Chapter 1
The bell over the shop door clanged like a bull in distress. Vicky Abbott made a note to have Nathan, her pseudo brother-in-law, send someone to tame the thing before Christmas frightened off her customers or her patience, whichever deserted her first.
Inside, Abbott Gracie sold him a moral tract “for balance,” which he accepted as if virtue might be something one could tuck in a pocket and forget.
A lady in a good pelisse purchased a three-volume novel “for my cousin,” and placed it in her own reticule without a flicker of shame.
Vicky approved. People came to warm their hands and left with more than they intended.
It was the closest thing to magic she believed in.
Between customers, she checked the fresh fir wreath on the door (holding), the chalked “Seasonal Selections” slate (legible), and the little brazier behind the counter (heroic).
Her mind kept darting, annoyingly, back to the stationer’s next door.
She had met Mr. Stouts precisely three times before deciding she preferred damp boots to his opinions.
He ironed his socks; she felt it in her bones.
The bell clanged again, admitting Tibbs from the greengrocer. He smelled of apples and righteous indignation.
“You ladies keep your purses tight,” he said in a half-whisper that carried to the fireplace. “Three shops broke in these last fortnight. Cashboxes gone. No one hurt—thank the Lord—but the thieves are ghosts. Quiet. Nimble. Gone.”
“I dislike ghosts,” Gracie said, shaking her blond curls. “They never pay for anything.”
“Thank you, Tibbs,” Vicky said, trying not smile at Gracie’s sharp, witty comments as she gave him some tea and sent him on his way.
Vicky did not worry easily, but she worried thoroughly.
Her gaze swept the floor, the counter, the tiny back office with its stout lock and kettle.
The fizz low in her ribs that belonged to stubbornness and responsibility both sharpened into something with elbows.
She would speak to the night watch. She would put away the day’s takings in the safe upstairs, as she always did.
She would not—absolutely not—permit anyone to tell her that the solution was to shut her doors and go home.
By noon the next day, the street outside had become a cacophony of noise; carriages rattling, hawkers calling, children testing ice with the solemn bravery of small idiots.
A dusting of snow turned everything cleaner than it really was.
Gracie consumed the second half of her contraband bun with the guilty air of a woman very pleased by her own crimes.
The footstep in the doorway was quiet enough that the bell couldn’t decide whether to object or sulk.
It settled for a meek jangle causing Vicky to glance up.
Mr. Hubert Stouts stood just inside, hat in gloved hand, snow dusting his shoulders.
His coat was precisely brushed; his expression had been folded and pressed to match.
Her stomach flipped in a most annoying way that Vicky hated. She didn’t want to feel anything concerning this man—least of all attraction.
“Miss Abbott,” he said, with the short nod of a man who had never once tripped over a carpet. He wasn’t even human. His voice held that careful restraint that suggested he knew he was dealing with someone who likely had a tenuous hold on their common sense.
“Mr. Stouts,” Vicky returned, cordially enough to qualify as Christian. Barely.
His gaze swept the shop: the candlelit shelves, the journals with their romantic bows, the garlands strung with love if not even enough a sergeant could have marched beneath them. “Your display is… festive.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Books are vain creatures. They sell better when admired.”
“Hm.” His mouth arranged itself into a small, precise line. “I have come regarding the recent burglaries. You have heard?”
“We have,” Vicky replied, while Gracie arranged herself behind the counter in a posture that strongly resembled a termagant. “Alarming.”