• • •

Gabriel didn’t return to the musicale that night. After Effie fled the garden, he remained for nearly half an hour, pacing the darkened grounds like a restless tiger, waiting for his blood to cool.

It didn’t.

He could still feel her. Still taste her. Still smell the fragrance of her perfume on his clothes—a heady mixture of warm floral spice and sweet, dark berries. It was undoubtedly French. Undisputably her.