Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Author’s Note
Glossary of Lower-class Victorian Slang
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
A Totally Bound Publication
Cat and Mouse
ISBN # 978-1-78184-891-3
©Copyright Genella DeGrey 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright December 2013
Edited by Sue Meadows
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.
This story contains 164 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 4 pages.
CAT AND MOUSE
A proper lady would never steal or lie—nor would she enjoy the sting of her lover’s hand upon her posterior.
Fortune has frowned upon Miss Katrina Harwood. After the passing of her father and the sale of their possessions, she’s found herself at the mercy of London’s underbelly, and what’s worse, she’s now a vital member of the East Side Den of Thieves, even though she’s entirely miserable. Every day is a battle between her morals and the need to survive—and every day takes her further from a solution to her dilemma. During one of her many missions to lighten the pockets of the well-to-do, she finds herself in a precarious position—over the knee of her would-be victim. The impression he leaves on her bottom is one she won’t soon forget, or fail to yearn for.
During the previous London ‘season’, Maxwell Courtland married off his little sister Susannah to an up-and-coming barrister. Now, Susannah is trying to convince Max that it’s time for him to settle down, a prospect that he finds completely disagreeable owing to the fact that he cannot abide the women she’s chosen for him. When he catches an adorable thief trying to make off with the family silver, he never imagines that a little game of cat and mouse will lead to falling for someone so unconventional and yet so tempting.
Dedication
To Helena and Tim
In gratitude for your inspiration and fathomless talents—may you be blessed with abundance, always.
A special thanks to Mark T. for the invaluable tutelage.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
The Times: News Corp Group
Through The Looking Glass: Lewis Carroll
Author’s Note
In desperate times when our own mortality is placed into our hands, it matters not what society thinks or says. One does what one must to remain alive. There is something within each of us called the survival instinct. We are born with it and it will kick in when the similar fight or flight instinct is drawn from the depths of our souls.
Many of my heroines have been called, ‘too modern’ for the time periods in which I write. Taking into consideration the human survival instinct, and the fact that my stories are fictional, the actions of my players have never faltered from their fictive human archetypes and the sticky situations in which they find themselves.
I will continue to write relatable, strong heroines as I know my discerning readers will be amused by them and come back again and again for more.
Glossary of Lower-class Victorian Slang
—Source: tlucretius.net
Fine wirer—a highly skilled pickpocket
Firkytoodling—17th century term meaning ‘fondling’; Victorian slang for f**king.
Luggers—earrings
Penny gaff—low or vulgar theatre
Roger — (v) 1 the act of sex, 2 to f**k. Rogered, Rogering, etc.
Scurf—an exploitive employer or gang leader
Snatch—(n) a pickpocket or (v) stealing in a crowd
Take down—to steal
Ticker—a watch
Chapter One
The London Season, 1898
Does she have to be so bloody loud? The woman mewled like a cat in heat. For God’s sake, it’s only a rogering.
From underneath the partially refurbished rig in a fashionable London town house’s repair shed, Katrina waited, ice pick in hand, for the perfect opportunity. Thankfully, the woman, who may or may not have been in the throes of passion, was too occupied with her ear-piercing song to notice when her overly-gauche diamond necklace, heavy with its glittering jewels, slid round to dangle from the back of her neck. The woman must have been hanging halfway out of the buggy door, for the top of her blonde head nearly swept the ground. Had the lamed rig wheels been attached, her coif wouldn’t be in danger of attracting bits of hay and dirt from the floor—then again, Katrina wouldn’t have been so well hidden in the moonlight-dappled buggy port.
It was now or never. Eyeing the stone she’d chosen to detach from the ensemble, Katrina adjusted the instrument of liberation in her grip.
The woman who’d been vocalizing her crisis, feigned or not, quieted.
“Come, Mrs Fowler, this is no time for your silence,” the man doing the firkytoodling, and the front row center recipient of her concert, hissed in a strangled whisper.
“Shut up, you lout. I’m almost there,” she retorted.
At once the padded bench squeaked with the vigor of a thief fleeing a crime scene. Katrina reached out to grasp the winking stone between her fingers when all at once, the entire necklace fell to the floor.
“Stop! I’ve lost my necklace!”
Katrina shrank to the opposite side, deeper into the shadows, her breath trapped inside her petrified lungs, and watched as the woman scrambled out of the cab to retrieve her bauble.
The wayward wife snatched it from the dirty ground and huffed out an exasperated-sounding breath. “I’ve had enough sport for one evening, sir.”
After a few feeble protestations from the man, Mrs Fowler’s pink slippers hit the dirt floor with a soft smack. She stepped a dusty, silk-clad foot into each of them and hastened from the repair shed.
Katrina’s angst about being caught quickly transformed to anger. However, she found it unnecessary to verbalize her internal monologue. Readying to dismount from his makeshift love nest, the man let loose a string of scalding swearwords worthy of a sailor writing his memoirs.
She hated this—hated stealing—hated her life. And it was all her father’s fault. Damn his dead drunken soul to the Devil!
* * * *
“I almost had it—it dangled not a pinch away from my fingertips. Had the woman’s paramour been more efficient, I would have the entire necklace for you.” Katrina flopped onto the nearest love seat in the dingy warehouse turned multi-nook lair. The scent of dust, likely belched up from the old seat, permeated her nostrils, causing her to hold her breath for a scant second or two.
Mr Brenner sat upon the lumpy, moldering cushion next to her. If any of the thieves who ranked above Katrina in the self-imposed hierarchy of the Den knew she could get an audience with Mr Brenner any time she chose, she’d likely be pulled into a dark alley one night and experience a thrashing for doing so. One didn’t presume to be familiar with their superiors, even in the underbelly of society.
“You know, love, no one ever said life is a late-afternoon stroll through Hyde Park.”
Katrina nodded and scratched her nose on the back of her fingerless black glove as he snaked his arm round her shoulders.
“And regrettably, there is no prize, nor quarter given, for a botched mission.” He pulled her close so that her shoulder acted like a wedge beneath his pungent underarm. Thank heavens for the barrier of his thick coat. She’d smelled that pit of spoiled soup up close the very night he’d taken her under his wing—and taken her virginity as payment for the tiny space he’d let to her and the one trunk of gowns she’d refused to part with. He’d convinced her it wasn’t whoring herself out, merely forging a contract between two friends.
However, Mr Brenner was not her friend. No, he was more like an accidental acquaintance. In her wildest dreams, she’d never have pictured herself in the same room with the sort of man who was even now attaching himself to her side like a leech.
“But I was so close!” The tears that threatened to form sounded in her voice.
“Do you know what tonight is?”
The abrupt change of subject knocked her off topic so fast it took her logic by surprise. “What?”
“Tonight marks the second month with us here at the well-oiled machine that is the East Side Den of Thieves. And you know what that means?”
She attempted to pull away discreetly. “But I tried—I’ve been trying to pick pockets and lift trinkets from the more fortunate of London—”
“I understand, I truly do. However, you agreed, of your own free will, to my payment terms. Had you been able to make rent in a more fiscal way, we wouldn’t have need for a physical reimbursement, would we?”
Panic welled in her belly. Katrina would do anything to keep Mr Brenner’s greasy attentions at bay—even if she had to pilfer a ring from the hand of Queen Victoria herself. “Wait. I—I just remembered something.” She disentangled herself from him, rose and walked to the doorway—the workings in her head turning with purpose as she went. That ball tonight was a public affair, which meant anyone could come and go as they pleased. “I shall return before sunrise.”
“My dear, the terms are the same if it’s midnight or six in the morning.”
“Yes, Mr Brenner, I am quite aware.” Making sure none of the other thieves were about, Katrina slipped from the room and hurried down two corridors and a short hall to her trunk. She pulled out her oldest and least favorite gown. A yellow taffeta straight front, sporting a sheer, white, organdie overlay with daisy vines embroidered in columns around the skirt and cuffs.
She sighed—her very first ball gown. Regardless of its highly old-fashioned look, it still held the bittersweet memories of her once blossoming adulthood.
Shedding her black thieving attire and fingerless gloves that once held the sorrowful position of her mourning garb, she then quickly slipped into the daisy skirt followed by the long-sleeved bodice, then connected the corresponding eyes to the hooks below the square neckline. She pulled on the appropriate underskirts beneath the dress, tying the drawstring tightly around her waist. In compensation for wearing the gown that was all the rage ten years ago, the fabric originally taken from the last of her mother’s possessions, she donned her best ivory crocheted gloves with the seed pearl trim. She recalled the time a drop of punch splashed onto her thumb. It had nearly broke her heart, but luckily, it hadn’t left a stain.
Her current situation was a stain that could probably never be washed off. With much effort, she rose above the thought and focused on her mission. Her survival depended upon it.
* * * *
In no time she arrived back at the town house where the ball was still in a frenzy of gaiety. Katrina gave the doorman her coyest smile, knowing without a doubt that a lady would never do such. “I fear I’m awfully late.” She allowed her eyelashes to flutter just enough to see him melt and open the door for her. With a tentative hand she reached out and ran a gloved finger down his forearm. One could catch more flies with honey, she’d learnt recently.
Not only did he allow her to pass without another word, but he bowed to her as if she were Princess Alix.
Katrina went directly to the ladies’ retiring room and stood in front of one of the vanities. Strategically placed wall sconces and candelabras filled the feminine space with a soft golden light. The woman in the mirror before her looked quite the opposite of the debutantes, much younger than her own twenty-three years, who’d turned up at tonight’s soirée in order to capture a husband. If any of her old acquaintances happened to be in attendance, they would never recognize her. She’d changed so very much in the last year or so. Her figure had gone from the very bud of womanhood to gaunt—her skin seemed to cling to her bones. She imagined the condition was left over from watching her father’s health deteriorate.
For the last two months, following the auction of her family’s estate, she’d dined on a deficient amount of less than meager fare at the Den. And aside from wearing not a single jewel this evening—every last one sold to settle the gambling debts that weren’t covered by the sale of her late sire’s possessions—her hair wasn’t the crowning glory it used to be. During her first week with Mr Brenner, he’d persuaded her to sell her raven-black, waist-length locks to a wig-maker. He’d wrapped a strand of twine round the width and shorn her hair, just below the ears, with the biggest pair of rusty scissors she’d ever seen.
“This fist full of quids will feed you, here at the Den of course, for two months,” he’d crowed and waved the paper pound notes under her nose.
She never had found out exactly how much he’d acquired, her tears had been too heavy and too frequent that night.
Katrina’s morbid thoughts were interrupted by a woman who’d entered the room and lowered herself onto an upholstered bench.
“I fear I’m getting too old to stay up all night dancing.” She shook her head and patted the back of her beribboned coif. The reflection in the mirror revealed her sparkling earbobs to Katrina.
“Nonsense.” Katrina smiled and turned to the woman. “You couldn’t be more than, what, thirty?”
The woman’s fan snapped open and she giggled while the stiff white lace fluttered beneath her chin. Chins. “I’m a good fifteen years more than you suppose. Had you not been standing in the ladies’ retiring room in a gown, I would have taken you for a flattering young buck.” Katrina silently wondered if the woman was referring to her hair until she spoke again. “Honestly, I suppose we women should stick together. We’re all we’ve got, after all.”
She nodded but was well aware that her smile was nowhere near genuine. The conflict of guilt versus necessity pooled like a boulder in her soul. “I shall leave you to repose, then.” She had turned to depart when the woman stopped her.
“Before you go, would you please help me? I think my stays have popped open at the back—I knew the drawstring was frayed, but I didn’t take the time to replace it.”
Katrina smiled—sincerely this time. Here, before her, was a pickpocket’s dream. The woman was actually inviting Katrina to lay hands upon her person. With an inward grimace, she shifted her weight and took a step forward. What she was doing was quite wrong, and yet vital in support of her very existence. Determined, she focused on the job at hand. “Of course I will help you.”
She bade the woman stand, making sure that no matter which way Madame Baubles turned, a mirror couldn’t be seen. “The light is much better over here.”
After maneuvering the layers of fabric over the woman’s head, she found that the worn corset strings had merely come untied. Katrina retied the strings and, with much show and fuss, pulled the material back down over her bustle, skimming the woman’s ears just enough to render them temporarily desensitised. The moment she had hold of the diamond earrings, she concealed them between her palm and thumb, then folded her hands demurely in front of her.
“Oh, thank you, my dear. It feels quite like I’m in for the duration, now.”
“I consider it an honor to have helped you out.”
With a nod, the woman swept from the room.
It was as if a massive weight lifted from Katrina’s shoulders. She wasn’t in the mood to return to the Den—now that she’d procured the required fiscal payment for Mr Brenner. She decided to wander around the upper floors of the grand town house for a while. Who knew? Perhaps she’d come across a few items that would hold her landlord at bay for at least another month if not two.
* * * *
It was near sunrise. Everyone had finally left Maxwell Courtland’s Third Annual Spring Ball for their prospective homes—if not for rendezvous with their lovers. The ton could be categorized as the biggest bunch of contradictions in history, save the Romans, he mused as he shed his coat.
Max decided to have a nightcap in his study before heading to bed. A cap to top off the half-dozen or so other caps he’d had throughout the night. The mouth of the brandy decanter clinked cheerfully on the lip of his crystal snifter, sounding like a greeting between old friends. He lifted the beverage in a salute to no one in particular and precipitously dispensed half the glass down his throat.
The two finalists on his sister’s ‘Find a Wife for Max’ list, had attended this evening’s soirée. Weary, he lowered himself into the closest chair, feeling like a small nocturnal canine who’d narrowly escaped his captors in a summertime fox hunt.
One of the young ladies, a Miss Winifred Boonsbury, came from a very old family, but it was whispered that she was icy-cold to the touch, and, Max imagined, those doing the whispering were merely being diplomatic. With him, she neither practiced nor likely held in high regard any sort of conversational skills. The sour look cemented permanently on her face attested to the fact. And the woman’s mother was so hard of hearing that the most discreet verbal exchange floated happily across any room as if she’d taken up a trumpet. If he married this girl, he’d be doomed to a silent—save the mother-in-law—wintry sort of life, which was ideal for a Christmas landscape, but Max wanted more. He wanted adventure. He wanted chemistry, heat. And, specifically, he wanted someone who’d be experimental—in bed and out.
His other choice, a Miss Charity Wilson, was a beauty. Sadly, she’d made the rounds—flat on her back—with nearly every randy buck of the ton, who in turn shared the not-so-engaging experience with anyone who would listen. Apparently, she demanded expensive baubles for her position in society. This was not what he envisioned for his future, either. He didn’t wish to spend his millions paying for the privilege of bedding Mrs Maxwell Courtland.
With a flip of his wrist, the rest of the brandy blazed a trail down this throat just as smoothly as the first half. The other listed females ‘ripe for the picking’, as his sister put it, he’d disregarded—their conditions were even worse than that of Boonsbury and Wilson. He shook his head and untied his cravat, flinging the silken tie in disgust to land where it would.
Taking up the decanter once again, he then splashed more liquid aid into his glass, the happy sound at odds with his unpleasant thoughts. He sank deeper into the chair in the darkened room and tossed back a healthy swig. Exhaling the heat from his throat, a sound startled him. It had come from behind the drapes.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, rising from the chair. He set his drink down on the fireplace mantle and took up the iron and brass poker from its stand. Softly he stepped over to the window, raised the poker high above his head, grabbed hold of the thick fabric and tossed the curtain aside.
He could barely make out the figure of the little mouse of a girl who stood there. Upon closer inspection, he could discern the surprised, wide-eyed look and form of an ‘O’ her luscious lips held. His cock seemed to react in adolescent glee before his mind registered any further information.
Knowing he’d probably frightened her, he flung the poker to the ground. “I do apologize. I thought everyone had departed.”
“I—I—”
Max motioned with his hand. “Come out. I won’t harm you.” He stepped out of her path so that she could pass when the sound of something large and metal hit the floor in the vicinity of her feet.
Chapter Two
“What was that?” the man asked. Amused suspicion rang in his voice. Had his face not been cast in shadow, Katrina would have been able to read which conflicting emotion prevailed. How could she tell him that the silver tray from the stunning tea service in the upstairs sitting room had just fallen from between her knees?
Katrina stepped over the tray, intending to make a dash for the door, when a hand encircled her upper arm like an iron band. A metal tinkling, albeit muffled, sounded from beneath her skirts. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth to stop herself from cursing—a habit she’d picked up from the rabble with whom she shared lodgings.
“Just a moment.” He maneuvered her off her intended path and paused. “What do we have here?”
Shite! It seemed he had indeed noticed the tray on the floor.
“Hm. A thief, eh? Any other curious intrigues beneath your skirts?”
“Nothing else—I mean, this is all some sort of mistake. Unhand—”
“I think not. This situation calls for further investigation.”
She tried futilely to pull free from his grip. “No… Release me this instant… Bastard!”
A strangled breath that sounded as if it could have been a humorous noise caught in his throat. “Such language, madam,” he scolded.
Regardless of her struggles, he muscled her over to a settee, sat and positioned her over his knees as if she were a naughty child in need of a spanking. Bloody hell, he could have at least allowed her to face her punisher head on!
“Let me go, you cur!” She kicked her feet, but they never struck their target. This was not good. Katrina needed to escape the nightmare she’d stepped into before she ended up in Newgate.
“Stop wiggling, this instant.”
At once, his hand came down on her backside. Hard. She squeaked in protest—or had she moaned?—and froze. Regardless, the sting, which refused to fade beneath the fabric of her skirts, sent liquid fire straight to her womb. She must have broken into a sweat, for the cotton of her drawers at the juncture of her thighs seemed damper than it had before. Too embarrassed to admit even to herself that the pain and pleasure of the still-smarting tap was affecting her in such a heated way, not to mention the fact that her vulnerability in this position could induce all sorts of immoral ideas, she shouted at him, “There, you’ve done your worst—now let me go!”
His laugh could’ve definitely been categorized as wicked. “That, madam, wasn’t anywhere near my worst.” With that, he yanked the back of her skirt up and over her bottom.
Indignant beyond words and trapped between his solid chest and rock-hard thighs, Katrina tried again to get away with more kicking and thrashing about, but the way in which he held her could not be broken. The silverware she’d fixed to her petticoat now tinkled aloud with each movement. At once she stilled. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice her take. It was quite dark, after all. She drew in a breath. A warm, spicy scent invaded her senses, but only for a moment.
“What do we have here?”
Good God.
“Either you were in the midst of setting the table for supper and your skirts ingested a few essential items or in your spare time you are a wind chime.”
“Release me, damn you!”
“Not until I’ve retrieved my family’s silver.”
Katrina heard each shellfish fork, butter knife and teaspoon as they were ripped from their restraints, and after enduring the inquest of her lower region in a manner only a husband had the right to do, she stiffened when he spoke. “There, that should do it.” She felt him lean over and away from her to set her near-pilfered prizes upon an end table next to the settee. At that fortuitous moment, Katrina jumped from his lap. She slammed the heel of her boot down hard and with purpose on top of his foot, then ran for the door. Behind her the man roared out a name—likely that of someone in his household. The frantic, frustrated echo followed her all the way down the two-tiered set of stairs to the foyer. She pulled the heavy door open—damned if she was going to close it—and fled through the front gate, her frantic steps too loud upon the pavement for comfort.
Thank heavens she’d previously shoved the diamond earbobs so far down the front of her corset they wouldn’t have become dislodged if he’d turned her upside down and shook her. Katrina dashed across the empty street from the shadows and into Hyde Park. Keeping close to bits of shrubbery and accommodating trees, she ran alongside Rotten Row as fast as her feet would fly. She daren’t head straight for the Den in case someone had followed her from the location of the somewhat successful crime.
Soon Katrina came to the Rotten Row curve. After glancing around to insure safe flight, she hurried across the lane and kept to the trees, still heading west.
Finally she found herself next to Kensington Palace. How on earth she would make it back to the Den at Mews Street without raising suspicions at this time of morning—in a ball gown, no less—she had no idea. With no coin at her disposal, no connections to speak of and utterly hopeless—unless one counted the diamond earbobs hidden deep inside her corset—the uncertainty of doom lurked behind her like a shadow.
Pity the silver hadn’t remained.
The vivid memory of that man’s stinging reprimand came rushing back. It seemed impossible to her that the particular brand of rough handling of her posterior could induce such feelings. Katrina gritted her teeth against the sensual buzzing between her legs and crouched down in a corner at a cross-section of Kensington’s outer wall. Pushing the recollection to the back of her mind, a feeling of desolation she was powerless to evade overtook her and she wept the bitter tears of despair.
All men were bastards. Her father, the king of the bastards, Mr Brenner, heir apparent, and the pond scum who’d accosted her tonight. The only male in the world who could be depended upon was Jimmy—and even that young man was prone to flirtations bordering on dangerous.
After a while she dried her cheeks with the tattered under-hem of her skirt and took a deep breath. The chilled air around her stirred as if wishing to escape the dawn. To this she could relate. Anger coupled with helplessness now replaced her fear and tied her stomach in knots. She needed to formulate a plan—a plan to get her out of this dreadful situation of theft, despondency and dissoluteness. But alas, the solution wouldn’t be immediate. It could take weeks if not months—perhaps even years, God forbid. One thing that could be counted as a positive, she’d escaped tonight’s botch-up and hadn’t landed in Newgate.
Feeling much more at ease regarding the events of the past hour or so owing to a good cry, which always seemed to help when hopelessness overwhelmed her, she stood and dusted off her skirt. Reassuring herself that she hadn’t been pursued, she headed south. Once she reached the Thames she’d follow the river east to the Den.
Not a quarter mile from Kensington Palace, the familiar clip-clop of a horse’s hooves echoed off the surrounding buildings. With any luck, the rider would mind their own business, continue on and ignore her presence.
“Good morning!” a cheerful male voice hailed her from behind.
She felt her shoulders stiffen and her mind raced with phoney scenarios to the question the man would inevitably ask. Katrina smiled before turning to him as if her life had been happy and carefree since birth. “Good morning to you, too.”
He slowed his horse to match her pace. “You seem to me, at first glance, a fish out of water.”
Story of my life. Katrina laughed gaily as if his statement struck her as humorous and she looked up at him. “No, no. I’m just walking.” His mischievous smile and green eyes were more striking than should have been legal. She peeled her gaze from his and continued on her path in silent dismissal of which she hoped he’d take the hint.
“What a fancy walking gown you have on. Has fashion finally dictated that an early morning walk must be made in formal attire?”
Wonderful. He’s both thick and nosey. And handsome, damn him. She glanced up at him again and took note of the fact that his choice of apparel from the waist up consisted of an unkempt shirt open at the neck. She forced herself to ignore the smooth patch of skin between the starched, likely expensive cotton. “Interesting observation from someone who seems to have forgotten his waistcoat and his cravat.”
She watched from the corner of her eye as he raised his hand to the ‘V’ at his chest and up to his neckline. “I… I left in a hurry. The air at dawn is so good for one’s constitution, you know.”
“Mmm.” Katrina kept walking. This was neither the time nor the place for polite pleasantries—however ridiculous—with a man, no matter how agreeable the countenance.
“Where are you off to? Can I be of assistance?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“What is your destination?”
Obviously he intended upon making this difficult. “The docks.”
“The docks, you say?” he repeated incredulously.
“Mmm.”
“Which docks?”
“The ones on the Thames, of course. Where else?”
“Where else, indeed.”
Mercifully, a few moments of silence fell upon them and Katrina hoped he’d given up trying to engage her in conversation. Her feet hurt as did her head from walking and running hither and yon. Lack of sleep didn’t bring her disposition to be anywhere near congenial, either.
“Once you reach the docks, what do you plan on doing there?”
“I—um, I’m going abroad.”
“Abroad? At the beginning of the season? Think of all the parties you’ll miss.”