Chapter One
London 1887
Three years ago, Kit Turner had been skiffing marks. Gaming dupes. Looking over her shoulder to stay one step ahead of the law. She ran with ruffians, consorted with cutthroats, swam in the bilgewater of London society. Just thinking of it twisted her lips into a smirk. No one would believe it of her now, not standing next to a retired police sergeant in a smart blue suit and married to the chief inspector of one of the city’s busiest stations. Her gaze lifted to the freshly painted golden letters above the one-room office front. THEBLACKFRIARSLANEENQUIRYAGENCY. Her agency. Well, to be fair, hers and her father’s. The smirk bloomed into a full-fledged grin.
God surely did have a sense of humour.
“You can still back out, you know.” Her father shot her a sideways glance. “I am more than capable of handling this on my own. I don’t see how you are going to manage a baby and—”
She shot up her hand. “We have been over this a hundred times, Father. You know Jackson has given me his blessing on our new business.”
“Foolish man,” he mumbled. Maybe. Hard to tell with the rumbling wheels from a passing dray behind them.
“What was that?” She narrowed her eyes on him.
He narrowed his right back. “You have been wearing the same gown now for the past week, Daughter.”
She glanced down at the green poplin. Sure enough, a few milk stains darkened the fabric of her bodice, and was that a smear of gunpowder at her waist? She swiped it away and awarded her father a sheepish smile. “Well, it is mostly clean. Leastwise more than the rest of the laundry.”
“See what I mean?” He lowered his voice as an eagle-eyed matron skirted them on the pavement. “You can barely keep your head above your household duties as it is.”
His shot hit true, but it didn’t sting. Household duties—as he put it—were a waste of time. Was it not far better to bring justice to the streets than to have a cupboard full of washed dishes?
“If Jackson doesn’t mind, then I don’t know why you should. Now”—she hooked her arm through his—“how about we start our first day at the Blackfriars Lane Enquiry Agency?”
Her father heaved a sigh. “I hope we know what we’re doing.”
“Of course we do.” She tugged him towards the door. “With your history of tracking down scofflaws and my street smarts, we shall be the best investigators this city has ever seen.”
Once inside, her father hung his hat on the coat-tree then eased his big frame into an old wooden chair behind the larger of two desks. Untucking the newspaper from beneath his arm, he shook it out and disappeared behind the headlines.
Kit opened her mouth to comment but just as quickly clamped her lips. Let him enjoy his peace and quiet. When clients started rolling in, neither of them would have time for such niceties—and speaking of which, she pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle from her bag. “Here, Father, I brought you a little something for this auspicious day.”
Lowering the paper, he retrieved her offering. “A brick?”
“No,” she huffed. “A loaf of bread. I made it myself and thought we could share it along with some cheese at lunch today.”
“Bread, eh? Very thoughtful of you.” He set the bundle on the desktop, and she winced when it thwunked. “A valiant effort, at any rate.”
At least he was being generous. The bread had turned out heavier than she’d intended. She was much better at hunting down crime-bent streeters than following a silly recipe.
Once again her father’s paper unfurled. Kit strolled over to her desk. For a while she fiddled around with the inkstand, contemplating if it looked better at the center of the tabletop or on one of the corners. She opted for the top left. Pulling a notepad from the drawer, she set it in front of her, ready for the details from their very first client. And to be on the safe side, she even dipped her pen and wrote Case 001 at the top of the page along with today’s date, for surely any minute now someone would stroll through the door seeking their help.
Yet the clock ticked on.
And on.
And on.
And still no one called.
Kit blew a curl off her brow. “Looks like we wasted our money on those newspaper advertisements.”
“Give it time.” The words crept around the side of her father’s paper.
Kit drummed her fingers on her desk. “The handbills don’t appear to be working either.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
