Suddenly, the child stopped and spun. Angry brown eyes stared back. “You’re following me!” the girl charged, sticking a palm out like she wielded a weapon and not tiny glove-encased fingers.
Josephine skidded to a stop, slightly breathless. She’d run continuously as a child, but those joys had ended when she’d been sent off to finishing school and become… a lady. “N-no. I wasn’t following you.” The girl’s blonde brows came together. “Well, perhaps I was,” Josephine amended. “But only out of concern.”
She might as well have sprung a second head for the way the girl eyed her. “Concern about what?”
“I didn’t see your maid or parents,” she said, trying to assess the small stranger’s age.
The girl’s expression darkened. “I don’t require anyone looking after me.”
Josephine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from countering the proud child. “Your parents?”
“My father is working.”
“Working?”
The little stranger peeled her lip back in an impressive sneer that the coldest hostesses in Society couldn’t manage. “Yes. Work.”
It did not escape Josephine’s notice that the girl had made no mention of a mother. “And your governess?”
“It is Sunday,” the girl said slowly like she sought to educate the village lackwit.
“Ah,” Josephine said. What manner of father let his child dash around London, alone? Offering a gentle smile, she held her arm out. “My name is Miss… Josephine,” she swiftly amended, dispensing with formalities. “One of my brothers calls me Jo.”
The girl gave her a look. “You’ve a boy’s name.” There was not, however, any malice behind that observation.
Josephine thought for a moment. “Yes, yes. Well, one might say that.”
“One did,” the girl returned. “I did.”
She was quite the direct person. It also occurred to Josephine that her earlier assessment had been off the mark—the girl was older than the eight or nine years she’d believed her to be.
The child hesitated a long while. “Charlie,” she said gruffly. “My name is Charlemagne, but as that’s vile, I find I prefer being saddled with a boy’s name.”
“Oh, no. Not at all,” Josephine protested. “Charlemagne was a strong leader and good administrator. He took over territories but didn’t impose his ways and beliefs upon the people. He coded laws. And saw they were enforced. Therefore, either name is splendid for a girl.”
The girl stared at her with round eyes. “Are you a governess?”
“No. I’m just a woman with a lot of information.” And just like that, the walls came down, and the girl smiled. “Perhaps I may join you on your return walk to your father, Charlie?”
“Very well.” There was a shocking speed to that capitulation. “But only because I find you… peculiar.” The girl inched her chin up, urging Josephine to follow. They fell into step, walking through the still-quiet streets. “So you aren’t a governess, but you’re clearly a lady,” Charlie noted, stealing a glance at Josephine. “What is one such as you doing about?” The deep suspicion was back in the girl’s gaze.
Josephine swung her bag as they walked. “I was visiting my brother. Do you have any siblings?” she asked, curious to know more about her spectacularly unique partner.
“No. Just a father,” Charlie added, glancing briefly at her toes.
Just a father… At that, one who allowed his daughter to go off on her own without a chaperone? “You’re allowed to wander the streets of London?”
“My governess doesn’t allow it,” the girl clarified. “She’s ancient and deaf and usually sleeping. Of course, she doesn’t work on Sundays. And my father generally doesn’t pay much attention when he’s working. Which he’s always doing,” Charlie said with such a matter-of-factness that pulled at Josephine’s heart.
“Well, it’s hardly safe to be wandering on your own.”
“You are,” Charlie pointed out as they reached the end of the street. A lone carriage came rolling slowly past, forcing them to stop.
“Yes, but I’m older, and even I had my pocket picked not even last year.”
“Did you?” the girl asked with excitement brimming in her eyes. “Was it dreadfully terrifying?”
The culprit had been a child no smaller than the one before her, and the experience agonizing for it. “It was… sobering,” she substituted. Never more had she railed at the state of her family’s finances and her inability to do more to help others. “Come,” she urged, not wanting to replace the unexpected warmth in the girl’s eyes with tales of the reality that was London. “Which way are your father’s offices?”
“There.” Charlie stretched a finger out and started ahead.
Squinting, Josephine hurried to catch up with the girl and cursed her Pratt eyes, which ensured there was some form of struggle or another with sight. The closer they drew, however, there could be no mistaking the aged façade, the peeling paint, the absolute disrepair of the exterior building.
“We’ve arrived.”
She eyed the run-down establishment skeptically. “This is your father’s office?” The windows were stained with muck and fingerprints. Why, there wasn’t even a sign of proprietorship hanging on the front.
Charlie cocked her head, sending several tight ringlets dancing at her shoulder. “Yes. It’s even messier on the inside,” she said in a loud whisper, astutely following Josephine’s very thoughts. “Well, it was… interesting talking with you.” With that and not so much as a hint of a parting word, Charlie grabbed the door handle and let herself inside. Then, the faint click as a bolt slid into place.
At that abrupt exit, Josephine blinked slowly.
Why… why… the little girl had locked her out.
What manner of family was this? A father so absorbed in his work, he forgot his daughter. A daughter loquacious one moment and abruptly rude the next.
Josephine, however, knew one thing with any certainty: She had every intention of meeting the father who couldn’t be bothered to watch after his daughter.
Raising her fist, Josephine knocked hard.
Chapter 3
Hardly anyone visited Duncan Everleigh’s offices.
In fact, were it not for the clients referred by Ewan Holman, no one ever would.
Which was why it took a moment for him to make sense of the knocking.
A furious knocking, at that.
What in hell?
Pausing midway through the document he was reading, Duncan searched about, just as there came a periodic break in the noise.
He waited.
Silence.
Giving his head a shake, he returned his attention to his work. Most civilized people rested on Sunday. Duncan, however, hadn’t been referred to as civilized in almost seven years to the date. He was a man driven by his work. One who thrilled at the cases before him and dueling with wits in the courtroom. And so there was never a break. Never a rest. And that was how he preferred it.
He—
Went still.
His nape prickled.
He was being watched. As the notorious Murderer of Malmesbury, being gawked at wasn’t an unfamiliar state to find himself in.
Not, however, alone in his office.
Stiffening, Duncan set down his pen and glanced slowly around his empty office. Yes, it was nothing more than bloody fatigue from the days—and nights—he’d spent working on Lathan Holman’s case. Duncan swiped his pen off the desk.
His gaze collided with a pair of eyes.
A pair of impossibly round… and furious ones.
What in blazes?
He blinked slowly, and yet, the stranger with her face pressed against the lightly frosted windowpane remained… precisely where she was.
With those same fury-filled eyes looking at him.
Scowling, the young woman banged at the glass. “You.” Her voice emerged muffled.
What in hell?
Duncan glanced around again.
>
“Yes, you,” she called. Her voice came louder but was still muted by the glass panel. She pounded on the window again.
She was a peculiar woman, wearing an ancient straw bonnet that had been hopelessly crushed, sad little flowers dripping along the brim. Her face was elfin in shape, her mouth too full, and her white teeth crooked. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.
He flicked his hand, motioning for her to continue on. “I’m not taking on new clients,” he bellowed. With a shake of his head, Duncan retrained his efforts on his work.
“…dare you?” The stranger’s voice pitched with fury, pinged the glass.
Duncan tapped his pen back and forth in an aggravated, staccato rhythm.
“…listening to me?”
She wasn’t going away.
“I demand…”
He shoved his chair back, the legs scraping along the hardwood floor. He came out of his seat and crossed toward her.
The brazen woman gave a jaunty shake of her head. “That is better,” she said when he stopped at the window.
Duncan reached for the tassels holding the heavy brocade curtains back and let them flutter into place.
There.
With the stranger’s insolent screeches following after him, Duncan returned to his desk.
Angling his head left and then right, Duncan stretched his stiff muscles and then, picking up his pen, resumed his work. The woman was instantly forgotten. It was a skill few could master, but he’d perfected the ability to shut the world out, long ago.
“…I said… talking to you… open this window… instant or… break…”
She’d stop.
Eventually, she’d tire of knocking at his establishment and realize he had no intention of taking her case or giving her coin, or whatever else it was that had her here.
Of course, most respectable proprietors did not work on Sundays, which perhaps accounted for her resilience at his window.
Cursing, he tossed his pen down once more. Stalking a path back to the interloper, he shoved aside the curtains and flung the window open.
Her mouth hung open like a trout floundering for its last breath. Duncan, at last, had managed to silent the bothersome nag.
“Here.” Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew a small sack and threw it at her. The bag of coins hit her chest with a little jingle and then landed with a thump at her feet.
The young woman’s eyes widened as she glanced down at the small velvet bag. She quickly scooped it up, and after fiddling with the drawstring, she looked inside. Her indignant gaze flew back to his. “What in blazes is thiiis?” she squawked, her voice shaking with shock.
Infuriating greedy creature.
As if he had coin enough to spare? Swallowing a curse, Duncan gathered another handful of coins from inside his jacket and sprinkled them down. “There.” And with the peculiar, pointy-featured woman sputtering incoherently, he brought the window down hard.
If looks could burn, the morning frost on every last London window would have been melted under her fiery stare.
“What—?” As she launched an incoherent diatribe, her words rolling together, Duncan yanked the curtains closed.
He’d done his charitable part this day. Nay, he’d done far more than that. Working on Holman’s case, Duncan had been well within his rights and reason to ignore the beggar’s caterwauling. But he hadn’t. He’d taken a break—that he never allowed himself—in his work and given her enough coins to see her comfortable. Funds he didn’t have to just give out. Undoing the button at the front of his jacket, Duncan settled himself back into his seat and put his head down.
“…the nerve of you… tossing a purse…”
Duncan flared his nostrils. The insolent chit took exception with how he’d handed her a small fortune? By God, he should have called the constable. In fact, he still should. Why—
Something thunked against the windowpane.
Craaaaack.
A loud thump and a jingle followed.
Struck dumb in his seat, Duncan stared at the purse on the floor.
The very familiar purse.
Why… surely he was imagining all of this.
Surely the same woman who’d interrupted his work and blistered his ears with her nonsensical ramblings hadn’t, in fact, hurled his purse through his window.
There was a faint giggle outside his office.
Charlemagne.
Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder and then back to the mess on his floor. A soft spring breeze set the curtains aflutter.
Just then, a coin flew through that opening.
Duncan jumped as it landed atop his files.
What in everlasting hell? Duncan stared wide-eyed at the gleaming sovereign.
Just as another coin slammed into his inkwell. The crystal exploded. Cursing, he leaped up and grabbed for his papers.
Too late.
Ink stained the edges of his papers and leather folio.
And then, at last, there was silence.
Through it, a heavy rage blanketed his vision.
As a rule, everyone, even his almost eleven-year-old daughter, knew certain inalienable truths held firm where he was concerned.
One, when in the midst of working, Duncan wasn’t to be interrupted… by anyone.
Two, his papers were sacrosanct, holier than the Bible he’d placed his palm upon when he’d made his vows to the law.
That same pixie face peeked through his window. His open window. With her arms draped over the windowsill, the girl did a sweep of his office as if searching… She narrowed her gaze the moment it collided with his. “There you are.” The peculiar stranger pursed her too-generous lips. “I thought you’d gone to hide.” She opened her mouth to say more, but wind gusted through his broken window, cutting into her tirade and knocking her bonnet onto his floor.
He stared on dumbly as the young woman shimmied up onto the windowsill and stretched her fingertips toward the floor. She fished around, emitting a little huff of exasperation. “If you would?”
Duncan stared at the figure partially inside his office, directing her query at his floor, all the while feeling like he’d been thrust onto the stage of some well-orchestrated skit in which he was an unwitting player. That befuddlement was no doubt why he was out of his seat once more, across the room, and had the heinous bonnet in hand.
The woman squirmed, shifting herself until she was upright. “Ah, thank you,” she muttered, sounding affronted at having to issue any words of gratitude. She snatched her hat from his fingers. “Now, where was I?”
“Leaving?” he suggested.
“Not until I say my piece.” Her grip on the sill went slack, and she slid back to her feet. “What manner of ‘father’ are you?”
Of anything he’d expected from the interloper, challenges to his parentage had certainly not been it.
For the first time since he’d pushed the window up and found the odd creature here, uncertainty entered her gaze. “That is… I assume you are Charlemagne’s father.” A blush filled her cheeks, that color already deepened from being bent head over heels. “Unless I am mistaken?”
Ever a man of detail, Duncan was staggered by two just then. One, the spitfire was not as young as he’d first taken her for, and two, she was not… altogether ugly.
Then her words registered.
I assume you are Charlemagne’s father?
Fury snapping through him, he gripped the windowsill and leaned out. “Who in hell are you?” he demanded in an icy whisper that had sent barristers into paroxysms in the courtroom.
This minx only furrowed her brow. “You’ve quite the mouth on you.”
That tart reply earned a giggle from outside the room.
He rested a hand on the young woman’s elbow, freezing her in place. Not that she appeared inclined to go anywhere. “I’ll not ask you again.”
With a gasp, the stranger glared down at his hand. “Unhand me this instant.” Wielding her purse like a cudgel, she thumped
him hard on the knuckles.
Grunting, Duncan drew his smarting hand back.
“Now,” she went on with a toss of that ridiculous bonnet, “I am the woman who found your daughter running through the streets of London.”
His jaw went slack. “Impossible.” All hint of his daughter’s mirth went incriminatingly silent.
“This tall?” The stranger gestured a good four inches below her shoulder. “Blonde curls? Occasionally goes by the moniker Charlie?”
Duncan whipped his gaze over to the doorway.
The loose floorboards outside his office creaked, followed immediately by the scamper of fast-moving footsteps.
He swiped his hand over his face. Bloody hell. Charlie had followed him to his offices.
Nor was this the first time.
“Ahem.”
He glanced over to the forgotten-until-now stranger at his broken window.
“I trust you are, in fact, the father of Charlemagne?” she asked in churlish tones.
He owed this woman nothing.
Except… he did. Harm could have befallen his daughter. His heart knocked around in his chest. What mischief had his daughter gotten into now? “I am,” he conceded grudgingly.
Tension marred the woman’s mouth as he noted a detail that had previously escaped him. Hers weren’t the coarse tones of a London street waif, but rather, the careful, more cultured tones of one who’d had some education. She thumped her fist on the window frame the way his tutor had done when making what he’d deemed to be the most important points. “Open the door.”
“You wish me to allow you entry so that you might berate me?”
The young woman lifted her shoulders in a tight shrug. “Lecture, berate, whichever verbiage you prefer.” Laying her palms on the wood, she leaned up. “Regardless, I’m not leaving until we speak about your daughter.”
And mayhap Duncan was the mad one, after all. Because he started across the room and yanked the door open to let the odd creature in and subject himself to whatever lecture she’d prepared.
Chapter 4
The Minx Who Met Her Match Page 4
