guineas he’d spent. By her calculation the man was likely worth four thousand a year. His lavender waistcoat had subtle gold threads in the weave. Only the poorly tied neckcloth suggested a man in some distress. Well, that and the carefulness with which he considered certain salves.
Miranda recognized the embarrassed scrutiny of a man who had acquired an uncomfortable condition, which he did not wish to disclose to anyone, but which needed immediate relief. She drew a resigned breath. She much preferred to help gentlemen select soaps and scents for their shaving needs. She could stretch out her arm to offer a gentleman a whiff of fragrant sandalwood soap in its porcelain bowl or whip up a bit of foam with a badger-bristle brush and spread it on her palm to show how thick and rich it was.
Directing a gentleman to a remedy for his indiscretion would end the transaction quickly. The man would not be inclined to look twice at her and notice and admire. He wouldn’t linger to exchange any banter. She wouldn’t hear much of his toffy accent. She could listen all day to West End gentlemen talk. Sometimes when they asked about her, she told them about her mother, the young French lady who had fled the Terror in Paris, when to have a shoe buckle meant death, and come to London with nothing.
The shop bell tinkled again, and a low ruffian slouched in with a soiled jacket and a coarse cap over his face, the sort who had no business in a respectable shop. Miranda’s fine gentleman shifted aside, immediately wary.
Miranda knew she must act quickly. “What are you doing here, boy? There’s nothing here for the likes of you.”
The rough youth thrust a grimy hand in front of the startled gentleman, and offered him a jar. “Here’s the one you want, governor. Sloan’s salve will clear up what ails you in a fortnight. She recommends it to all the gentlemen. Isn’t that right, Miss Kirby?” The youth grinned at her with a full set of white teeth.
Miranda grabbed her broom and came round the counter in a move that set her skirts to rustling. “Oooh, it’s you, Nate Wilde.”
The gentleman backed away from the youth with the jar. “I say, miss, it’s not the thing to let riffraff assault your customers.” He eyed the door. “Be off, you.”
The youth stood his ground. He even leaned towards the gentleman. “Don’t forget, governor, Sloan’s salve.”
The bell jangled again with the man’s hasty exit. Miranda turned on the intruder. She would dearly love to whack him with her broom. His laughing eyes dared her to do it. But if she gave in to the unladylike impulse, he’d win. No lady would hit a man with a broom no matter how he provoked her, and Miranda was a lady. She knew it. She composed herself and returned to her place behind the counter, putting the broom away.
“Did you tell him about your mother and her shoe buckles?” he taunted.
“You delight in vexing me.” She kept her back to him as she rearranged the display of shaving brushes and bowls.
“Vexing you? And here I think of myself as your champion, your knight.” He put the jar of Sloan’s on the shelf.
“My knight? That’s rich. A cheeky devil, more like, sent to make misery for me, that’s what you are.” She sat on her work stool and took up the straw bonnet she had been trimming before her gentleman customer interrupted. She bent over the work again, applying a lavender ribbon to the brim. Nate Wilde didn’t take the hint. He lingered as if he had not a care in the world. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I had to go to Wapping about a case.”
“A case? Not likely. As if you were a real copper.”
“Close enough, but better paid, and usually, better dressed.”
“Thanks to my father.”
“Face it, Miranda, I’m as close to a gentleman as you are like to get.” He hoisted himself up onto the mahogany counter. It was the sort of thing he did that she tried not to notice, but she’d seen his arms when he stood in his
Miranda recognized the embarrassed scrutiny of a man who had acquired an uncomfortable condition, which he did not wish to disclose to anyone, but which needed immediate relief. She drew a resigned breath. She much preferred to help gentlemen select soaps and scents for their shaving needs. She could stretch out her arm to offer a gentleman a whiff of fragrant sandalwood soap in its porcelain bowl or whip up a bit of foam with a badger-bristle brush and spread it on her palm to show how thick and rich it was.
Directing a gentleman to a remedy for his indiscretion would end the transaction quickly. The man would not be inclined to look twice at her and notice and admire. He wouldn’t linger to exchange any banter. She wouldn’t hear much of his toffy accent. She could listen all day to West End gentlemen talk. Sometimes when they asked about her, she told them about her mother, the young French lady who had fled the Terror in Paris, when to have a shoe buckle meant death, and come to London with nothing.
The shop bell tinkled again, and a low ruffian slouched in with a soiled jacket and a coarse cap over his face, the sort who had no business in a respectable shop. Miranda’s fine gentleman shifted aside, immediately wary.
Miranda knew she must act quickly. “What are you doing here, boy? There’s nothing here for the likes of you.”
The rough youth thrust a grimy hand in front of the startled gentleman, and offered him a jar. “Here’s the one you want, governor. Sloan’s salve will clear up what ails you in a fortnight. She recommends it to all the gentlemen. Isn’t that right, Miss Kirby?” The youth grinned at her with a full set of white teeth.
Miranda grabbed her broom and came round the counter in a move that set her skirts to rustling. “Oooh, it’s you, Nate Wilde.”
The gentleman backed away from the youth with the jar. “I say, miss, it’s not the thing to let riffraff assault your customers.” He eyed the door. “Be off, you.”
The youth stood his ground. He even leaned towards the gentleman. “Don’t forget, governor, Sloan’s salve.”
The bell jangled again with the man’s hasty exit. Miranda turned on the intruder. She would dearly love to whack him with her broom. His laughing eyes dared her to do it. But if she gave in to the unladylike impulse, he’d win. No lady would hit a man with a broom no matter how he provoked her, and Miranda was a lady. She knew it. She composed herself and returned to her place behind the counter, putting the broom away.
“Did you tell him about your mother and her shoe buckles?” he taunted.
“You delight in vexing me.” She kept her back to him as she rearranged the display of shaving brushes and bowls.
“Vexing you? And here I think of myself as your champion, your knight.” He put the jar of Sloan’s on the shelf.
“My knight? That’s rich. A cheeky devil, more like, sent to make misery for me, that’s what you are.” She sat on her work stool and took up the straw bonnet she had been trimming before her gentleman customer interrupted. She bent over the work again, applying a lavender ribbon to the brim. Nate Wilde didn’t take the hint. He lingered as if he had not a care in the world. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I had to go to Wapping about a case.”
“A case? Not likely. As if you were a real copper.”
“Close enough, but better paid, and usually, better dressed.”
“Thanks to my father.”
“Face it, Miranda, I’m as close to a gentleman as you are like to get.” He hoisted himself up onto the mahogany counter. It was the sort of thing he did that she tried not to notice, but she’d seen his arms when he stood in his
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