The Minx Who Met Her Match

by Christi Caldwell

  “That is the reason you’d allow me the post.”

  He neither confirmed nor denied that conclusion.

  “I thought you said you’d not hire someone you don’t know to look after your child.”

  “I’ve already formed an opinion of you.”

  She waited for more… and received nothing.

  His statement, however curt, did confirm one thing: Whatever he thought of her, he believed her worthy enough that he’d trust her with his child.

  Josephine chewed at her lower lip, contemplating him. He’d given her that which she sought… but with the most inconvenient of requirements looped in. All men expected women to serve in the role of caregivers to children, and Duncan Everleigh was no different in that regard. How he did differ, however, was with the responsibilities he would cede to her. Why had he done so?

  “You have one more minute to deci—”

  Jumping to her feet, she stretched a hand out. “I’ll do it.”

  He stared at her gloved fingers a moment and then slipped his palm into hers. Her fabric proved little barrier to the shock of heat that radiated from that touch. Duncan folded his fingers over hers, swallowing those digits in so much warmth. In an almost reflexive-feeling gesture, Duncan lightly squeezed her hand, as if he craved a closer touch, as if he wanted more. She clung to his palm. Energy crackled around them.

  “Until tomorrow, Duncan,” she murmured, her tones throaty and unrecognizable to her own ears.

  Josephine forced herself to draw her fingers back.

  With that, she swept from Duncan’s offices.

  As soon as she stepped outside, and the door was a barrier between them, she closed her eyes.

  You silly ninny… Going weak-kneed over a blasted handshake? She grimaced. And here, when she should only be jubilant over having secured work—and in a barrister’s offices, no less—that reminder brought a wide smile to her lips. A rush of exhilaration rushed through her, a glorious triumph when there were so few for women in Polite—or even impolite—Society.

  At last, she’d have a role she’d craved these past years.

  And yet, why, with that joy, was there a lingering disquiet? One that said getting any closer to a man like Duncan Everleigh posed a danger to the vow she’d made to never love again.

  Chapter 8

  “You did… what?”

  Yes, that shock and horror were certainly justifiable ripostes. In fact, hers was the same question that had been repeating in Duncan’s head since yesterday afternoon. When he’d gone and hired Josephine Webb. That decision had proven so outrageous even a child could see it.

  Focusing on the bevel mirror, he struggled with the folds of his cravat. “I attempted to hire Miss Webb anyway,” he repeated once more, for good measure. This was the inevitable discussion he’d been dreading since Miss Josephine Webb had quit his offices yesterday. “She declined at first, but came round as long as I…” He stopped talking. He’d already said too much.

  “As long as you what, Papa?”

  “As long as she could take on other responsibilities at the office.”

  “She wants to be a clerrrrk?” By the stretch of that single syllable, his daughter found it just as shocking. Her eyes lit brighter than he’d ever seen them. “That is—”

  “Shocking?”

  “Wonderful.”

  It was mad, is what it was.

  “And you hired her?” she asked, as if she needed him to state as much as a confirmation.

  “I hired Miss Webb,” he mumbled.

  And please, just Josephine. No need to stand on formality.

  The name suited her: strong, confident, the name of queens who commanded.

  He might as well have sprung two heads for the disbelief reflected in the mirror. “But… but… she was insolent, and you despise insolence.”

  “Yes.” She’d been that… and more. Well, you are rude, so perhaps we shall call it even.

  Tart-mouthed. Bold. And spirited. She’d been… spirited. He’d forgotten what it was to be looked upon with anything other than disdain. Of course, she’d no idea of his previous history, and given her opinions on guilt and Lathan Holman, she’d have run the other way rather than seeking out a post. “Though, in fairness, does anyone like insolence?”

  His daughter did not take the bait. She snapped her fingers, cutting into his musings on the delectable Josephine Webb.

  Delectable? Where in blazes had that thought come from?

  Charlemagne snapped her fingers again. “Hullo?”

  Duncan gave up on his sloppy knot. “I’m listening,” he muttered, his assurance unconvincing to his own ears.

  “You’re certain we are speaking of the same woman? Somewhat bossy? Slightly presumptuous?”

  She’d been a good deal decidedly more than somewhat and slightly.

  She’d not been measured and genteel in her responses. Duncan’s late wife had always been mercurial. Before they’d wed, he’d viewed her as an exciting mystery. It hadn’t been until after their marriage that he’d come to appreciate the misery of trying to sort out if she was upset or happy or annoyed. Or anything.

  There would never be any doubting what Miss Josephine Webb was feeling.

  He yanked off his cravat and gave the fabric another hopeless snap.

  “Upon speaking with Miss Webb, she proved to be someone who is not too proud to admit when she’s been wrong.”

  His daughter gave a wholly unimpressed snort. “So she apologized for being rude and insolent, and you forgave her?”

  Heat climbed his neck and cheeks. “I didn’t necessarily say she apologized.” Because she hadn’t.

  Charlemagne’s eyes threatened to bulge from her face. “She didn’t even say she was sorry?”

  One of the essential lessons he’d handed down was that it was important to use those words for transgressions that hurt others.

  “Not for her directness,” he conceded. “Only for having passed judgment on one of my clients.” Looping the satin around his neck, he set to work folding it again.

  With a sigh that went on forever, Charlemagne perched herself on the edge of his bed. “You’re hopeless, Papa.”

  He froze in midloop.

  You are hopeless. A sad, pitiable man who’ll never amount to more than your brother. He will always be a better man. What was I thinking when I chose—

  “Well,” Charlemagne was saying, “now you needn’t work so very much.”

  More than a trace of hope was in that pronouncement.

  Ah, so that was what she hoped for in his hiring of Josephine Webb. He’d not provide his daughter with false expectations about what it meant. Or their circumstances. They were financially struggling. “Alas, I’m afraid hiring Miss Webb isn’t going to reduce the time I’m working.” Fumbling through the motions once more, he dedicated his focus on the mirror—and the little girl reflected in it. “The fact remains my offices are in need of some… attention, and Miss Webb happened to be in need of work.” Mayhap it was that desperation that had brought her round to admitting she’d been shortsighted where Holman was concerned. Perhaps you’ve simply been taken by yet another woman and are making all the same mistakes.

  Charlie wildly pumped her legs back and forth. “Your offices are exactly as they’ve been for years. Messy. Have her do something else to help you.”

  Shoving aside the misgivings clamoring at the back of his mind, Duncan joined his daughter at the side of the bed. “You can’t know that necessarily.” He tweaked the end of her plait. “You would have been just a babe and wouldn’t have known—”

  His daughter folded her arms mutinously at her chest. “I’m not amused, Papa.”

  Nay, she was never amused. When she’d been a babe and then a small girl, he’d been able to tease a smile or laugh out of her with next to no effort. Now, he’d a greater chance of successfully retrying a case on behalf of the late John Bellingham.

  If she is displeased now, how do you expect she’ll handle the next
bit of news about Josephine? The chiming clock marked the quarter hour.

  “You have to go.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement filled with regret set amidst a crestfallen expression.

  It was also a needless reminder of all the time he did not—and could not—give his daughter. He fell to a knee beside her. “I have—”

  “Your case,” she snapped. “I know. You always have them. You’re always working.”

  Yes, he was always working, because he’d not been afforded the luxury of a title, as his brother had. All as a matter of chance. The death of one unknown relative had seen Matthew’s life forever changed. “I promise it will eventually settle down where we might spend time together.”

  Color flared in her cheeks. “I don’t care about spending time with you. It was merely an observation.” Giving her white skirts a snap, she started past him.

  Duncan stared after her retreating frame. What did you expect? That she wanted to be with you?

  The moment she settled her fingers on the door, Duncan cleared his throat. “There is one more thing I should make mention of before you go.”

  Charlie turned slowly back. “Oh?” Her eyebrows dipped over a gaze entirely too wary for one of her tender years. My fault. It was just one more mar he’d left, this being the hardest because she was his child. “What is it?”

  “I may have hired Miss Webb to see to your care.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “You… did what? Instead of Mrs. Frameworthy?” she asked excitedly.

  Ah, poor Mrs. Frameworthy. Sixty if she was a day, she was often napping, and when she wasn’t napping, she was dozing. And wholly too slow for a child of Charlie’s level of energy. Alas, Mrs. Frameworthy was something more—inexpensive.

  “No, Mrs. Frameworthy will remain on.”

  His daughter’s features fell.

  “There’s no one to care for you on Sundays, and the scheduling with Miss Webb… worked out,” he finished lamely.

  His daughter sneered, a display that conjured memories of her mother wearing that same expression. “Ah, so you don’t have to see me on any days of the week, then?”

  He was across the room in three strides. “Never. It isn’t that, at all. That’s not what this is about.”

  “It’s your Lathan Holman. Just as it was your Mr. Alton Brumber before that. And Marcus Timbly before him. It is never about me.” Had she screamed or cried those words, they wouldn’t have been more powerful than that quiet pronouncement.

  “Charlemagne, all of this is for you,” he said, frustration pulling his words from him. “Our home, your dresses, and the comforts we do enjoy are because of what I do. I don’t expect that you know that, but you should understand it, Charlie.”

  Giving him a disgusted look, she yanked the door open and let herself out.

  The moment she’d gone, he swiped a hand over his face. “Bloody, bloody hell,” he cursed aloud. Stomping over to his desk, he swiped up his haversack and proceeded to stuff Lathan Holman’s files into the bag.

  Time and life had proven that he could never be that which people needed him to be. Not his parents. Not his late wife. And not his daughter.

  The only place where life made sense—the only place he’d never failed—was in the courtroom. It was, simply put, the one thing he’d not made a blunder of in his life. Quitting his rooms, Duncan made his way down the narrow stairway leading to the small foyer.

  Mrs. Joy, the multipurpose servant, stood in wait with his cloak and hat ready, just as she did every morning. In the immediate aftermath of his wife’s death, Duncan had wanted nothing more than to be rid of the older woman who’d bore witness to his volatile temper that fateful night. In the end, when Duncan had been investigated for his role in Eugenia’s death, the nursemaid had vouched for him and demonstrated a loyalty he’d been undeserving of.

  “Hullo, Mr. Everleigh,” she said when he reached her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Joy.”

  There wasn’t a more apt name in the world for the older woman. She’d worn a smile on her wide, plump cheeks since the day she’d begun working for him. She was also the only one to ever wear one of those happy expressions in the household.

  “The girl will be fine,” Mrs. Joy said. With her lips firmly affixed in their usual upward tilt, the woman had somehow managed to make words without moving her mouth.

  Handing his bag off to the servant, Duncan tossed his cloak around his shoulders and fastened the lone hook. “I’m certain she will,” he said briskly, neither wanting, nor needing, nor having the time to speak about the state of his daughter’s well-being with the old servant.

  The old servant who made no attempt to hide her vexing tendency to listen at doors and then impart life lessons to the parties who’d been in discussion. As she turned his haversack back over, Mrs. Joy clucked like the chickens they kept round back. “She just wants some time with her father.”

  He couldn’t stop the short, cynical chuckle. “I don’t think we’ve seen eye to eye over anything since she spoke her first word.”

  “Well, she likes you plenty,” she said as she hurried to open the door.

  Jamming his hat atop his head, he stepped outside. “I never said she didn’t,” he muttered after the panel had been shut behind him. It was Duncan’s lot to be despised by the women in his life. If his daughter didn’t despise him now, one day, she would. And why wouldn’t she? At some point, she would discover his role in her mother’s death and the charges that had been leveled against him.

  By his estimation, there were at best a handful of years … and then anything Charlie felt for him now would give way to hatred.

  His gut twisted, and coward that he was, he thrust aside those thoughts. There could come no good in borrowing worries in the future. Not when another man’s future and life hung in the balance. He put them off as he always did because it was easier to focus on the now than the complete and inevitable collapse of his relationship with Charlie.

  As he made the short walk from his detached London townhouse to his offices, Duncan knew he should redirect his focus to his case and Lathan Holman. His clients were, in fact, the reason Duncan had begun some years ago making the trek by foot instead of by horse. That allowed him time to organize his thoughts for the day and review his schedule or case details.

  This time, however, proved the exception.

  Because, always when he entered his offices, it was a solitary kingdom visited by few and shared by none.

  Until today. Now, Josephine Webb would be there.

  And he could admit to himself in this moment that the perils of her being there far outweighed any of the work she’d do to improve his workspace.

  His offices, which Charlie had rightly pointed out, had only ever existed in their current state, hardly required changing now.

  As Duncan approached the back door and found Miss Josephine Webb seated on the stoop, her head bent over a book, the irony of this moment was not lost on him.

  Nay, not the moment, but rather, his latest decision.

  Moreover, he who’d been reviled by Society and his own family for being a ruthless monster had proven to be not so very heartless.

  In fact, it was the manner of illogical decision he’d have silently jeered other men for making: hiring some tart-mouthed slip of a girl who’d challenge him at every turn.

  With her engrossed as she was, Duncan paused to study her.

  She was no slip of a girl. Yes, she was slight of frame, but there was a curve to her hips and a generousness to her bosom that marked her all woman. And cad that he was, he felt stirrings of lust for the minx.

  “You’re late,” she called, without looking up.

  It turned out, she’d not been so very engrossed.

  Snapping her book closed, the young woman hopped to her feet.

  “Calling out one’s employer before one’s even begun hardly strikes me as an auspicious start,” he said dryly, loping up the steps.

  “Ah,” s
he said as he reached inside his jacket and fished the key out. “But I assured you that you might always rely upon my directness. I’m not here to stroke your ego, but rather, to set your offices to rights.”

  And for Charlie’s litany of words against the young woman, Duncan conceded he’d been altogether wrong where she was concerned: Josephine’s honesty and forthrightness weren’t causes for outrage, as had been his initial response. Rather, they were gifts that his ego had prevented him from properly appreciating. He felt himself staring. He could not look away from her…

  Deviltry danced in her blue eyes.

  Eyes that he shouldn’t note were pretty.

  But God help him…

  “It is a very good thing you’ve hired me,” she said in an outrageously loud whisper.

  Duncan blinked in confusion.

  She plucked the key from his fingers and inserted it into the lock. “However, did you even make it to your offices before me, Duncan?” she asked, sweeping inside, as bold as if she were the sole proprietor and he the interloper. Setting the key on a nearby table, she paused in the middle of the room and perused the space. “Yes, this is dire indeed.”

  Hurrying in behind Josephine, Duncan grabbed the key from where she’d abandoned it. “It doesn’t go there,” he called after her. “Everything has a place.”

  Resting her things on his desktop, she removed her muslin cloak. “Now, that, I find hard to believe,” she muttered. As he was shrugging out of his own wool cloak, she slipped hers onto the very hook where he’d set his since as long as he’d been a damned barrister.

  He opened his mouth.

  “Where to begin?” With her hands on her hips, she did a small circle. “There’s the matter of your papers and no clear delineation of a workspace.”

  “Miss Webb—”

  “Josephine,” she automatically corrected.

  “I assure you there is most certainly a delineation.” He eyed her cloak occupying the place only his did. “Or there had been,” he muttered.

  “No, this will not do.” She was already striding over to his desk and…

  The minx made quick work of separating the stacks of files upon his desk.