Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  “I leave that to my manager these days,” Payne said, “but I believe plans are being made.”

  Elias wrapped the pies in paper and handed them over. “I haven’t seen ye fight in years, but I’d pay to watch that one.”

  “No charge for you,” Mr. Payne said and handed Elias a coin. Elias looked down at it.

  “This is too much, sir.”

  Mr. Payne raised a hand, refusing to take the pound back. “Come see me fight, and I’ll consider myself repaid. Good day, Elias.” He tipped his hat and led Modesty to the edge of the fountain. She sat and he handed her a pie then sat himself and unwrapped his. He took a bite and smiled. Modesty unwrapped her own, her mouth watering at the scent. She took her own bite, and it was so good she forgot how cold the stone of the fountain was underneath her or how brisk the winter breeze or even how worried she was for her father. She just enjoyed the wonderful flavor of the pie. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever tasted something so wonderful.

  “Shall I buy you another?” Mr. Payne asked.

  She looked down and realized she’d eaten the entire pie in only a few minutes. She felt her cheeks heat. “No, I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “For now, show me where you live.”

  She rose and took a deep breath. “It’s this way.”

  Five

  Rowden didn’t realize they’d arrived until she went to a narrow door and produced a key. He wouldn’t have thought this a house at all. There were no windows facing the street, no knocker, nothing to indicate someone lived here. But she opened the door and stepped inside, and he turned sideways to fit through and follow. He had to stoop to pass under the door and once inside the ceiling wasn’t much higher. Mostyn would have had to duck, but Rowden just kept an eye out for low beams. They’d entered a room with rectangular windows in the back. The sun was creeping higher in the sky, allowing some light to filter through, but Miss Brown lit a lamp and lifted it, shedding more light on the room.

  The chamber was cold and had the musty smell of disuse, but it was in perfect order. A table sat on one side of the room and a couch and chairs were closer to the window. “I thought you said the house had been ransacked. This looks neat as a pin.”

  “Neat as a—look!” She went to the table and lifted a teacup. “This tea has been sitting here for days. My father was drinking it when I left that morning, and he left it right here. And see this chair? It isn’t pushed in. “

  “So he didn’t push his chair in or put the cup away before he departed. That’s unusual, I take it?”

  “Yes. And see here. This table is out of place and his study!” She started for a door at the other end of the room. Well, it was about five steps away. She opened the door to reveal what Rowden would have deemed a closet. It held a desk, a chair, and a shelf of eight to ten books. She took two off the shelf. “These were lying open on the desk. Just left open to the pages he had been reading.”

  “That’s unusual?”

  “Yes!” Her color was high, and he could see he was exasperating her. He didn’t mean to. Obviously, something had happened to make her father leave without explanation, but he was beginning to doubt foul play.

  “He never leaves his books open. He says that damages the spine. They are always returned to their proper place.”

  “Is anything else amiss?” he asked. “Is any money missing?”

  “We had no money to steal. The rooms upstairs appear undisturbed.”

  “May I see?”

  She ducked her head, and he could have sworn her cheeks went even redder. “Of course.”

  She led him up a narrow, steep staircase. He had to turn sideways to fit his shoulders and duck to avoid giving himself a concussion. At the top of the stairs were two doors, both closed. She opened the first, and he knew immediately it was hers. It was tiny, barely big enough for the narrow bed. On the wall hung a dress and hat exactly like the one she wore now. Under that was a trunk which he imagined held her underthings. The room had nothing else. No window. No paintings. Not even a rug. It was the most spartan chamber he had ever seen.

  One look at the crisp white bedclothes, and he knew it had been undisturbed. “Did you right anything in this room?” he asked.

  “No. It hadn’t been touched.”

  “The other door is your father’s?”

  She led him out, closing her door behind him then opening her father’s door. It was only a little larger than hers, and it was equally as spartan. There was a bed, a peg with a black coat hanging on it, and a trunk underneath. The one difference was that on Mr. Brown’s trunk was a framed picture. Rowden stepped inside to look at the picture. When Miss Brown didn’t follow with the lamp, he looked over his shoulder at her.

  “I don’t usually come in here,” she said. “I’m not allowed.”

  “I think we can dispense with the usual rules in this situation. Bring the lamp closer.”

  She did, and Rowden lifted the drawing and studied it. It had been done in charcoal and was the likeness of a young woman wearing a dark dress with a white collar. She wore a cap over her hair, which was, of course, black, as the drawing was in charcoal. Her eyes were black too, but Rowden knew those eyes. They had the same shape as Miss Brown’s. “Your mother?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Her name was Catherine.”

  “Catherine Ryan and then Catherine Brown, yes?” He set the portrait on the floor beside the trunk. “Could your mother read?”

  “I think so.” She seemed to consider, her unusual eyes lowering and then meeting his. “Yes. She read me the Bible and taught me my letters.”

  “Then your aunt might have corresponded with her.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Is there any place your father might have kept something like that? Letters or other mementos?”

  “Perhaps in his desk,” she suggested.

  “Perhaps.” He reached for the trunk.

  “What are you about, sir?”

  He gestured to the trunk. “The portrait is here. Other items of your mother’s might be here too. Perhaps one will give us an idea of the whereabouts of her family and your aunt.” He didn’t say it, but he thought the contents might also give them a clue as to where her father had gone. Perhaps they’d find he owed a large sum of money and had fled to the Continent to avoid paying. Rowden opened the trunk and indicated Miss Brown should move closer with the lamp.

  She did so reluctantly, and Rowden looked down at a pile of neatly folded white linen. He carefully lifted the shirts and neckcloths out of the way, revealing a wooden base. “False bottom,” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. This top shelf lifts out. My trunk is the same.” She reached down and lifted the wooden insert. She brushed against him as she leaned over, and he caught the scent of starch and soap. Underneath there was another fragrance, something light and feminine he had caught in her chamber. He knew that fragrance—not perfume but the scent of soft curves, silky hair, and satin skin. It was the fragrance of a woman.

  “I keep my brush and hair pins on this top shelf,” she was saying, oblivious to the fact that he was half-drunk on her scent. “Underneath are my...are clothing items.”

  Rowden looked up at her, their faces closer than she realized because she immediately stepped back. For just a moment, he’d been imagining those clothing items—chemises and stockings and stays. The sorts of women he knew generally wore frilly underthings with ribbons and silk. But he imagined Modesty Brown lived up to her name, preferring sensible, plain items made of starched, scratchy fabric. Rowden could imagine her in it, imagine her lifting her arms to unpin her hair, as he had watched her pin it this morning. The curve of her breast would be revealed, sweet and round and tempting in the prim chemise.

  “There, you see?” she said, gesturing to the trunk. Rowden forced himself to look back at it. “It’s just a hat.”

  “No one keeps a hat in a trunk,” he said, lifting it out. “Hats are hung. Ah. Here
we are.” He lifted a packet of letters wrapped with twine. “Correspondence.” He held the packet out to Miss Brown, but she didn’t take the letters, merely looked at them. “Do you want me to read them?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I...it’s just, I...”

  Rowden waited, but she didn’t seem inclined to say more. And she didn’t take the letters. He had the urge to check his pocket watch. He knew he would be late for his appointment at Mostyn’s, but the question was how late.

  “Why don’t we go downstairs, make tea, and look through these? You don’t have to open them. But we can sit down and see what we have.”

  She stood very still and then gave the briefest of nods. Rowden rose and started for the door, letters in hand, but she made a tsking sound and crouched to replace the items in the trunk as they had been. Finally, she followed him out, closing the door behind her. Once downstairs, she went into the kitchen and seemed to stand there as though she had never seen it before.

  “Do you need me to light the stove?” he asked. “You can fetch water while the stove heats.”

  She nodded and took a bucket off a peg on the wall. Then she paused, went to a shelf, and took down a tea tin. She looked inside and shook her head. “Never mind. We have no tea.” She held the tin out, and he saw there were but one or two leaves stuck to the bottom. “We use the leaves over again,” she said. “My father likes a cup of tea while he works, and so I did not lay them out to dry when I left. He must never have had that second cup of tea.” She gestured to the tea pot on the small table near the stove. If the leaves were still inside, they would be moldy and unusable now.

  Rowden wasn’t sure what he should do. She was safe in her own home, but she was all alone. She wasn’t a lady, who required a chaperone or servants, but was she safe here on her own? What if something nefarious had happened to her father? Perhaps the evildoers would come back for her.

  He rather doubted that, considering the house had been untouched, but Rowden didn’t feel right simply taking his leave. He looked about the kitchen and noted the bare shelves. She had what looked to be a bit of flour and perhaps some potatoes, but how would she buy more provisions? Surely her church would help her, but hadn’t she said the church elder had turned her out and instructed her to look for her aunt? Others might be willing to help, but Rowden knew what it was to rely on the charity of others. He supposed family was different. Of course, when his father had disowned him, no one in Rowden’s family had dared oppose the duke.

  He simply needed to help her find her aunt. Then he would know she was safe and cared for and he could be through with his obligation to her. “Gather what you need,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

  She lifted her head and stared at him. “I am not.”

  “I can’t leave you here with nothing to eat and no blunt, and I can’t have you sleeping on Mostyn’s doorstep again. We’ll bring the letters, and you can read them at Mostyn’s. He has a comfortable room away from the boxing rings where you can read and have a cup of tea.”

  “I don’t think I should frequent a place full of half-dressed men,” she said. “My father wouldn’t like it.”

  Rowden wanted to say that her father had left her in this predicament, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut. “I’ll send for Lady Lorraine,” he said. “She is Mostyn’s wife and the daughter of the Duke of Ridlington. You can’t object to her.”

  “The daughter of a duke?” She looked down at herself, and for the first time Rowden detected a note of self-consciousness about her ugly attire. “I think she has better things to do than take an interest in me.”

  “You think that because you don’t know her. She’s not so high in the instep, and she loves—” He had been about to say interfering but he stopped himself just in time. “She loves helping others.”

  “I don’t know.” She smoothed her skirts.

  “Well, consider it in the hackney.” He withdrew his pocket watch and winced at the time. “I am late, so we must go now. Fetch what you need. Hurry up,” he said, giving an imperious flick of his hand. He might be a bare-knuckle fighter, but he still knew how to behave like the son of a duke.

  She hesitated slightly then went to do as he asked. Less than ten minutes later, she returned with a small, worn valise. He took it from her, lifted the letters and slipped them in his pocket, then led her out of the house. She locked the door and tucked the key in a pocket, and then he bought her another of Elias’s pies while they searched for a hackney. Of course, she protested she was not hungry, but she ate it, and Rowden was pleased to see her face regaining some color and her movements filled with more energy. If he could do nothing else, he could make certain this woman did not starve.

  MR. PAYNE’S MANAGER was pacing outside Mostyn’s when they arrived. Modesty had thought Payne well-dressed this morning, but his manager was a sight to behold. He wore a tall beaver hat cocked to one side, a coat the color of a deep red wine, a cream-colored waistcoat with embroidered designs that were the same color as the coat, and tight fawn-colored breeches. His boots were even glossier than Mr. Payne’s. She thought he might be cold as he was on the street without a greatcoat, but he seemed to have been pacing for some time and perhaps that had kept him warm.

  As soon as Mr. Payne helped her out of the hackney, his manager called to him. “You’re late.”

  “Couldn’t be helped,” Mr. Payne said, giving her a reassuring smile. He was always doing that—trying to reassure her. She appreciated the attempt, even though she was beginning to realize that life as she’d known it was over.

  “It could be helped if you arrived on time.” He stopped pacing and stared at her. “Why is she here? First, she cost you fifty guineas, and now she makes you late? What good is another match with the German if you won’t train?”

  Mr. Payne stiffened. “You arranged another fight with the German.”

  “Not yet.”

  Payne waved him away and started for the door to Mostyn’s. Modesty couldn’t do anything but follow.

  “But I know how to make it happen.”

  “Go on,” Payne said, opening the door and allowing her to pass inside. She remembered the small entryway from the week before. The door to the studio was open, and Mr. Burr swept a spot near one of the roped off areas.

  “He’ll fight you again,” the manager said as he stepped inside.

  “When?”

  “When you win against Abraham Strong.”

  “Strong?” Mr. Payne yelled the word so loudly Modesty jumped.

  “Stop bellowing. You’re frightening your companion.”

  “I’m quite alright, Mr. Chibale,” she said.

  He looked at her directly for the first time. “It’s Mr. Okoro, but everyone calls me Chibale. This lout here hasn’t given me the pleasure of your name.”

  “Miss Brown,” the lout in question said.

  Mr. Okoro gave her a slight bow. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure, Miss Brown, but as you seem to be a distraction, once again, for my client here, I’m afraid I’m left wondering why you are here.”

  “I’ll explain later,” Payne said, moving into the studio. “Why do I have to fight Abraham Strong? I beat him last year.”

  Mr. Okoro followed him. “Then beat him again.”

  Payne stopped and narrowed his eyes. “The German doesn’t want to waste his time with me, is that it? He wants me to prove I can win before he’ll fight again.”

  Burr glanced at them and swept a bit more eagerly.

  “His manager didn’t put it that way.”

  “No, I’m sure he was far blunter. Tell him no. Wait. Tell him hell no. I’ll fight the German or no one.”

  “I am the manager here,” Okoro said. “You fight who I say or get another manager.”

  Payne stared at him, and Modesty half expected him to dismiss the manager. Mr. Mostyn had emerged from a room a few feet away, and Modesty wondered if that was the room Mr. Payne thought she might use.

  “Arrange the match
,” Mr. Payne said.

  Mostyn, leaning on the door to the antechamber, nodded his head in approval. “Oh, shut up,” Mr. Payne said, though the other man had said nothing.

  “The match is already arranged,” Mr. Okoro said. “Tomorrow night at the Cock and Bull. You’re the last fight of the night.”

  “How much?”

  “If you win, twenty pounds.” He paused. “And we split it.”

  Mr. Payne gaped. “You’re taking fifty percent now? That’s highway robbery.”

  “I earned it with all I had to do to arrange this match. Besides,” Okoro said, walking toward the center ring. “I need a new coat. I’m taking Madame Renaud to the Negro Merchant’s Guild winter ball.”

  Payne’s face broke into a grin. Modesty had seen him smile before, but this smile was almost boyish in its enthusiasm and exuberance. “She said yes?”

  “Of course, she said yes.”

  “You weren’t so certain of yourself a few days ago.” He turned and Mr. Okoro helped him out of his coat.

  “I knew my charm would win in the end.”

  Mr. Payne slapped him on the shoulder and tugged his neckcloth loose. In that moment his gaze landed on Modesty, and she realized he’d all but forgotten her. He stiffened. “Miss Brown. Let me show you to the antechamber.” He looked for her valise, scooped it back up, and started for the room where Mr. Mostyn stood leaning against the door.

  Payne’s footsteps faltered. “Mostyn, Miss Brown—you remember her?”

  The tall blond man nodded slightly.

  “She’s hit a bit of a snag, and I offered her use of the antechamber this morning. She has some reading to do. I hope I haven’t been presumptuous.”

  Mr. Mostyn lifted one eyebrow, which Modesty took to indicate Mr. Payne had been presumptuous. But then the blond man stepped aside and held out a hand, indicating the antechamber.

  “I may have use of it?” she asked, wanting to be certain before she entered.

  “Yes.” He had a deep voice but not an unkind one, and she smiled at him and stepped into the chamber. It was small but quite a contrast to the utilitarian boxing studio. The chamber held a large desk with two chairs behind it. One was more feminine in style and the other large and functional. A low fire burned in the hearth across from the desk and a velvet couch-type furnishing faced the hearth on a rug of deep blues and golds. Several other chairs were pushed against the walls, obviously ready for use should they be necessary, and Modesty was quite at a loss for where she should sit. The couch looked inviting, but if she were to read, perhaps the desk would be better. She’d never had so many choices in seating.