Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  “I was bold. I invited her to the ball.”

  “She’s a modiste, not a debutante. I doubt she cares how well you waltz. Tell her what you want. Seduce her with kisses and sweet words or tell her you intend to make her your wife. If she says no, then you needn’t waste more of your time.”

  “If she says no, I’ll never recover.”

  Rowden stared at him. “Who the devil are you? I’ve never seen you act like this. She’s a woman, Chibale.” Rowden stood. “There are a hundred more just like her.”

  “You would say that,” Chibale shot back. “You kick a woman out of your bed almost as fast as you get her in it. What would you know of love?”

  Rowden clenched his fists. “Get out.”

  Chibale held his hands up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I forgot.”

  “Go to your modiste.”

  “Rowden—”

  “Here is the orange juice you requested, sir,” Trogdon said, carrying a tray with a glass of orange liquid.

  Rowden gritted his teeth, his gaze still on Chibale. “I asked for a drink, Trogdon. The oranges are for the morning.”

  “But, sir, you always have toast in the morning,” Trogdon said. This was true, and Rowden was too tired to argue. He took the glass of juice from the tray. “Thank you, Trogdon. I’ll dine in a few minutes. Mr. Okoro was just leaving.”

  “Very well, sir. Mr. Okoro, I will show you out.”

  “I can see myself out, Trogdon.” He made a shooing gesture with his hand, and with a huff, Trogdon departed. Rowden hoped he would put the dinner Cook had made on the table, but there was no guarantee.

  “I spoke without thinking,” Chibale said. “I’m overwrought.”

  “It’s fine,” Rowden said, sinking back into his chair. The anger had left him. He’d been angry for years, and he’d burned with it for so long that he had very little left. Chibale often said this was what made him a good fighter. Other men became angry at their opponents. Rowden was cool and focused.

  Chibale sat as well, dangling his arms between his legs. “You really think I should tell her how I feel?”

  “Life is short,” Rowden said. “Too short for games. Too short to be without the person you care for. If you care for her, tell her.”

  “I will. Rowden, I—”

  Rowden raised a hand. “I’m fine. I’ll see you at Mostyn’s in the morning, yes?”

  “Yes.” He eyed the orange juice. “I’ll bring more oranges.”

  Rowden nodded and when Chibale had gone, drank the juice. He didn’t even like oranges.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Chibale knocked on the back entrance of Madame Renaud’s. In her note, she had asked that he not use the front door, lest he be seen. The back door opened almost immediately, and Madame Renauld stood in the doorway, holding a lamp. She peered out, looking into the alley behind the shop. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she moved aside to allow him entrance.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  Chibale looked around the room he’d entered. It was a workroom, with tables placed against the walls and chairs set at each. Shelves of thread and fabric rose to the ceiling and several dress forms were swathed in women’s fine fashions.

  “I need your help,” Madame Renauld said. “Come, Mr. Okoro. We can speak in here.” She led him to a small room with a view of the workroom and indicated a couch. He sat and wondered if she would sit beside him or behind the desk. This room was not so neat as the workroom. Several papers were scattered over the desk, and some drawings as well as pieces of charcoal had fallen on the floor around the rubbish bin. The parrot he had seen in the showroom when he’d come with Bethanie also perched on the desk, her head under her feathers, tugging and fluffing them.

  “Call me Chibale,” he said, focusing on her again. She wore a dark purple dress with black trim and looked effortlessly elegant.

  “Chibale?” she said, head cocked. He liked the way her French accent sounded on his name.

  “My given name,” he said. “If you need help, and we’re to meet in private like this, it seems we might as well use given names.”

  She considered for a moment. “Very well. I am Thérèse.” She indicated a marquetry cabinet behind her desk and opened it. “Would you like tea or something stronger?”

  “Nothing for me.”

  “Do you mind if I partake? It has been a long day.”

  “Not at all.” He rose. “Sit and I will pour for you.”

  She waved a hand. “Thees ees not necessary.”

  “I insist,” he said. She inclined her head and sat on the couch, placing herself on the far edge from where he had been sitting.

  “Sherry, si’l vous plait,” she said.

  “Pour the sherry,” the parrot said, startling Chibale, who had almost forgotten her.

  “Oh, hush,” Thérèse told the bird, and she went back to her fluffing.

  Chibale lifted a clean, heavy crystal glass, found the sherry, and poured her a generous portion. He brought it to her and sat on the couch again. His heart was still pounding and his insides shaking with nerves, but he’d managed to calm them enough to act more himself. Rowden was right. He should be bold and confident. Meek and hesitant were unlikely traits to attract a woman like Thérèse Renauld.

  “I assume this is not about the ball,” he said.

  “The—no.”

  Chibale tried not to let his face show his disappointment. She had forgotten about the ball. That was a good sign, was it not? That meant she still planned to accompany him. Didn’t it? “You received my note with the details?” he asked.

  “Oui. I am quite looking forward to it, but I need your help with a different matter, monsieur. It ees the matter of my assistant, Phaedra.”

  “Ah.” Chibale understood immediately. “The one who is...shall we say involved with the Black Plague.”

  “Oui. She came to work thees morning bruised and battered. I do not know the full extent of her injuries, but any man who hits a woman ees a monster.”

  “I quite agree. She should stay away from him.”

  “It ees not that simple.”

  No, of course it wasn’t. “He needs a bit of incentive to leave her alone.”

  “Oui. Thees word I like. Incentive ees what he needs.” She sipped her sherry and eyed him from under her lashes. “And do you know anyone who can provide thees incentive?”

  “I believe I do.” Chibale stroked his chin. “He’s fighting at the Cock and Bull tomorrow night.”

  “Fine lace,” the parrot interjected.

  Chibale smiled. “Not much lace at the Cock and Bull. We’ll have a word with the Plague after his mill.”

  “Just a word?” Thérèse asked, raising her brows.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Chibale said. “Words don’t always have to be given verbally. Actions sometimes speak louder. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “I have heard that saying.” She reached forward and set her glass on the desk. “I appreciate your help, monsieur—Chibale.”

  “I only wish you had asked sooner, Thérèse.” She rose, and he rose too. “Before I go, I was hoping to say something more to you.”

  “Fine lace!”

  Chibale ignored the bird.

  “About the ball?” Thérèse asked.

  “No. About why I asked you to the ball, Thérèse.”

  Her dark eyes met his. “And why ees that, monsieur?”

  “I asked you,” he said, moving closer to her, “because I admire you. Because I find you quite the most remarkable woman I have ever known.”

  “You hardly know me.”

  “I hope to rectify that,” Chibale said. “But I believe the better I know you, the more my regard will grow.”

  “We will see,” she said. “Shall I show you out?”

  “If you’ll permit me,” Chibale said. “I thought I would illustrate my feelings with an action. I think it might be clearer than my words.” His words had seemed to stick in his throat, and it was a good thin
g else he might have gushed about how beautiful she was and how much he adored her.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “You have made me curious, monsieur.”

  “Chibale,” he murmured. He lifted a hand and gingerly placed it on her shoulder, drawing her closer to him. The scent of her enveloped him, musky and sophisticated, like the finest perfume. She looked at him, the height difference between them only four or five inches, and he brought his hand to her cheek. Her skin was soft and burnished to a deep golden brown in the lamp light. Giving her plenty of time to change her mind, he lowered his head. Rather than move back, she stood where she was and even leaned forward and into the kiss. His lips slid over hers, his heart beating so hard that he feared she would hear it.

  Her lips were full and so lush as he explored them, kissing her gently but with undisguised passion. Her mouth parted slightly, and he tasted the sherry she’d been drinking. He wanted more of her, wanted to slide between those lips and cup the back of her head, kissing her deeply.

  She wanted more as well. She grasped his coat and her fist tightened on the material, bringing him closer. His body told him to lower her to the couch. His mind told him to leave her wanting more.

  Slowly, he withdrew and looked down at her. Her eyes opened, her dark gaze unfocused and her lashes lowered seductively.

  “I hope that makes my feelings for you clear,” he said, voice low.

  “I am beginning to understand,” she said. “But perhaps another demonstration would illustrate your point even better.” She pressed into him, and Chibale was sorely tempted. He was more tempted than he’d ever been. But he wanted more from this woman than a tumble on the couch. He wanted her heart and her hand.

  “Fine lace! Pour the sherry!” the bird said, and Chibale was glad the bird had broken the mood.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “After the fight. I’ll come to you,” he said and stepped back.

  She gave him a long look then nodded. “The Cock and Bull, you say?”

  Alarm bells rang in his head. “You shouldn’t come. Bad area of town. Questionable crowd.”

  “You will be there?”

  “I have to be. My client is fighting. If he wins, we go to Hungerford for a mill with the German.”

  “The German who beat him before? Why would he fight him again?”

  Chibale spread his arms. “For honor, of course.”

  “I am sure the winning purse ees also quite large.”

  Chibale grinned. “That too.” He gave Thérèse a bow. “I’ll come to you tomorrow and let you know how our discussions proceed.”

  “I look forward to it, monsieur.” She led him out of her chamber and to the back door, unlocking it and opening it for him. “Bonsoir.”

  “Au revoir.”

  “Au revoir, monsieur.” And she closed the door. Chibale leaned against the building and put his hand to his heart.

  Nine

  The Cock and Bull was teeming with people—the Fancy, they were called—though the name did not fit this motley group. Modesty did not know if she had ever seen so many people. The sound and smell of them, after the quiet and clean scents of a night and day at Lady Lorraine’s house, was almost shocking. She was thankful Mr. Mostyn had accompanied them—not that they’d had any choice about it. He entered the tavern and people made a path for him. A few people seemed to know him and moved forward as though to greet him, but with one look, those men thought better of it and moved away.

  Modesty followed Mr. Mostyn and Lady Lorraine to a table near where the boxing area had been set up. It was a square of about eight feet that had been roped off with stakes in each corner. Two men were already inside the ropes, swinging at each other, but Modesty did not recognize them. The table Mostyn had chosen was occupied, but when Mostyn stood over them, the men who’d been sitting there lifted their drinks and moved.

  Lady Lorraine removed her cloak and laid it over her chair and motioned for Modesty to do the same with the cloak she had borrowed. She leaned close to be heard. “If you drape the cloak over the chair before you sit on it, your dress will stay clean.”

  Modesty nodded. She reached for the ties at the cloak’s throat and then had to take a deep breath. When she’d put on the dark blue dress in her chamber at Lady Lorraine’s home, she had felt rather daring in it. Lady Lorraine had assured her the bodice was modest, but Modesty had never worn anything where her neck showed, not to mention her collarbone. Instead of being shapeless, the dress had a “waist” just beneath her breasts and the fabric there was fitted to show her figure. The hem had to be altered slightly so as not to drag on the ground and the sleeves were a bit long as well, but they’d been easily tucked and pinned under. Her arms were covered as were her legs. But she still felt exposed when she opened the cloak and laid it on the chair.

  Modesty started to put a hand over the pale flesh at her neck then resisted and sat, placing her hands in her lap.

  “When does Lord Rowden box?” Lady Lorraine asked.

  “Last,” Mostyn said.

  “Of course.” One of the men in the ring hit the other quite hard in the face and both Lady Lorraine and Modesty shrank back. Lady Lorraine turned to Modesty. “You look very pretty. I can’t believe you were hiding that glorious hair under a cap. You should have allowed Nell to have her way with you.”

  Modesty put a hand to her hair, which had been arranged in a sophisticated upsweep. Lady Lorraine’s maid had wanted to leave some of it down and falling over her shoulder in curls, but Modesty had refused.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Lady Lorraine asked, looking about them. “I confess I do not like boxing much, but look at all of these people. Some of them appear quite dangerous.”

  “I have no doubt,” Modesty said, having been in her share of taverns over the years. “We are fortunate to have Mr. Mostyn with us. May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why do you refer to Mr. Payne as Lord Rowden? You said earlier his father was an idiot.”

  “I’m not sure I should tell you if he hasn’t divulged it, but I suppose it’s no secret,” Lady Lorraine said. “He is a younger son of the Duke of Comerford. I know him as Lord Rowden because my father is a duke, and we were often thrown together in Society when we were younger. But Lord Rowden’s father disowned him when he married.”

  Modesty’s heart clenched tightly, and it seemed the room began to swim. “Why?” she asked, careful not to betray her feelings.

  “The woman he married was Catholic. I believe his father refused to consent to the match, and he married her anyway.” Mr. Mostyn put a glass of water in front of her and she smiled at him and sipped it. A server put a glass in front of Modesty as well.

  “But that was a long time ago. It was before he went into the army and became a war hero. We all thought his father would forgive him after that, but apparently even his son distinguishing himself in battle was not enough for Comerford.”

  The crowd roared as one of the men in the arena went down and did not rise. One of the men in his corner rushed to the side of the ropes and yelled at him to get up, but he could only climb to his knees and then went back down again. The umpire then took the standing boxer’s hand, raised it, and declared him the victor.

  The noise level in the tavern became too loud for speaking, and Modesty sat back and tried to digest what she’d just been told. Not only was Mr. Payne the son of a duke, he was a war hero. But more important than either of those matters, Mr. Payne was married. Modesty hadn’t quite admitted to herself that she was attracted to Mr. Payne. It wasn’t the sole reason she had come to the match this evening, but it had certainly been a factor. She wanted to see him again. She wanted to see the look he’d give her—that one that made her cheeks feel warm and her belly flutter.

  But he was married. He shouldn’t be looking at her like that, and she should not want him to. She would have asked Lady Lorraine to take her home right then, but a glance at the lady showed Modesty she was smiling at her husband and quite obv
iously enjoying herself. Modesty wouldn’t cut her enjoyment short. The lady had spent hours writing letters to inquire after Augusta Ryan, and then she’d spent even more time helping Modesty dress for this evening.

  Two more men were entering the boxing area, both of them dark-skinned and shirtless. The tavern owner introduced one as John “The Mighty” Jones and the other as “The Black Plague.” Modesty frowned. What sort of sobriquet was that?

  “What the devil are you doing here?” a voice asked from behind her. Modesty looked up and into the green eyes of Rowden Payne. His gaze shifted from her to Mr. Mostyn. “You brought her?”

  Lady Lorraine rose and extended her hand. “Oh, how lovely to see you, Lord Rowden. Yes, the weather is quite cold this evening. We are fine, thank you for asking.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her.

  Mostyn crossed his arms over his large chest and nodded in agreement.

  Lady Lorraine scowled. “And why is it, exactly, you think you have the right to tell me where I can and cannot go?”

  “Fine,” Mr. Payne said and turned his gaze back on Modesty. “Why are you here? And what are you doing dressed like that?”

  Modesty looked down at her dress and wished she could pull the cloak over herself again. It had been a mistake to come. She hadn’t known about the wife, and now it was obvious that Mr. Payne did not want her here.

  “She looks very pretty,” Lady Lorraine said.

  “That’s the problem,” Mr. Payne said. “Half the men in this place are staring at her.”

  Modesty looked around, but no one seemed to be looking at her. Most everyone was staring at the fight, although a few people close by were watching the scene at their table.

  “If you are determined to be disagreeable, then go back to your corner,” Lady Lorraine ordered.

  “I can’t,” Mr. Payne said. “Chibale wants a word with him.” He cocked his head toward the one they called the Black Plague. “I’m supposed to make sure he doesn’t leave this way.”

  “What’s the problem?” Mr. Mostyn asked.