Page 95 of A Deal with the Devil

“Oh, right,” Kitty said. She licked a crumb off her finger, realized it was probably a terribly gauche thing to do, contemplated fretting over it, caught the flare in Devil’s eyes, and decided right then and there that Mayfair manners were not going to interfere with her fun. “Um.”

“A lady’s maid will be too scared of repercussions to speak freely if you are there,” Yelena explained as Kitty tried to herd her thoughts back together. It was as successful as herding cats toward the sea.

“Yes,” she said. “That. Especially if she has been around the likes of Portsmouth for any length of time at all. She’ll be scared.”

Devil looked disgruntled. It was endearing.

Kitty did not have time to be endeared.

“Right, we’re off, then,” she declared.

Devil frowned. “Take Brutus.” Brutus was his most fearsome footman, for lack of a better term. Man-at-arms? Captain? Soldier. He was not as big as the Viking brothers, but everything about him screamed a slow and bloody death. He probably made rampaging bulls cry with fear. Kitty adored him. But he was not right for the task.

“He is not going to make a maid feel any more at ease.” She rolled her eyes. “Leave the spinsters and the maids to me, if you please.”

“That’s why you hired me,” Yelena pointed out. “To protect Miss Caldecott.”

Devil nodded. “Fine.”

Kitty curtsied before him, as low as she knew how, as though he were an emperor. But also: mockingly. “I wasn’t asking for your permission,” she said tartly.

The word permission sizzled between them, rife with memories of sweaty whimpers, desperate hands.

“Brat,” he said softly.

She sent him one last taunting smile and then hurried out of the breakfast room before she could lose her momentary victory.

Thanks to Priya’s folder on Lady Caroline, it was not too difficult to discover that “Agnes” was a Miss Agnes Jones, and she now worked for a dowager who liked to sit in the sun by the Serpentine of an afternoon and doze. Agnes sat next to her on the bench, watching the ducks and glaring at any pickpockets who dared stray too near, thinking an old woman and her middle-aged companion easy pickings. The dowager snored on, blissfully unaware.

Kitty would not have wanted to face off against Agnes either. She looked formidable. It was not likely that either Brutus or Devil would have put her off. That would be helpful.

Probably.

“Miss Agnes Jones?”

Agnes’s mouth flattened suspiciously. “Yes.”

“I’m Kitty Cald—”

“I know who you are.”

Kitty blinked at her. “You do?”

“You own that shop.”

“I do. Perhaps I ought to change the name to That Shop, since that is all anyone ever calls it.”

Agnes shrugged. “I like it there, whatever you call it.”

“You do? Thank you.”

“Don’t read much, but it feels nice.”

Kitty beamed at her. “That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Agnes snorted. “Your man needs lessons, then.”

Kitty grinned. She couldn’t help it. “I will tell him you said so.”