Page 71 of The Dueling Duchess

The employees of Farnham’s Fantastical Female Fayre thought Guy’s life was a source of constant amusement and called him anything from Your Grace to Your Highness to whatever else suited their fancy.

Well, who was he to chouse them out of a free laugh?

Richie’s eyes slid to the urchin and dog and they narrowed. “You again! What’d I say the last time you came lurkin’ about? I’ll set the Watch on you!”

“Kiss my arse!” the child shouted.

The dog barked, as if to second that suggestion.

Guy choked on a laugh and seized Richie’s collar when the lad lunged toward the filthy duo as if he might thrash one or both of them.

“It’s fine, Richie. Leave them be.”

“But Miss Tremblay says not to—”

“I’ll handle her,” Guy said with more conviction than he felt.

To his credit, Ritchie snorted at that. “Oh, aye, Yer Grace. It’s yer ’ead on the block.”

Indeed, it was.

* * *

Cecile was making her final walk-through before locking the theater for the night when she heard voices.

Her skin prickled, goose bumps forming up and down her body, and she froze and listened until she could isolate the sound; it was coming from the cupboard where the laundry was stored while awaiting a trip to the washerwoman.

Cecile swallowed down a lump of fear and snatched up a push broom that some lazy employee had left leaning against a wall rather than returning it to the broom closet.

She stared at the cupboard door and hesitated.

Perhaps she should go and get help?

Although most of the crew had gone to a late supper at a restaurant that catered to theatrical people, she knew Guy had gone back to his room.

And how do you know that, Cecile?

She scowled at the taunt.

So what if she’d watched where he’d gone? She watched all her employees. Besides, he’d looked so exhausted and beaten down that she’d—briefly—felt guilty for working him so hard.

But then she’d remember that he’d thrown her away to marry an heiress and treated her like a whore, and any guilt she’d felt had burnt away.

While it might be amusing to wake him up and drag him here to help, that would also be admitting that she needed his help to sort out problems with her own business.

As she was dithering, the door to the cupboard creaked open and a filthy little face peeked out.

The child—for that was obviously what it was—saw Cecile, squeaked, and pulled the door shut.

Cecile frowned and set the broom aside. “Come out of there.”

The theater was silent but for the creaking of old timbers.

“If you make me go in there—”

The door opened again and this time a furry face joined the childish one. “We weren’t doing nothing bad—just sleeping.”

“How did you get in here?”