Page 6 of A Deal with the Devil

“Bloody bollocks to that, Kitty Caldecott.”

Kitty feigned shock, mostly so she could not be pressed to explain herself. “Where did you even learn such words?”

“From you, of course.”

“Shocking lies.”

Absolute truth.

She had not known that word, or any interesting ones really, when she was nineteen years old.

Also untrue.

She had absolutely known them, only she had never spoken them aloud where someone might hear her. She certainly would not have dared to lecture a country vicar in his late seventies on the etymology of such words, as she had done just yesterday.

Sometimes, being a spinster had its advantages.

Rarely, it had to be said. But still. One took one’s entertainment where one could. And if such a man felt at ease to come into her shop to lecture her on her supposedly loose morals, she could lecture him right back. Especially as he had not purchased a single item.

Flinging his toupee into the muddy street may have been taking things a touch too far.

But she would do it again. He had insisted women should be silent. So she had been silent. Mostly. She might leave off the slightly maniacal laugh next time. Oh, who was she fooling? The laugh was what made self-righteous curmudgeons who insisted on marching into her shop in high dudgeon sweat. It was her bread and butter. Especially now that they could not always afford bread or butter.

It wasn’t her shop accounts or the disdain of the clergy or even the state of their household ledger that sent a bolt of cold dread down her spine.

It wasn’t her secrets, her bad decisions, the prospect of what Evie would think of her.

Of the consequences surely chasing her, even now.

It was none of those things.

It was a simple knock at the door, too early in the morning.

Especially when their father answered it with a nervous, falsely jovial laugh. “Lord Portsmouth, how good to see you.”

Evie froze. Kitty met her gaze.

“Bollocks,” they said in unison.