Ways to Be Wicked Read Online Free PDF

harbor through the gaps in the buildings. The smells were city smells, the smells of thousands of lives lived close together: food spoiling or being cooked, coal smoke rising, the warm beasty odors of horses and other animals.
    Despite herself, a little excitement cut through the trepidation. She’d done it. She was standing in London, she’d managed to cross the Channel entirely on her own, and soon, perhaps, she would learn what she’d come to learn.
    “If you crane your head about like that, Mademoiselle, it will become obvious to the less savory among us that you’re new to London, and no doubt someone will attempt to rob you—or perhaps kiss you—again.”
    She started and turned to find Mr. Shaughnessy before her, hat in hand. He bowed low. “Is someone meeting you?” he asked, when he was upright again.
    “Yes,” she said swiftly.
    Up went one of his brows, betraying his doubt of this. “Very well, then. But you should
always
appear as though you know precisely where you are going, Mademoiselle. And if you do find yourself longing for my company, you can find me at the White Lily.”
    A grin flashed, and then he was gone before she could say another word, melting confidently into the crowd as he jammed a hat down on his bright head.
    Sylvie glanced about; her eyes met the eyes of a portly fellow standing near a hackney, the driver. She saw him assess her, her clothing and bearing, and make a decision in her favor.
    “Need a coach, Madame?”
    He said it politely enough, and there was nothing prurient or predatory in his gaze. Regardless, she was armed with a knitting needle and extraordinary reflexes, should the need to defend herself arise. And she hadn’t really a choice.
    “Yes, please. To...Grosvenor Square.”
    His eyes flared swiftly, almost imperceptibly. “Shilling,” he said shortly.
    Quick thinking was clearly necessary. “My sister is Lady Grantham. She will give the shilling to you when we arrive.”
    The man’s expression changed then...but peculiarly. Not into the sort of expression someone of his station typically donned when the aristocracy was mentioned. No. Gradually, before Sylvie’s puzzled eyes, it became harder. Then sharply curious. And then finally, inexplicably. . .
    Amused?
    “Your sister is Lady Grantham?”
    “Yes.” She frowned.
    “Lady Grantham is your sister, is she?”
    “I believe I said ‘yes.’ ” She’d clenched her jaw to steady her nerves.
    He paused and appraised her again. “An’ look, ye’ve a trunk and everythin’,” he said it almost admiringly. He shook his head to and fro in apparent wonder.
    Sylvie knew her English was quite good, but perhaps an entirely different dialect was spoken in the heart of London, the way those who lived in Venice spoke their own version of Italian. Perhaps this London dialect was one in which the inflections meant entirely the opposite of what one might expect.
    “An’ she’ll pay me when we arrive, like?” he said, sounding amused. For all the world as though he was hu
    moring a madwoman. “Lady Grantham?”
    “Again...yes.” Regal now, and cold.
    He regarded her a moment longer. And then shrugged good-humoredly and smiled, as though he’d resigned himself to some odd fate.
    “All right. Let’s go see your
sister,
Lady Grantham, shall we?”
    And still, despite his acquiescence, his tone could not be construed as anything other than ironic.

Chapter Three
    G ROSVENOR sQUARE TURNED OUT to be comprised of rows of imposing edifices, homes several stories high built snugly together, as if symbolically to prevent interlopers such as herself from wedging between them.
    “Go on, now. Go see to your sister. Shall I bring your trunk up?”
    “Perhaps not just yet,” she said.
    “Of
course
not,” he said.
    More irony.
Oh,
but the man was grating.
    Sylvie ascended the steps, not faltering, but conscious of the curtains at windows along the row of houses parting, then dropping when she turned her head swiftly