Brogan blinked at her boldness. What a grand trick the girl had played on him.
“You didn’t tell me you knew Miss Vera when I suggested we come to this shop,” he said.
With a look of impatient superiority, Licorice said, “I ain’t required to tell you everythin’ I know. Besides, you only said a shop in Soho. You never said which one.”
Vera smiled at the girl. “What do they call you, love?”
“Licorice.”
“And do you need the occasional spot of work, or regular employment?” Vera asked.
“I’m a pure finder just now, but I cain’t keep doing that.”
“I can give you a spot,” Vera said. “You’d earn a few coins at the end of the week. Cain’t promise you anything beyond that.”
Licorice nodded firmly. “Maybe I’ll twig something else I can do before the week’s out.”
“Something safer than you’ve been doing,” Brogan requested.
She tossed him a cheeky smile. “I thought ‘this lass is protected.’”
He laughed; he couldn’t help himself. “That’ll offer you some buffer, girl, but pure finding ought to be something in the past for you.”
Licorice set her shoulders and turned back to Vera. “Tell me what you’re wanting from me first.”
Vera pointed behind herself. “Dip into the back room. Wash your hands, then come back out and I’ll give you work to do.”
“Your papa’s back there, is he?” Licorice eyed the door with misgiving.
“Not just now. He’s popped off to the papermill.” Vera motioned her away with a jerk of her head.
After the girl had slipped away, Vera turned to Brogan. Her eyes darted to his hand. “You’re bleeding.”
He couldn’t tell if the observation was disapproving or not. “Had to give a bloke a warning.”
“Something you’ve done before.”
His scars testified to that. He slipped his hands behind himself, not wanting to see disapproval in her eyes. “There’s always someone needing saving. At times that someone’s been me.”
She pulled a dust rag from a low shelf behind the counter. It was still folded, meaning it was clean. Vera held out her hand as if expecting him to give her something. “Your hand, if you will. The bleeding one.”
Hesitantly, he set his injured hand in hers. “It ain’t badly hurt. A little slip skin is all.”
Her small hand all but disappeared under his. Their size might’ve seen them labeled dainty if not for her firm, strong grip, and the callouses that told of a life spent working. Vera bent over his hand, dabbing at the small bit of blood. There was a determination to her efforts, a fierceness, and yet her efforts were also inarguably gentle.
She held herself with confidence and spoke with authority. She ran her shop with precision and a keen mind for business. But she also showed compassion to the urchins who crossed her threshold. She knew their names, their situations, their worries.
She began each day dressed with precision, but always ended it with a dusty apron, a smudge or two on her cheek, and her once-neat knot of hair on the verge of chaotic. The contrasts in her were utterly captivating.
“Why is it Licorice needs to sack off the pure finding?” Vera asked as she dabbed carefully with the cloth.
“She’s starting to draw attention from the town bulls.” Saints, he’d nearly choked on the words as he opened his mouth. Vera had him more than a little upended.
Keep your wits about you, man.
“Well, they’ll not snatch her here.” Something gave Vera pause. “This is Soho, though. We’ve a number of brothels hereabout. She’ll not be in danger from any of them, but the reminder of her thinly escaped net might make her a touch nervous to be in this corner of London.”
“We’ll keep our ears perked for other options should they be needed,” he said.
“We?” she repeated.
“I didn’t figure you’d toss the girl out with nowhere to go and nothing to do.”
“You have me sorted, it seems.”
“More than you realize.” He pulled a small bag from his pocket. “They’re not as hot as they were, but I think you’ll like them just the same.”
She accepted the offering and peeked into the bag. “Roasted chestnuts. You remembered.”
Vera smiled at him, and the sight did odd things to his heart. Very odd indeed.
by Mr. King
Installment II
in which an Unkind Deed causes sorrow in Innocent and Roguish hearts alike!
Royston Prescott could not understand why he was so very bothered that the local confectionery merchant didn’t seem to care much for him. He’d heard talk of Miss Tallulah O’Doyle and had been intrigued over the weeks since her arrival. At long last, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he had slipped in to discover for himself if what he’d heard of it was true.
The children in the village adored her, proclaiming her the kindest lady of their acquaintance. Many throughout the area applauded her generosity. A few expressed some concerns that her tender heart would make it more difficult to turn a profit, but overall, she was declared an excellent addition to the shops at the market cross.
He had seen her about town, always from a distance. She was lovely, animated, and seemed a decidedly happy sort of person. He also saw in her something he recognized: loneliness. There was a certain melancholy resting deep in her eyes that spoke of someone who felt out of place, longed for someone to recognize what she struggled with.
She had taken up his banter readily and had thrown back as many quips as he had tossed at her. She was funny and clever, and he appreciated that. But it had become quickly obvious that she saw him as everyone else did—as he made certain everyone else did—dismissing him as little more than a hopeless scoundrel bent on shallow and meaningless interactions.
It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did.
He stepped inside her shop two days after his initial visit and found the place quite busy. She, of course, had children inside staring longingly at the jars of colorful candies and displays of petits fours. This was a place of dreams for young, poor children. How easily she could have made it torturous for them, but she didn’t. When a child produced a ha’penny or, if they were particularly blessed, a pence, she helped them select the very best assortment of candies.
“You’re very kind to our little ones,” Mrs. Morris said. “We’ve never before had a confectionary shop in town. Your corner of Chippingwich has become a place of dreams.”