CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
“How exactly will the Spaniard help my research into the Romantics? Or is he more relevant to the subject of vampyres?” Rachel said. Twilight was rapidly diminishing into the orange night-light of London as she and Aubrey trod the streets of Soho toward Leicester Square. She was acutely aware of his easy movement beside her, the tautness of the T-shirt around his torso, whenever his arm inadvertently brushed against her own as they made their way through the crowds.
Aubrey chuckled. “The Spaniard isn’t a person, Rachel. It’s a pub—a good place for Scotch eggs, and you can’t beat their roast leg of lamb. It should take about thirty minutes on the tube to Hampstead, then another twenty walking through the village and around Hampstead Heath. Or we can taxi from the stat
