I swiftly climbed the stairs to the first floor and saw Alex ahead of me, moving purposefully towards the study. My initial irritation turned to reluctant amusement—whatever he was up to, of course he’d take advantage of an empty house. We’d have to continue our unspoken pact not to give the other away.

He must have heard me as I lengthened my stride to catch him, because he turned around.

I still don’t know what it was, whether I caught a movement from the corner of my eye or if it was pure instinct, but I suddenly knew that someone was watching us.

“Alex,” I said loudly. “I’m flattered that you’re searching every room for me, but I’m right here.”

His brows drew together. As his mouth opened—doubtless to ask me, disastrously, what I was talking about—I reached him. The only way I could think of to stop him from saying anything was to kiss him.

He jolted back in surprise. I chased his mouth, desperate for him not to give us both away, and then he opened up beneath my lips, his mouth warm and welcoming, and his tongue flicked against mine. He began kissing me back in earnest. I’d never believed anyone’s knees became weak in real life, but I swiftly found out that it wasn’t hyperbole. At least, it wasn’t hyperbole when Alex Teague was kissing you.

His hands were on my arse, pulling me tight against him. I reluctantly tore my mouth from his and nuzzled into his neck, where I could mutter into his ear. “We’re being watched.”

He stiffened for an instant, recovering so swiftly that I wondered if he was a professional spy. He dropped a light kiss against my lips. “Are you still going to show me Jane Austen’s haunts in Bath?”

“Of course,” I agreed, over-heartily. I made a terrible spy.

Once out in the Circus, I glanced over my shoulder at the windows and caught a movement on the second floor. Too fast to see any detail, though I had the impression of a male figure.

“So where does the literary trail begin?” Alex asked. It was a relief to hear he was speaking too loudly. I wasn’t the only one overcompensating for a possible audience.

“The Jane Austen Centre is down Gay Street.” I was still somehow at broadcast volume.

We walked in silence out of the Circus, and as my panic cleared, I wondered why I’d prevented him from betraying himself. It had been instinct. I suppose I’d felt on some level that we were collaborators in deceiving the Fortescues. I hoped I wouldn’t come to regret rescuing him.

Safely out of sight of the Fortescues’ house, we both glanced behind us to check no one was following and came to a halt. He leaned against the black railings outside one of the identical Georgian townhouses lining the street.

“I owe you one,” he said, before his expression began to change. Suspicion slowly filled his face as he studied me closely. “I watched them all leave. If you intended to prevent me from entering that room again, nicely done.”

“There was someone at the window when we left the house. Didn’t you see them?”

“No.” That generous mouth was tight-lipped, his eyes almost hostile.

“Why the hell would I want to stop you from getting in there at the cost of missing the opportunity myself?” I asked.

“Why is a member of the Mortimer family poking around in the Fortescues’ private business?”

“Why’s a Cornish dragon poking around in his host’s email?” I countered.

His eyes were fierce on my face as if trying to wrest my intentions from me. I held his gaze. I had no intention of telling him about Mortimer family business, but we’d reached an impasse.

“Do you mind? Those are freshly painted.” The imperious voice came from behind us.

I turned to see the front door of the house open and an elderly lady glowering at where Alex was leaning against the railings, the buckles on his leather jacket threatening her precious paintwork. Flapping her hands, she shooed us away like wasps from a jam jar.