you won’t,” she said. “I found you first.” She strode toward the curricle. The boy drew back to the far corner of the seat.
“No offense, miss, but he saved me from being drug to the workhouse,” said Fenwick. “Not to mention he could squash me like a bug if he took it into his head.”
“I saved your life by pulling you out of that fight before one of them accidentally stepped on you,” Sophy said. “And if his lordship was meaning to squash you, he would have done it right after you tried to rob him. Now come along, and stop being ridiculous.”
She reached up to grab Fenwick’s arm. He shrank back.
“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Longmore said. “Good day, Miss Noirot.”
Then she had to back away because he signaled the horses and they started eagerly.
He drove away. Hands clenched, she watched him go.
Longmore knew it wasn’t a good idea to leave her fuming on the pavement. It was a far worse idea, though, to let her harbor young felons. Who knew who the boy’s confederates were? Who knew how hardened in crime he was? Hardened or not, he could be intimidated by more calloused individuals, and unlock the shop’s back door to a gang of thieves and cutthroats.
After a moment, Fenwick spoke. “I thought her name was Gladys.”
“She has a hundred names, as suits her convenience,” Longmore said. “Don’t try to keep track of them. You’ll only hurt your head.”
He heard a high-pitched cry.
He looked in that direction. Sophy/Gladys was trotting alongside the vehicle. “You give that boy back!” she cried.
“Go home!” he shouted.
She let out an unearthly shriek. Then she swayed and sank into a heap on the pavement.
Instantly, people hurried to the spot.
Longmore stopped the carriage, threw the reins to Fenwick, and thrust through the rapidly gathering crowd. “Get out of the way, confound you! Are you trying to trample her?”
He scooped her up. She lay completely limp in his arms.
He told himself not to panic. Women always fainted. They were used to it. It hardly ever killed them.
Yet he knew she worked long hours, and she’d been in a fight only a short time ago—a fight that had left him winded. She’d thrown herself into the fray and she’d done splendidly, demonstrating unusually quick thinking, especially for a female.
His conscience smote him. As smitings go, it wasn’t much, his conscience being in poor fighting condition.
“Damn me, damn me, damn me,” he muttered.
He carried her down St. James’s Street, a small parade following, and turned into Bennet Street. At that point he looked over his shoulder at the gawkers. “Be off,” he said.
The parade melted away.
He carried her into the narrow court and kicked the private door.
One minute.
All Sophy had needed was one more minute, and she would have been able to get Fenwick away. As soon as she shrieked, people got interested. The onlookers would have taken her side because she’d play the helpless mother whose child had been torn from her. And she could make herself so piteous that the boy would have felt sorry for her and come, she knew.
But Longmore, curse him, hadn’t given her the minute, or even an instant to think. He’d scooped her up as easily as if she’d been a packet of ribbons.
And now she was crushed against his big, hard, warm torso, one muscled arm under her knees, the other bracing her back.
She opened her eyes. “You can put me down now.”
She felt him tense. Then a narrowed black gaze met hers. “How hard?” he said.
He didn’t let go of her.
“You’re not taking that boy,” she said. “I found him. You would have taken him to the police.”
“I should have done,” he said. “He’s no use minding horses, what with being wanted by the authorities. I’ll wager we’ll find handbills seeking his capture.”
His body was very warm and her muscles were softening and her body wanted to melt itself all over his big, hard one. “Put me down or I’ll scream,” she said.
“That’s playing dirty,” he said.
“That’s the way I play,” she said.
He let her down, but not hard and not quickly. He made a show of taking excessive care, easing his grip only a bit at a time, so that she slid down slowly against his body, traversing a large expanse of wool and linen and silk, all imbued with the dizzying scene of male, before her feet quite touched the ground.
She’d known he was dangerous. He had that reputation.
She’d assumed he was dangerous merely in the obvious way: big and wild and reckless.
This wasn’t merely. This was deadly.
“I recommend you save yourself a great deal of bother and stop fighting me,” she said. “I want that boy, and I will stop at nothing.”
She watched while he took this in and mulled it over, his dark gaze growing distant.
After a moment, he said, “Do you know, I don’t find that hard to believe.”
“We need a boy for the shop,” she said.
“You told me you don’t need them. You said so a moment before he crashed into our lives.”
“We don’t need bullies,” she said patiently. “But we do need a lad to run errands and carry messages and packages. He’s not too young or too old to train. He’s quick and clever and well-looking. With a bath—”
“And de-lousing—”
“And proper clothes and a little instruction, he’ll be perfect.”
Longmore grimaced with what she had no doubt was the pain of cogitation.
She waited, aware of sweat trickling between her breasts. If she hadn’t been a Noirot, she would have clenched her hands and gritted her teeth to keep herself from doing something fatally stupid.
Given that she was a Noirot, it was amazing that she could keep her mind on the boy at all.
But thanks to Cousin Emma, Sophy and her sisters were made of sterner stuff than many of their kind. She stood and waited, and wondered why the devil no one came to the door. She could use some sisterly reinforcement about now.
“Very well,” he said gruffly.
His
