Kincaid glared at the picky feline. “Don’t bloody well start with me. You’re acat. Not the King of England. Who cares if it’s a little off color? If I can eat it, so can you.” Scooping the cheese off the floor—he’d gotten his food from worse places—he tried it. Then promptly spat that out, too, as James watched smugly.
“Go catch a mouse,” Kincaid repeated. Picking up his whiskey, he returned to staring out the window. The clouds had shifted, allowing a shimmer of moonlight to peek through. Instantly, he was reminded of the streaks of silvery moonlight in Joanna’s hair as she’d walked into Cremorne Gardens. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn she was a goddess of old.
Aphrodite, perhaps.
Or Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom.
Athena, he decided as he sipped his drink.
Most definitely.
While the wisdom of Joanna’s decision to sail across the Atlantic in search of a ring and a father she’d never met was debatable, her courage was not. It was clear she’d go to great lengths to protect her sisters. She already had. And if that wasn’t the sign of a true warrior, what was?
If Kincaid wasn’t determined to dislike her, he’d having nothing but admiration for her.
And lust.
Quite a bit of lust.
Along with…other feelings.
Feelings he didn’t want to feel, which was where the dislike came in.
Never mind that there was absolutely nothing he’d disliked about Joanna tonight. The notable exception being her refusal to follow even the simplest of commands. But even that, in and of itself, was a source of grudging appreciation. She was as headstrong a woman as he’d ever encountered, and he couldn’t fault her for it. Not when it was what had first drawn him to her.
“Will youstoplooking at me like that?” he snapped when he turned round to find James was staring at him with a smirk.
Or so it seemed.
Were cats capable of smirking?
Kincaid did not have any idea. But if there was ever a feline whocouldpull off such a human expression, it was James.
“I’ll get you fresh fish at the market tomorrow. Does that meet your fancy, m’lord,” he said with a mocking bow, “or should I pull it out of the river with my teeth?”
James’ smirk only grew.
“You’re a bastard, you know that, right?” Tipping his glass, Kincaid finished the rest of the whiskey, considered pouring himself another, then put the bottle back on the shelf with some regret. It was already late, and the morning was going to come early, and if he was going to continue to dislike Miss Joanna Thorncroft, he needed his wits about him.
Scooping James up in his arms—he could hardly leave the cat downstairs all alone now, could he?—Kincaid clomped off to bed.
*
Joanna was bored.
No, that didn’t do it justice.
She was bored ofbeingbored.
And it was all Kincaid’s fault.
Since she’d arrived in his office some three hours ago, he had hardly taken the time to acknowledge her aside from dumping a large bin of paper on her lap and asking her to organize it by date while he conducted interviews with potential clients.
She realized he was busy. By her estimation, more than seven people had walked through the door this morning. A man in search of his missing horse, a woman in search of her missing necklace, and (the most interesting case by far, in Joanna’s opinion) a baroness who wanted to open an investigation into the sudden and unexpected death of her husband.
Sir Edgar Chamberlain, it seemed, had recently engaged in an affair with an actress—orthat harlot, as Lady Chamberlain had referred to her—and upon his demise, the actress’ theater group had inherited a considerable percentage of Sir Edgar’s fortune. If Lady Chamberlain could prove Sir Edgar had been killed by the actress, the bulk of his estate would revert back to his wife.
It was a fascinating mystery, and one Joanna would have very much liked to assist on…if she wasn’t being completely ignored.
