Page 73 of The Dueling Duchess

Cecile scowled, getting angrier by the second. Wasn’t it just like a man to put a child and dog in a cupboard?

What? He should have left them on the street, as you would have done?

She flinched, her face heating at the truth of the accusation.

“Come,” she said shortly, heading for the door that led from the theater to the building on the backside, which was Cecile’s home.

The girl and dog trotted after her and Cecile paused. “Is your dog going to do his business inside? Because if he does—”

“No, George is a good boy. He knows how to behave.”

Cecile laughed. “George? You named your cur after the king?”

“No,” Cat scoffed. “I named him after Saint George. And don’t call him a cur.”

Cecile found the key she needed on the heavy ring and unlocked the door, ushering the child and dog into the short corridor before locking it behind them.

“A saint, hmm? The dog is that well behaved, is he?”

“Not because of that.” Cat rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know anything?”

Cecile laughed, amused by the girl’s fire. “Apparently not. Tell me about this saint.”

“He slayed a dragon to protect England. George is valiant like that, too.”

“There’s no such thing as a dragon.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Have you seen a bald eagle?”

Cecile stopped and turned to stare down at the girl. “A what?” She’d lived in Boston, so of course she knew the bird the Americans had adopted as their emblem. But she was stunned that a London street urchin would know such a thing.

“It’s a bird that lives in America. Have you seen one?”

“No, I haven’t seen any bald birds. I think you just made it up,” Cecile teased, resuming guiding her guests toward the kitchen.

“I did not! It’s a real bird.”

“Why would a bird be bald?”

“It only looks bald because the feathers are white and its body is darker.”

“How do you know about this bird?”

The question cut off the girl’s loquacity. Cecile couldn’t help noticing that the child’s accent had shifted subtly, and there were fewer grammatical lapses the more she talked. It was an impressive attempt at subterfuge for such a small child. Somebody must have taught her well.

“Tell me more,” Cecile demanded as she lit the lamps in the kitchen. “How do you know about this bald bird—have you been to America?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t give up so easily. You were making a point in an argument, were you not?”