“It’s a weekly column in the London Hearsay,” Singleton explained. “And the authoress’s latest installment is her most controversial yet.”

“How so?” Reese asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“It encourages the use of witchcraft to shrink a man’s…”—the marquess swallowed, clearly uncomfortable—“… manly parts.”

Reese barked a laugh, grateful he hadn’t been drinking this time. “Don’t tell me you’re worried, Singleton.”

“Laugh all you want,” the marquess said. “But the authoress and her followers grow bolder and more devious by the day.” With that, he tossed a folded copy of the London Hearsay onto Reese’s lap.

Deciding he’d humor Singleton, Reese picked up the newspaper and glanced at the large sketch accompanying the column. His eyes were immediately drawn to the mask-wearing woman who held the flowering vine in her palm. Though most of her face was hidden, he knew deep in his bones that the woman was Sophie. Somehow, the artist had managed to capture her natural grace, innate kindness, and quiet confidence—all the things he loved about her.

He took a minute to read the accompanying column, doing his best not to smile. When he’d finished, he glared at Singleton. “I don’t think the author presents a danger to society. And this column doesn’t say anything about casting spells or shrinking cocks.”

“Not explicitly,” the marquess conceded. “But I think it’s fair to say that the threat is implied.”

“Personally, I see nothing objectionable here.” Reese crisply slapped the paper on the table, hoping to signal the end of the conversation. “Even if I did, I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’ve already told you that no illicit meetings are taking place in my building.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Singleton said ominously. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. “My uncle bumped into a woman outside of your abandoned shop, and she dropped this in the alley.”

Reese shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “It looks like a journal. Don’t tell me you object to women keeping journals.”

“Not as a rule, no,” Singleton said, oblivious to Reese’s sarcasm. “But there’s one name that is written in here again and again, and it may refer to someone who is … rather close to me.”

An odd tingling stole across Reese’s neck. “Perhaps you should take the matter up with that person.”

“I am hoping it’s merely a coincidence,” the marquess confessed. “Only given names are written in the journal, and this one is not terribly uncommon.”

Reese stared at the book in Singleton’s hand, fairly certain that it belonged to Sophie—and that she would not want her fiancé to have it. Reese was tempted to snatch it away from the marquess and light it on fire, but even he could tell the situation called for subtlety.

And a little finesse.