Improper English Read Free Page B

right—descriptions of Rotten Row, Kensington Park, White’s, and other such landmarks. I spent an agreeable hour getting a reader’s card at the British Museum’s new library, returning home in a most satisfied state of mind. Satisfied, that is, until I came face to face with my nemesis.
    Isabella’s house wasn’t really what we West Coast Americans think of as a house—it was part of a long line of connected buildings that ran the length of one side of the square. Made of white stone, each house had nearly identical black metal railings, white stone steps, and white net curtains at all of the front windows. Our house had a rich mahogany-colored door that I swore came straight from the depths of hell. That door hated me—or rather, the lock did. I’d seen it work for other tenants, so I knew it wasn’t defective, but let me approach it with my arms full of shopping, and it would turn its face away as if it couldn’t bear to allow me across the threshold.
    “So, you’re in that sort of a mood today,” I muttered as I jiggled the key in the lock, twisting it back and forth in an attempt to engage the mechanism. “Well, my steely friend, I have news for you—I have a little something here guaranteed to make you see the error of your ways!”
    I set down a stack of paperbacks I’d picked up at a mystery bookshop, my bag of groceries, and a small spiky plant I’d bought off a street vendor. “Aha!” I cried, flourishing the small metal awl I had found in a jar with a bunch of Stephanie’s ceramics tools, and subsequently had placed in my purse for just such a moment. “Vengeance is mine, you little bastard!”
    I set to work poking the awl into the lock and mutteringimprecations under my breath. “We’ll just see how you like to be gutted,” I said with a particularly vicious jab at its inner workings. “Won’t open up to me, will you? Ha! No lock can keep me out, I’m…” I struggled with the tool and leaned my weight into it. The metal in the lock squealed against my prodding. “I’m…” A slight metallic snap sounded. Sensing victory, I gnawed on my lower lip and jabbed the awl in at a different angle. “I’m…”
    “Breaking and entering is, I believe, the term you’re looking for.”
    “Bugger and blast,” I swore, and whirled around with the awl still clenched in my hand. The man standing on the steps leading up to the house wasn’t familiar, so I assumed he was there to visit one of the residents. I stared for a minute into the loveliest pair of green eyes I’ve ever seen on a man, and let my gaze trail upwards, over a forehead with a few faint frown lines etched in it, up higher to gorgeous chestnut hair with just a hint of curl hanging over his forehead, then back down over his nice cheekbones, long nose, lips that were thinned with annoyance, and a gently blunted chin. I made a concerted effort to pull myself together and tried not to think about what his lips would look like if they weren’t mashed together in a thin line.
    “Um…the lock doesn’t work.”
    He looked again at the awl in my hand, and one dark chestnut-colored eyebrow rose in question. I felt a little blush moving upwards from my neck. “I have a key, it doesn’t work, so I thought I’d try this and see if I couldn’t—”
    “—persuade the lock to open. Yes, I heard you.” He looked me up and down in an arrogant manner andshifted a leather satchel from his right hand to his left. From his pants pocket he pulled out a key ring and without so much as a by-your-leave, shouldered me aside and fitted a key. The bloody door opened without a peep.
    “It hates me,” I muttered as I gave it a good glare, then stooped to pick up my belongings.
    “One moment, if you please,” said the green-eyed locksmith, holding up a restraining hand. He stood rigidly, clutching his satchel and keys, a faint sheen of perspiration beading on his forehead. It had to be at least eighty, and this joker was decked out in a