“No,” she said as simply as if she spoke to her young nephew. “Because I like learning about the law, Nolan.”
“Is this because of your London Season?” he asked quietly, without inflection.
Josephine resisted the urge to toss her arms up. Of course he’d think that. God help him and all men who believed that every interest or passion a lady had must be the product of some heartache she’d suffered. “It was my third London Season,” she reminded him. Polite Society could forgive much in a lady—a scandalous family—but never a penniless one. “And I assure you my interest in working—”
Nolan cringed.
“—has nothing to do with Lord Grimslee.”
Husband and wife shared a look.
“It doesn’t,” Josephine repeated for good measure. Was it truly so hard to accept or believe that since she’d begun reading her younger brother’s legal books—and secretly aiding him in his studies—that she’d been riveted?
“There’ll be a man deserving of you.”
This again. Neither of her brothers could accept that Josephine had no intention of marrying. “Why must it be about me finding a husband? Can’t it simply be that there’s no other reason than because studying legal books is something I wish to do?” In a whir of skirts, she swept over to her sister-in-law and looped her arm around the other woman’s. “And who says a young woman cannot have both? An opportunity to pursue ventures… outside of the usual ones expected in marriage?” This time, she looked pointedly at her sister-in-law. “You’ve supported Sybil’s unconventional role in terms of business and finances.”
Nolan frowned. “That is different.”
“Oh? And how so?” Jutting out a foot, Josephine gave it a pointed tap.
“Because Henry doesn’t want your help, Josephine, whereas I’m happy to cede over to Sybil any responsibilities that she wishes. That is the difference.”
Her sister-in-law’s features softened as if Nolan had uttered the lyrics of a romantic sonnet. And mayhap he had. For there’d been a time, too, when Josephine would have traded everything to have a man who valued her mind and saw her as an equal partner in life. She ceased beating her foot upon the floor. “So if my services were wanted, then you’d be supportive?”
“Henry will not change his mind. Even if Nolan spoke to him,” Sybil said with her usual bluntness, the forthrightness Josephine both admired and loved her for. “Especially if he spoke to him.” The other woman muttered that amendment under her breath.
Yes, after several years in the Pratt family, she well knew the dynamics and workings of each Pratt.
Perhaps more than Josephine. For Josephine had allowed herself to believe, given the help she’d provided Henry over the years and the significance of his latest case, that he’d allow her a role in it.
Sybil, however—and even Nolan—saw Henry’s pride and stubbornness.
Not unlike another man whom she’d met earlier this day.
Tall, wiry in strength, broad of shoulder, and sharp with his tongue.
You would benefit a good deal from a lesson in teasing.
Her ire fired red-hot at the memory of the other, insolent gentleman. A gentleman, who by the condition of his desk and offices, was also in need of assistance in his professional affairs. And who undoubtedly would turn away such offers of assistance… Or mayhap he wouldn’t. After all, he had relented and allowed her into his offices when he’d well known in doing so that he’d be met with harsh words from her.
Except, would she truly wish to provide services to a man working to free a traitor?
All of Society form your opinions. You crucify a person for crimes you know nothing of. You play arbiter of fates and futures, based on nothing more than flimsy details, all the while being dispossessed of meaningful information about those same individuals.
What had the gentleman been suggesting? That there was more to Lathan Holman? Surely not. And yet—
“Josephine?”
Josephine started. “Hmm?” She looked to her sister-in-law. Both a question and concern were in the other woman’s eyes. “Fine. I’m fine. If you’ll excuse me?” she said, gathering up her satchel. “You are, in fact, correct.”
“Josephine?” her brother called when she’d reached the doorway.
She glanced back.
“You’re not going to do anything that I should be worried about?”
She scoffed. “Of course not.”
Better not to worry him with the truth—she intended to find out everything there was about the surly barrister Duncan Everleigh.
Chapter 6
There was just one month until the quarter sessions, reserved for capital offenses and other more serious cases. Duncan would present a defense before two justices of the peace and a jury.
The outcome would decide Lathan Holman’s fate—death, deportment, or freedom.
As such, all of Duncan’s energies should be squarely on the construction and preparation of his case. Holman, just like any other man or woman with a guilty charge against their name, deserved nothing less.
“A terrible father,” Duncan muttered under his breath as he angrily flipped to the next page in his notebook.
“Terrible weather indeed, sir.” The aged voice sounded from across Duncan’s offices, bringing his attention over to Alby, the builder who’d been there for the better part of the morning repairing Duncan’s broken windowpane. “And at that, a miserable time to get rain.” Not bothering to look back, the stooped man measured the space with his gnarled fingers.
Abandoning all attempt at work, Duncan focused on Alby’s slow progress.
All thanks to the insolent baggage of yesterday. Unbidden, a memory slipped in of the minx with her slightly crooked teeth and dark curls. The young woman had gone toe-to-toe with him when no one would dare. And likely, she wouldn’t have had she known Duncan’s history and the rumors surrounding his name. “I trust you can fix it?” Sooner, rather than later.
“Can fix anything,” the other man said with a confidence Duncan had lost in the builder’s ability some two hours ago. “Sometimes it just takes a bit longer.”
“I see that,” he mumbled.
“It’s a sash window,” Alby said as if that should explain anything. “But one of the older ones.” Picking up the broken pane that rested against the wall, he squinted as he inspected the shattered glass. “I’d place this one somewhere around—”
“I don’t really require that detail—”
“—the early 1700s. One of the older ones, you have here.”
“Lucky me,” Duncan said dryly.
“Only if it hadn’t been broken,” Alby said, wholly missing Duncan’s sarcasm. “You can tell its age by the wood. Baltic pine was used almost exclusively here. Over time, the glass got thinner, and the width of the glazing bards also shrank.” As Alby worked, he continued with his windowpane lesson.
Duncan pressed his fingertips against his temples and rubbed. Blasted Josephine Webb and the work she’d done here.
He’d be fine to never again see the damned minx.
Though you did appreciate her show of spirit.
He blanched. Good God. “Where did that come from?”
“I’ve a shop,” Alby explained, and Duncan shook his head, realizing he’d spoken aloud. “The problem being I didn’t anticipate yours was one of the older sashes. Yours is smaller.”
Which meant? “Are you going to be unable to complete the work?”
“What was that?” Alby bellowed.
“Your work?” Duncan shouted back. “Do you expect to finish it?”
A scowl lit Alby’s face. “Of course I’ll finish it.”
Oh, bloody, bloody hell. Since that long-ago night that had left him widowed, Duncan had dedicated himself to exercising restraint and calm, not only in his casework but in every aspect of his life. Now he drew on all that patience he’d put to practice through the years. “Soon,” he clarified his earlier question. “Do you anticipate that you migh
t finish soon?” Please, God, let the answer be yes.
“I expect I should be able to. It’s just going to take a bit of adjusting the frame to allow for the new panes.” Said pane in hand, old Alby shot a yellow-toothed smile over his shoulder. “All I need is time.”
Time.
As if to punctuate the absolute hellishness of the whole infernal process, wind gusted outside and shifted the angle of the rain so that it spilled into Duncan’s offices.
Several pages flew from the top of his desk. Cursing blackly, Duncan sprang to his feet and darted about to rescue the loose pages.
Alby adjusted the panel, using it as a makeshift shield against the elements. “Yes. Nasty weather, at that. I hope what you’re working on isn’t altogether important.”
Duncan grabbed one sheet. And then the next. The third hopped around the office, dancing on the wind. “Nothing important at all,” he muttered. Just the difference between a man’s life and his death.
He stamped the heel of his boot atop the edge, at last pinning the runaway sheet. Swiping the now wrinkled page off the floor, he returned to his desk.
The truth remained… there was no time for distractions. Of the female persuasion or the Motherly Nature persuasion. Returning to his seat, he slammed down the handful of papers he’d rescued and went about placing various of the desktop supplies atop his piles of papers to hold them in place.
Duncan gave his head a clearing shake and resumed his preparations for Holman’s case.
Several hours later, his neck muscles ached from the frozen position he’d taken up as he’d worked. As it turned out, Alby had proven correct.
All he’d needed was time.
“Done.”
A lot of it.
Ten hours and forty-six minutes of it.
“I’ve used cylinder glass for your replacement. It’s not generally the type preferred by most window-makers, but I prefer it,” Alby explained as he meticulously placed his tools inside his large, leather bag. “Not so sure why any window-maker in his right mind would prefer cast glass. It’s slower.” All his tools, at last, put away, the old man briefly looked up, his brow puzzled. “Except, I could be persuaded that cast glass is preferable for mirrors.”
Hopping up, Duncan quit his station. “I cannot thank you enough,” he said, heading off the next windowpane lesson. He rushed over with a small purse.
Without bothering to check its contents, Alby tossed the little sack inside his bag and snapped the satchel closed. “It was my pleasure, sir.”
Sir.
It was a form of address not affixed to his name since his late wife’s passing. Who he’d been had been erased by who he’d become and the perception of what he’d done.
I could have been a lady, and I settled for a mere Mrs.… for you? You were never worth it.
“Sir?” Alby’s concern-filled tone jerked Duncan back to the moment.
“Thank you again,” Duncan said tersely, eager to have the garrulous window-maker gone. Eager to return to his work. And even more eager to bury the dark memories of his past in the vault in which they belonged.
Bag in hand, Alby shuffled off to the front of the room. As he made his slow march across the offices, he chattered. Suddenly, Alby stopped. “You’re going to need to replace those other windows out front.”
“I am aware,” he said loudly for the hard-of-hearing window-maker. The man was never going to leave. And Duncan was never going to be able to return to his work. All of which rested squarely at the feet of the virago. “And you have my promise that when I do, you shall be the first I contact.”
Duncan would also be sure that that happened on days when he wasn’t conducting deep case research… or at least he’d take his work elsewhere until Alby’s work was complete.
Knock-knock-knock.
Who in hell was knocking on his damned door without an appointment?
Alby beamed. “Splendid. I’ll be sure and draw up a contract.”
Knock-knock-knock.
A contract? Duncan cocked his head. What in thunderation was the man…?
“Trust a barrister to be the one to think of such things,” Alby prattled. Knock-knock-knock. “A contract,” he repeated in his booming voice. The window-maker gave his head a bemused shake.
And then it dawned. Duncan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Contact.”
“Splendid. You can contact me, and we’ll discuss the terms of the contract. Unless you’d rather we do so now?”
He closed his eyes and prayed for patience.
Taking that beat of silence as a yes, Alby set his bag on a nearby desk. The instruments within jangled.
Duncan tried again. “Mr. Alby, this really is not a good—”
Knock-knock-knock.
Alby was already seating himself.
His head pounding in time to the damned interloper at his door, Duncan dragged his hands down his face. “I’m afraid this is not a good time,” he shouted. Stalking over to the door, he grabbed the door handle and took salvation from the unknown. “I’m expecting…” His eyes narrowed on the owner of that rather impressive knock. All five feet, three inches of her, her frame swallowed by a damp wool cloak. Good God. She’d returned. “You.” He seethed. She’d dare show her face again?
Alas, a menacing you also seemed to be synonymous with an invitation, for Miss Josephine Webb’s mouth formed a perfect moue of surprise as she swept in, tracking more water into his offices. “Mr. Everleigh,” she greeted, all businesslike in her tones. Her affectation, however, was ruined by the massive bonnet obscuring her face. “I’ve given serious thought to what you said about Mr. Holman.”
“Miss Webb,” he barked. Good God, the careless chit would bandy about his client’s name?
“I’ll hear you—oh,” she blurted, her partially visible face directed toward Alby.
Removing her sopping-wet bonnet, she shook the article out. Drops of water sprayed him, his floor, the corner of the desk where Alby sat. Her gaze remained on Alby.
The old man waved a greeting, which Josephine matched with a blindingly bright smile.
“How do you do?” she called over.
Her smile was a wide one that put on display those slightly crooked teeth, and there was in no way anything conventional or even beautiful or, for that matter, even remotely pretty in it, and yet, there was an unfettered exuberance to it that proved captivating.
As quick as it had come, that smile was gone the moment she looked at Duncan full on. The momentary spell she’d cast was promptly broken. “I believe you said you were expecting me.”
“Expecting you?” What was she on about?
“When you opened the door,” she explained as if talking to a dim child. “You said, ‘I’m expecting… you.’”
Surely she didn’t… nay, she couldn’t believe, one, he’d ever think to find her at his doorway, and, two, he’d want to find her at his doorway. “You’re mad,” he whispered.
The young woman frowned. “Well, you are rude, so perhaps we shall call it even. Or—” Her gaze slid across the room and landed on the newly replaced windowpane. “You’ve replaced it,” she exclaimed.
“Given there’s a damned rainstorm meriting the construction of an ark, I’d hardly say I had much choice.”
Ignoring his sardonic retort, Miss Webb sailed over to inspect the work. Going up on tiptoes, she peered at the glass. “This is splendid work,” she called back for old Alby.
The window-maker cupped a hand around his ear. “What was that?”
“Your work,” she shouted, her voice booming impressively off the ceiling.
For the brightness of his expression, she might as well have plucked the moon and stars and handed them over to Alby in repayment for his work. Coming to his feet with an alacrity suited to one forty years his junior, the old window-maker joined her. “You’re familiar with windows, are you?”
“I’m only familiar with quality work when I see it.” She murmured an incoherent sound of praise. �
�Why, does that panel have a blue cast to it?”
“Indeed, it does. If I’m able to save one and replace the others, I like to leave it as a way of marking the age of the structure.”
“Fascinating,” she said loud enough for old Alby to hear her. Loud enough for the whole of London to hear her, in fact.
Preening, Alby gestured to his recently completed work. “It was really nothing at all. Given the two side panels are completely disconnected, I opted to leave those in for the aesthetic purpose.”
As the two carried on, Duncan again dusted a palm over his face.
Mayhap he was, in fact, the mad one. Mayhap this whole infernal exchange between a garrulous window-maker and a tart-mouthed minx was merely a product of Duncan’s final descent into madness.
“…the Gothic-style sash window really allows for that preservation. I intend to conduct that same work on the front windowing.”
“I can only begin to imagine what you intend for that space,” she praised.
“I’d imagined a blitzed beveled—”
This was really enough. “Excuse me.”
The pair went on chatting, giving no indication that they’d heard him… of which, one of that pair likely hadn’t. There was not, however, a deuced thing wrong with the stubborn chit’s hearing.
“I said excuse me,” he barked louder, effectively silencing the pair.
“Sorry about that, sir,” Alby boomed. “Mr. Everleigh and I were just sitting down to a contract,” he explained to Miss Webb.
Duncan choked. They were decidedly not.
“Oh.” Miss Webb worried at her bottom lip a moment. “I’ll return at a later time so that you might have your meeting,” she called over to Duncan. Favoring the old window-maker with final words of praise, she started for the door.
Like hell, she was leaving now.
“That will not be necessary,” he said on a rush, sliding into her path. “Mr. Alby, if we can continue this at another time. Miss Webb requires my services.”
The minx frowned. “I don’t require your services. I did seek an appointment, unrelated to your work. Well, not entirely, just not in the way your words suggested.”
The Minx Who Met Her Match Page 7
