Chapter 4
The bell at Abbott & Sisters clanged with such violence that even Gracie looked up from her ledger.
Mr. Carter, the apothecary, staggered inside, powdered wig slipping and spectacles fogged. “Miss Abbott!” he exclaimed, clutching the counter. “A break-in. At Stouts’s shop. Door splintered—papers everywhere!”
Vicky did not pause to think. She seized her cloak, fumbling the clasp in her haste.
“Vicky!” Gracie called, voice sharp with both alarm and irony. “Where are you flying?”
“To check on our neighbor,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Gracie leaned her elbows on the counter, entirely unruffled. “Naturally. Nothing says prudence like charging into danger unarmed. Do try to shout loud enough for me to hear when you’re carried off.”
Vicky ignored her, flinging into the street, skirts whipping about her boots. Frost bit at her cheeks, but her pulse burned hotter than any fire. Neighbors clustered outside Stouts & Sons, whispering, pointing at the smashed door.
She shoved through, heedless of the stares.
Inside was chaos. Drawers hung open, papers littered the floor, sealing wax and quills lay scattered like casualties of war. And behind the counter, bent to gather the debris with furious precision, was Hubert Stouts.
His sleeves were rolled, his normally impeccable hair mussed, and his jaw tight with barely leashed temper.
“Mr. Stouts!” The words tore out of her before she could stop them. “Are you hurt?”
He started as though struck, looking up in genuine surprise. For once, his composure faltered.
“Miss Abbott,” he said, voice roughened, unfamiliar. “You came?”
“Of course I came.” Heat rushed to her face. “Do you think I would sit idly by while burglars smashed your door and—” She stopped herself, mortified by the panic in her tone. “Well. You might at least look grateful.”
Something shifted in his expression, an unguarded flicker she had never seen before—gratitude, naked and startling.
“I am,” he said softly. “More than you know.”
The words struck her still. Hubert Stouts, scourge of ribbons and merriment, thanking her as though her presence mattered. Blast the man.
He drew himself up to his full height, broad shoulders casting her into shadow. Order snapped back around him like armor.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said firmly. “It isn’t safe. Whoever broke in may return.”
“Oh, so you mean to fight off villains single-handed while I cower behind my ledgers?” She planted her fists on her hips. “Ridiculous.”
“It is not ridiculous to value your safety.”
“It is when you speak as if mine matters less than yours.”
His jaw clenched, hands curling on the counter, strong enough to crush the quill he still held. Blast him for those hands, capable of steadying her yesterday and now braced against fury today.
“I cannot—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, leaving it deliciously disheveled. “Miss Abbott, I will not have you in danger.”
“And I will not have you ordering me about.” Her voice rose, scandalously loud, but she didn’t care. “I run a business, sir, on the same street as yours. Do you suppose burglars consult ledgers before they smash locks?”
Outside, she heard the hiss of gossiping neighbors: “Miss Abbott flew over at once—look how she stands there!” “Bold little thing, isn’t she?” “And Stouts—Lord, but he looks rattled.”
Vicky lifted her chin, refusing to let him see how the murmurs sent her pulse into a scandalous gallop.
Hubert closed the space between them with two strides, close enough she caught the clean, faintly inky scent of him. His voice was low, furious and almost pleading.
“Do you never think?”
“All the time,” she shot back, glaring up at him. “That is precisely why I came. Because if you had been here when they broke in—” Her throat closed, the words escaping in a rush—“I had to see you were safe.”
Silence dropped between them, heavier than the wreckage around their feet. His eyes searched hers, unsettled, almost shaken.
“You came,” he repeated, softer this time, as though the fact were both bewildering and precious.
Her chest ached with the force of it. She wanted to laugh, to scold, to kiss him—blast, what was she thinking?—anything to shatter the rawness in his voice.
Instead she snapped, “Yes, and now I regret it, for you are insufferable even when nearly burgled.”
His mouth twitched as though he might smile, then flattened again. “You are impossible.”
“And you are intolerable.”
They stood toe-to-toe, fury and something far more dangerous sparking in the narrow space between.
Before she knew what was happening Hubert seized her by the arms and placed his lips on hers.
His warm solid strength felt foreign and delicious as she sank into his embrace.
The scent of bergamot and tobacco clinging to his waistcoat just as tightly as she was.
His lips where warm and fervent against hers.
Vicky finally understood what it meant to get lost in a kiss.
For she could have happily continued kissing Hubert for a fortnight or two.
His arms tightened around her and his tongue touched her lips causing Vicky to gasp and open for him just as…
The door banged open.
Hubert and Vicky flew apart as the watchman stomped inside, cudgel swinging, cloak damp with frost. He eyed the splintered door, the mess, the two of them locked in an unseemly tableau.
“Surveying the damage, are you, Mr. Stouts?” he asked, scratching his whiskered chin. “We’ll search the alley, see if the blighters left prints in the snow. Looks like they jimmied the lock clean.”
Hubert straightened at once, retreating into formality. “Thank you, sir. I’ll provide a full list of what’s missing.”
Vicky stepped aside, pulse still hammering, the warmth of his gaze clinging even as he addressed the watchman.
But once—twice—his eyes flicked back to her, as though he couldn’t quite reconcile that she had come charging into his wreckage without hesitation.
She lifted her chin in silent defiance.
He said nothing. But neither did he tell her to leave.