Chapter 7
The crash came in the middle of the night.
Vicky woke to the sound with her heart in her throat, certain for a confused moment that it was only the storm outside—the roof groaning under wind, or snow sliding in a sheet from the gable. But then came the unmistakable splinter of wood from below.
She sat bolt upright, her breath frosting in the cold air of her chamber above the shop. The fire in the grate had burned to a dull glow, and the chill gnawed through her thin nightdress. For a long, breathless moment she strained to listen.
A second thud, heavy and deliberate, reached her ears. Not storm. Not snow.
“Miss Abbott?” Gracie’s voice quavered through the little door that joined their rooms. “What was that?”
“An intrusion,” Vicky whispered back, already shoving her feet into slippers. She seized a taper from her bedside and coaxed it alight from the embers. “Stay here.”
But Gracie was not the sort to obey such an order. She appeared in the doorway a moment later, wrapped in a shawl and pale with alarm. “You cannot mean to go down there.”
“I most certainly do,” Vicky said, gripping the taper as if it were a sword. “It is my shop. My home. I will not cower while thieves run amok beneath my roof.”
Gracie huffed, clearly torn between terror and outrage. “If you insist on foolishness, then I shall insist on company.”
Together they crept down the narrow wooden stair, the air growing colder with each step. The taper’s light wavered across shelves laden with chapbooks and almanacs, casting shadows that seemed to crouch between the stacks.
The front door stood ajar, the bolt splintered clean through. A bitter draft gusted in, carrying a scatter of snowflakes that sparkled in the taper’s glow. The brass bell that usually announced customers with a merry jingle lay trampled on the floor, twisted out of shape.
Vicky’s stomach tightened. She held the light higher and advanced into the shop. A box of pamphlets lay upturned near the window; several trinkets from the counter were gone. Whoever they were, they had been bold—and fast.
“Merciful heavens,” Gracie breathed.
A sharp rap of boots on the lane made them both jump. The door swung wider, and two watchmen entered, lanterns cutting golden arcs through the gloom. Their breath steamed in the cold as they surveyed the wreckage with grim expressions.
“Miss Abbott,” one said, dipping his head. “We heard the noise. Are you harmed?”
“No,” Vicky said, though her pulse was still racing. “They are gone.”
The elder of the two men crouched to inspect the broken bolt. “They’ve struck again. Same manner as the pawnbroker last week. Quick entry, no fear of discovery.”
“Again?” Vicky demanded. “Here, on this very street?”
The man nodded, his lined face grave. “Two grocers and a baker as well. They’ve grown bolder. We warn every householder—do not attempt to confront them. They carry cudgels and knives, and they will not scruple to use them, especially against women.”
Gracie gasped, clutching her shawl tighter.
Vicky bristled. “I am not some helpless—”
The watchman cut her off gently but firmly. “You are flesh and blood, miss. Shout for us if you hear them again. Bar your doors and wait. Do not engage. Until more men can be spared, we will patrol as often as possible.”
She hated the helplessness the words carried, but the splintered wood at her feet was evidence enough. Pride could not mend a broken bolt.
The men promised to return at first light, then left, their lanterns bobbing away into the snowy dark. Silence fell again, heavier than before, punctuated only by the whistle of wind through the cracked doorframe.
Vicky exhaled slowly. “Well. We have survived the excitement.”
Gracie gave her a look that could have frozen the Thames. “You call this excitement. I call it the end of my nerves.”
Before Vicky could reply, a familiar tread sounded outside—measured, purposeful, and far too steady for a thief.
The door pushed wide once more, and Hubert Stouts filled the frame. His coat was hastily thrown over a nightshirt, his hair mussed as if he’d dragged a hand through it while running. His eyes, however, were wide awake and dark with alarm.
“Vicky.” His voice was raw, the single word pulling taut something in her chest. “You are unhurt?”
She forced her shoulders back. “Entirely well. The thieves are gone.”
He stepped inside without waiting for leave, surveying the wreckage in one sweep. His jaw tightened when he saw the ruined bolt, the scattered snow across her floor, and the taper trembling slightly in her hand.
“What did the watch say?” he asked, his voice clipped.
“That we are not to engage them. That they are dangerous. That more patrols will be made when men can be spared.”
Hubert’s fists curled at his sides. “When men can be spared,” he repeated, his tone dark. He turned to her, and there was something almost frightening in the intensity of his gaze. “That is not enough.”
“It is what can be managed,” she countered, lifting her chin. “And I assure you, Mr. Stouts, I am perfectly capable of—”
“No.” The word snapped like a whip. He stepped closer, so near she felt the draft tug at his coat and brush against her own nightdress.
“You are capable of wit, of bravery, of running a business when half the world would deny you. But you are not capable of standing against a gang of armed men. And you should not be asked to.”
Her pride flared, hot as the taper’s flame. “I will not hide upstairs like a child. This is my home, my livelihood—”
His hand twitched as if he longed to seize hers but dared not. “You are flesh and blood,” he said again, softer this time. “And I will not see you harmed.”
The fierceness of it stole her breath.
He straightened, decision settling over him like armor. “Until the watch posts guards here at night, I will remain. You and Miss Gracie shall not face this danger alone. I will bring what I need and keep vigil under this roof. That is settled.”
Gracie made a strangled sound suspiciously like relief, but Vicky’s pride had not yet finished protesting.
“You presume a great deal, sir,” she said coldly. “To move yourself into a lady’s establishment without so much as—”
“Presume?” His mouth quirked, humorless. “Perhaps. But I would rather presume than stand by while harm comes to you when I might have prevented it.”
Something treacherous fluttered in her chest, mingling alarm with warmth. She turned briskly to the counter, fussing with the ruined bell so he would not see it. “You are impossibly stubborn.”
“And you,” he replied, voice lowering as his gaze lingered on her profile, “infuriatingly reckless.”
The words hung between them in the cold air, sharper than frost, warmer than fire.
At last she said, very coolly, “If you insist on staying, Mr. Stouts, I will not prevent you. But do not expect me to fetch your blankets.”
His eyes softened, the shadow of something almost like amusement sparking there. “I should not dare.”