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At the storeroom curtain, Brier paused. Took an extra-deep breath to fortify the odd unease the silence beyond brought and slid the curtain aside.

The sight that greeted him proved neither so simple as an awake but wary female nor so disheartening as a missing one gone off into the night with all she could carry. For instead, Miss Lucinda Thomalin slumbered deeply, wrapped tight within the coverings he’d provided. Barnabas curled upon her chest and beneath her chin of all things, the cat’s eyes narrowed at him as though saying, “Do not dare make a sound and wake my mistress.”

Well now.

Well now, seemed his sometimes surly grudger of a cat had found someone worth snuggling.

The large bruise he’d noticed last night had riled full force on the side of her face and jaw. The sight of it lent further strength to her Banbury tale. For even had a crazed woman ripped her dress, rolled in the mud and demanded entrance for “safety” but really simple shelter and a full belly, he doubted one such as she would find a way to pound her own face into purpling.

On silent feet he approached the cot, bent and brushed his fingers along Barnabas’s back and then stroked her hair away from her face. The feline gave a lightptff; the female barely sighed in her heavy sleep.

He straightened and watched them for several long seconds even though the presence of the dead mouse nagging for removal pecked at his heels every bit as much as his shop—and potential customers—prodded for opening.

No time to remain and ponder. No time to pause and enjoy. Not when dead rodents and retail beckoned.

Brier backed out, slid the curtain shut with quiet care, his heart humming a more contented tune than he could remember it playing in years.

* * *

“Crush me, I cannot seek employment like this.” Lucinda stared at her reflection in the afternoon light coming in from above the display, more than a little dismayed at the extent of the prior night’s terrors upon her countenance. She flung herself from the bow window—after a single chuck beneath Barnabas’s chin and whirled over to the counter where Mr. Chapman had spread open his account journal.

As he’d foretold last eve, the icy downpour had continued, keeping all but the most hardy and determined shoppers at home.

Small touches throughout the store hinted at the holiday and couldn’t help but lift one’s spirits, whether they be storm-dampened (his customers’) or downtrodden (hers). Yet beyond the shop—the public area visible from the street windows—any reminders of the season were absent. His stockroom—and, she could not help but wonder, his lodging upstairs?—barren of holiday hints.

Visitors today had numbered in the single digits, and the loud bell over the door, as well as efforts to shake drizzle from umbrellas gave her time to escape, unnoticed, into the back if needed, on the few occasions she had approached and offered assistance. She didn’t like feeling so beholden to him, promising to work for her keep, to pay him, reimburse him for everything.I can cook, not fancy, mind, but basics,she’d assured.Clean your lodgings, the shop—

Nay,he’d rejoined.You will do no such thing. You will rest and recover and we will go on from there.

Comforted at having a safe place to gather herself from the fright, unwilling to sacrifice her current safety out of foolish pride or spite, she remained, and ultimately spent most of the day staying out of his way while scrubbing at her dress, mending what she could and trying not to bemoan the lack of everything else. He’d given her one of his nightshirts to sleep in (horridly scandalous but so very welcome, nevertheless).

Not until he’d locked the door to the street and doused all but the front lamp he studied by had she felt free enough to venture forth and inspect the wares brimming inChapman & Sons.

Finding the hand mirror and thinking to gaze upon her features by the waning light outside had proved more a curse than a blessing. “I look no better than a bruiser.”

He glanced up at her approach and gave her a thoughtful gaze. One she felt upon her person even more than the swelling weighing her face. “Perhaps not a bruiser,” he said evenly, “point in fact.”

She put the hand mirror down with a snap, gestured to the horrendous-looking cheek. “Then what would you call it?”

“‘Bruisers’ usually win. They are tops at fighting. While you—”

“Appear as though I lost.”

His face scrunched in sympathy. “Heartily.”

“Well, looking like a veritable brabbler, then”—a fighter—“I cannot go marching forth, interviewing for a position that requires gentility.” Or could she?

“Mmm.” He cocked his head and kept studying her face.

It took great effort not to look away, to look down, to lick her lips which tingled peculiarly beneath his regard. Took effort not to pinch color in her cheeks—to combat that of the bruising along her jaw and beyond. “Pray, what does that mean?Mmmmm?”

“That having lived with first my sisters and then my late wife, I am astute enough to know I should not tender an opinion on such a…potentially charged statement.”

What? That she looked too brutish to follow through on her entire reason for coming to London? “Come now,” she challenged. “Cowardice is not something I would attribute to you during our short acquaintance. Tender away…”

“Then, my dear Luce.” Her name heaved from him as though an aggrieved sigh. “You cannot march forth. Not, I fear, as you appear this moment. On that, I must wholeheartedly agree.”

“Agree? Wholeheartedly. Nay. You cannot.” The wretch. Even now his somber tone, paired with the twinkle in his eyes, made her struggle against a chuckle. Because, of course, complete agreement by a man with a female was so very rare.