Free The Curious Steambox Affair by Melissa Macgregor

dinner as well. Good, good. Any friend of Hyde’s is a friend of mine.”
    â€œThis is Mr. Alistair Purefoy,” Hyde said. “I work alongside him. Purefoy, this is Mr. Michael Whitcomb.”
    I was startled, Miss Campbell, I must confess. I had decided that Hyde was making a necessary stop at a wine merchant, in order to fortify himself for the horrors to come at the Doctoral dinner. Instead, we were dining here? At a shop?
    And then, to truly confound the situation, Hyde admitted to working with me. Alongside me! I was rendered completely speechless with shock. He did not argue the description of friend? I was confounded.
    â€œSplendid, splendid,” Whitcomb said, with an oversized grin. “I will call for another place to be set. My sister will be so pleased for the additional company. We were already short a companion tonight. My brother, Clarence, is in France, procuring our next shipment of champagne.”
    A few necessary informational tidbits shifted into place in my mind. I remembered MacDougal, in our first dismal meeting, mentioning something about Hyde courting a lady in town. A sister of wine merchants. It all began to make perfect sense, although I remained confused as to why Hyde had seen fit to bring me along tonight. I have never before fulfilled the position of chaperone, but then again, the idea of Hyde being an ardent swain was almost inconceivable. I certainly am not considered a friend of his. A fellow worker? But why dinner?
    I followed the two of them deeper into the shop. There was a curtain pulled back against a tall archway. We walked beneath it, and traveling up a neat flight of carpeted stairs, I found myself in what must be the private residence.
    My coat, hat, and gloves were taken then, and I found myself ushered into a pleasing parlor. The warmth of this place was shocking. Not even my office was as pleasant, thanks in part to Hyde’s continued insistence on keeping the windows open.
    There was, indeed, a glowing fireplace. A cheerful arrangement of chairs was set before it, and I saw that one of them was occupied. A young lady rose to her feet just as we entered, setting aside an embroidery hoop.
    She possessed a pretty face, with wide brown eyes that were the exact shade of her hair. I assumed this was the sister, the object of Hyde’s affection, but she seemed such a shocking contrast to what I would have expected that I hesitated to make that assumption.
    She was delicate, with a fragility that was the opposite of her brother. She seemed as if she might blow over beneath a high wind, and utterly lacked the stout constitution of her brother. She reminded me of a perfectly formed china doll. Her skin was so pale it was near transparent, and the few steps she took toward us resulted in an instant flush to her cheeks. The effort obviously exhausted her. Instantly, Hyde was by her side and ushering her back to her chair.
    Perhaps he truly was the love-struck swain. For all his conciliatory manner, it still seemed unlikely. In my experience, swains simper and placate, and have a least a modicum of cheerful expression. Hyde was none of these things.
    My fascination was boundless.
    It was strange, watching them together. The lady was diminutive beside Hyde. Her demeanor was far more pleasant than Hyde’s usual. She had a quick smile and merry twinkle to her eyes as she regarded him, and was apparently oblivious to his frown, which he did not bother to mask.
    I instantly wanted to shield her from Hyde’s beastly nature. The idea of his being his usual self around such a delicate creature was abhorrent.
    The lady sighed audibly as Hyde helped her to her seat, and then she turned her smile to me.
    â€œThis is Mr. Purefoy,” Hyde said. “Purefoy, this is Miss Olivia Whitcomb.”
    â€œHow delightful to meet a friend,” Miss Whitcomb said. “Please. You must stay for dinner, Mr. Purefoy. I insist that you do.”
    I found a glass of sherry