The Crabbett Close games were infamous. You never knew when someone would call them, or what they’d entail that day, but eating dreadful food, drinking unidentifiable liquors, and performing ridiculous rhymes or dares would be on the list. Mavis had a habit of winning, much to the youngest Nightingale brother, Theo’s, eternal frustration, which was why he had now joined her team.
Mungo sipped and was grateful for the taste of Mr. Peeky’s spiced rum.
“So what’s got you upset, then?” Mr. Greedy asked.
“How do you know I’m upset?”
“It’s in the eyes,” Mavis said. “Usually you’ve got that blank expression, but today... there’s a storm brewing in those blue depths. Even your hair looks angry.”
They stared at him hard, and Mungo withstood it, like he did most of the odd things that happened in this close.
“Well now, who would this be?” Mr. Greedy was looking over Mungo’s shoulder, so he turned and did the same.
A woman was approaching, carrying two bags.The governess.
She wore a bonnet of dull gray and a long jacket to match. On her feet were neat black boots. In fact, neat was the single word he would use to describe this woman until he got to her face.
The air got stuck in his throat as he tried to exhale, staring at her soft, pale skin with a faint pink flush to her cheeks from the cold wind.
“Good day to you,” Mr. Peeky called.
She stopped and smiled, and Mungo had to force himself to breathe. That smile reached her eyes, and their deep brown seemed to come alive beneath soft arched brows and were accentuated by the sweet curve of her upper lip. He hoped to Christ he was wrong about her being the new governess. Mungo rarely felt an instant attraction to a woman, but he did now.
“I’m Mr. Peeky, and this is Mr. Greedy, and our Mungo.”
“I’m Miss Downing.”
Damn.
“Are you the new governess, then?” Mavis asked.
“She is,” Mungo said with his eyes still on her. Did he know this woman? Something about her was unsettling him. She was beautiful, yes, but there was something more, and that was the reason he couldn’t stop looking at her.
“Mungo lives at 11 Crabbett Close too,” Mr. Greedy said. “You’ll love it here. We are a friendly lot.”
The woman’s eyes snapped to his and widened. It wasn’t common name, but he didn’t think it warranted such a reaction.
“Another for the Crabbett Close games,” Mr. Peeky added, sounding happy about that. “Everyone will be pleased.”
Mungo had to give the woman credit—she kept that smile on her pretty face even though she had no idea what they were talking about.
The crunch of carriage wheels had them all looking at the entrance of Crabbett Close.
He’d been tense when he’d met Miss Downing, but that feeling had just increased significantly. Why were two constables driving that carriage into Crabbett Close? He recognized the blue tailcoat with armlets, white gloves, and top hat they both wore.
Mungo stepped out of the garden and onto the road and now stood beside Miss Downing, watching it approach. It rolled to a stop beside him, and the man seated next to the driver jumped down.
The constable was big, with a bullish neck and a mean look in his eyes. Mungo disliked the man even before he barked out, “We are seeking a Scotsman called Mungo. Do you know where he is?”
“Aye, you’ve found him.”
“You’re under arrest, sir.”
“For what?” These words came from Mr. Greedy, who was now standing at his side, along with Mavis and Mr. Peeky.
“Assault.”
“Who did I assault?” Mungo gritted out. The only person he’d assaulted lately was the man on the foggy night when he rescued the woman from his clutches.
