Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  Ewan held out another cup of water, looking increasingly bored. “Stop playing with him.”

  Rowden took the proffered orange from Trogdon and tried to catch his breath. “I’m not playing with him. He’s good.”

  Ewan rolled his eyes to show what he thought of that assessment.

  “Look,” Rowden said between bites of orange, which he forced down so he didn’t have to taste it, “I want to go home as well. I still have to fetch Miss Brown and deliver her back to you. The sooner I finish him, the closer I am to Hungerford and the German.” And the closer he was to seeing Miss Brown in that blue dress again. “So if you have any suggestions, I’m all ears.” He ate the last of the orange and wiped his fingers on a towel.

  Ewan leaned down, and Rowden almost stepped back, half afraid Mostyn would punch him for challenging him.

  “He favors his right side,” Ewan said quietly. “He always offers his left.”

  Rowden considered. He thought about the way Strong moved. He did angle his body to present the left side, which was unusual as Strong was not left-handed. “Was he hurt on the right?” Rowden asked.

  Ewan shrugged. Chibale would have known, but Chibale wasn’t here.

  “Hit him on the right,” Ewan said.

  Aidan appeared next to the ropes. “So what’s the plan? Should I double my wager?”

  “How much have you wagered on me already?” Rowden asked.

  Aidan gave a number that had even Ewan’s brows shooting up.

  “And how much on him?” Rowden shot a thumb toward Strong, who was still eating his orange.

  Aidan smiled. “Not as much.”

  “Cagey bastard,” Rowden said. “Yes. Double your bet and hurry up. Ewan has other plans for the evening.”

  The umpire called for the next round. Rowden started for the center of the square even as Ewan made a show of checking his pocket watch.

  Strong looked to have recovered from the last round. He was moving quickly, and Rowden watched carefully. The other milling cove definitely angled his left side forward, which was inefficient since he then had to punch with his right arm. It made him slower and was probably part of the reason Rowden had easily dodged his strikes. Well, maybe not easily. Rowden saw the way to bring Strong down now. He could wait until the man tired and his protection of his right side flagged. Or he could trick Strong into exposing his right and end this fight right now.

  He glanced at Ewan who stood with arms crossed, pocket watch swinging impatiently from one hand. If Rowden hadn’t been anxious to go home as well, he would have made Ewan wait just to annoy the man.

  Instead, he moved forward carelessly, giving Strong an opening to punch him. Strong took it, and Rowden didn’t move back to lessen the blow. The punch glanced off his cheek and sent a bloom of pain through to the back of his head and then down to his very toes. But he took the punch and when Strong’s hand glanced away, his right was fully exposed. Rowden punched and punched hard. He hit Strong on the right side of his jaw with the first punch and then in the ribs with the second. The ribs were the source of the problem for Strong. Rowden felt Strong crumple as soon as his fist made contact.

  The man went down, and he didn’t get up again.

  The umpire raised Rowden’s hand and declared him the victor. The room cheered, but Rowden looked down at Strong, still lying on the floor of the dirty tavern and saw himself in a few years. He felt no pleasure in his victory.

  He collected his winnings and his share of the stakes coldly and then joined Ewan and Aidan outside. Trogdon would already be on his way home, tasked with readying the flat for Rowden’s return.

  “How’s your face?” Aidan asked when Rowden emerged into the brisk night.

  Rowden had forgot about it, but at Aidan’s suggestion, the pain reemerged. “Hurts like hell.”

  “You’ll have a blooming rose on that cheek tomorrow,” Aidan said. “But now you’re bound for Hungerford and another shot at the German.”

  “Will you be attending?” Rowden asked. “Or do you need to buy up the other half of London that week?”

  Aidan smiled. “I can take a few days off. London will still be here when I return. I’ve already asked my secretary to write to Nicholas to ask if we can make use of his spare chambers for a few days.”

  Rowden nodded and looked at Ewan. “Are you coming?”

  Ewan shook his head. “I’ll make one of my carriages available,” Aidan offered. “You could bring your wife.”

  Everyone in Town knew about Aidan’s carriages. They were widely touted as the epitome of comfort and style. Some said they were the pinnacle of ostentation, since no one really needed a carriage so lavishly equipped. But Aidan had spent the first part of his life on the streets until his uncle, the new marquess, had taken his illegitimate nephew in. And a few years later, Aidan had joined the army and spent years with Draven’s troop, sleeping on the ground in rain, sleet, and snow. Rowden could hardly blame Aidan for wanting his comforts now. And if Aidan was offering to share, Rowden wouldn’t turn down his friend’s generosity.

  “I’ll take that offer,” Rowden said. “If Nicholas won’t have us, we can always sleep in the carriage.”

  Aidan wrinkled his nose, though Rowden knew at least one of his carriages had a seat that pulled out wide enough to convert to a small bed.

  “Leave the accommodations to me,” Aidan said. “I know you have family obligations, Mostyn. Rowden, fancy a drink?”

  “Not tonight,” Rowden said. He didn’t want to explain that he had obligations as well.

  “You don’t want to celebrate your victory? Very well. I’ll celebrate for you.”

  A hackney pulled up then, and Aidan jumped forward and claimed it. Ewan growled, and Aidan waved, seeming to take pleasure in having beaten Ewan to it. But that was Aidan. He liked to win.

  Ewan signaled to another hackney and, as it pulled up, he looked at Rowden. “A large purse offered in Hungerford.”

  Rowden nodded. Talking to Ewan was sometimes like talking to a wall, but Rowden asked anyway. “How do you know when you’re finished?”

  Ewan shrugged. “I was never a bare-knuckle fighter.”

  “But you walked away from Langley’s.”

  Langley’s was a gaming hell Ewan had owned a share in. Mostly he’d served as the strong man who threw out those who’d over imbibed or tried to start brawls. But he’d sold his share and bought the boxing studio with Colonel Draven. Now he was his own man and seemed happier than ever before. Of course, Ewan rarely showed any emotion, but Rowden assumed he was happier.

  Ewan opened the door to the hackney, and Rowden thought he might not answer. But then he looked back, his focus somewhere far away. “When it loses its shine,” he said and climbed into the hackney then sped away.

  Eleven

  Once Phaedra was put to bed, Madame Renauld returned to the sitting room. But she was far from easy. She paced and checked the window and paced more. She’d poured tea for Modesty and herself, but she hadn’t touched her own cup. Modesty had drunk hers, mainly to keep warm until the room heated up after Madame Renauld built up the fire again.

  Somewhere in the house a clock chimed one, and Modesty heard a squawk. “Was that a bird?” she asked, desperate to say something to end the tense silence.

  “Oui. Bleuette, my parrot. Her cage ees covered, but she likes to echo the chimes.”

  “I didn’t realize you had a parrot. I’ve never seen one.”

  Madame Renauld sat on the edge of a chair upholstered in amethyst and lifted her teacup. “You should come to my shop. You can meet her and be fitted for a dress that will leave men unable to look away from you.”

  Modesty raised her brows. “I’m not sure I want men unable to look away from me.”

  “Ah,” Madame said. “You are like me. I must blend in lest I upstage my customers.”

  Modesty looked at this woman and wondered how she ever blended in. She was so beautiful.

  “But surely there ees some man you wa
nt to look at you,” Madame Renauld said, sipping what must by now be cold tea.

  Modesty didn’t speak, but she could feel her cheeks heating.

  “Perhaps the fighter. Payne,” Madame said, eyeing Modesty over the rim of her cup. “Phaedra said he would come to fetch you.”

  “He’s been very kind,” Modesty said. “I think he must feel sorry for me.”

  “Perhaps,” Madame said, but she looked unconvinced.

  “In any case, I won’t trouble him again after tonight. He has done quite enough for me.”

  “I see.”

  Modesty heard the sound of a coach approaching, and she and Madame Renauld rose and went to the window overlooking the street. When Mr. Payne alighted from the conveyance, her heart beat a little faster, but she noticed the modiste slumped slightly. She wondered who the other woman was expecting but did not ask.

  A moment later a knock sounded at the door, and Madame went to answer it then ushered Mr. Payne into the chamber. The sitting room, which had looked so spacious and cozy before, now seemed too small and cramped. Mr. Payne seemed to fill it, and when he came into the light, she spotted the dark bruise on his cheek.

  “Did you win?” Madame Renauld asked, after introductions were made.

  He grinned then winced and touched his cheek. Clearly the bruise pained him. “Of course.” He jiggled his coat, which jingled from the weight of the purse holding the coins in his pocket. Then his expression grew more serious. “How is your assistant?”

  “She ees sleeping. I gave her some tea laced with brandy.”

  “The best thing for the swelling is a cold compress. If she can stand it, apply ice wrapped in cloth for a quarter hour.” He glanced at the window. “It should be cold enough to turn water to ice tonight if you put out a pan.”

  “I’ll do that. Merci.” She glanced at the window. “Ees Mr. Okoro not with you?”

  Mr. Payne’s brow drew down. “No. He had...” He glanced at Modesty. “Some other business. I thought he would have finished by now, but his errand took him to the docks, and it might take some time to drive back. I can wait with you—”

  “No, monsieur. This poor lady ees weary. You must take her home and see to your own injuries.”

  He nodded but pulled a card out of his waistcoat, which he wore unbuttoned under his coat. “Send for me if you need anything.”

  “Merci. You are very kind.” She gave Modesty a pointed look. “And you, chérie. You must come to the shop. Bring her, monsieur. I will make her a dress you will not soon forget.”

  Mr. Payne bowed and looked at Modesty. “Miss Brown, are you ready?”

  She nodded and took his arm. He led her out of the flat and into the street, where the hackney still waited. Once in the vehicle, she missed the warmth of his body pressed against hers as it had been in the narrow passageway. She burrowed deep into Lady Lorraine’s cloak and tried not to think about how this was the last time she might ever see him. But if it were, she needed to apologize to him.

  “I am sorry about this evening,” she said. He’d been looking out the window, but he moved to face her.

  “I won. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  “No. I am sorry for what I said. About your wife. I didn’t know, and it was careless to—”

  He held up a hand. “She died a long time ago.”

  Modesty nodded. “I understand, but that is no excuse for my carelessness.” She looked out the window. “And time does not always dull the pain.”

  She didn’t know why she’d said that. She hadn’t meant to say anything of the sort, but she was thinking of her own mother so much these last few days. Mr. Payne hadn’t replied, and she thought he might allow the comment to pass unacknowledged.

  “You speak as from experience,” he said.

  Apparently, the comment would not go unacknowledged.

  “My mother died when I was five. I miss her still, though some would say I hardly knew her.” After reading the letters and discovering her mother had known of her father’s unfaithfulness, Modesty did feel she hadn’t known her mother. “And perhaps I didn’t.”

  “Was there something in the letters that troubled you?”

  Modesty was sorely tempted to tell him that, yes, something in the letters had troubled her very much. But she was not ready to reveal her father’s sins to Rowden Payne.

  “They mentioned my mother only in passing. There was nothing about my aunt.”

  “What happened to your black clothing and that awful hat you usually wear?”

  Modesty shrugged, a gesture she had never been allowed to make before. Her father considered it the height of rudeness. But what did she care what he thought now? She’d wanted to be a woman like her mother, a woman he would respect and love. But he hadn’t respected her mother at all. “I don’t see the point of dressing in black.”

  Payne’s brows went up. “I thought your church dictated it?”

  “They dictate modest dress, but it does not have to be black. My father and mother always dressed in black and dressed me thus as well. But I don’t see the point in adhering to those strictures anymore.”

  He sat back. “Whatever was in those letters must have shocked you.”

  She looked out the window again. “I don’t wish to discuss them.” And that pledge lasted all of three heartbeats. “But have you ever believed one thing about someone and then it turned out that you were wrong? They were not the person you thought at all?”

  She felt ridiculous for saying such a thing. How could anyone possibly understand what it was like to feel as though she had lived with a stranger her entire life? Her father was not who she thought. He had another family!

  “Yes. I can understand that. My own father turned out to be very different from the man I always supposed him to be.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” she said.

  He waved a hand. “You have probably heard the duke disowned me. No doubt you think I did something to deserve it.”

  She shook her head. “On the contrary, I heard you were a war hero.”

  He gave her a faint smile. “That might be overstating it somewhat. But I fought in the war after I was cut off. And all the accolades heaped on me in the prevailing years did nothing to sway my father.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Again, it is not your doing, and there is nothing to apologize for.” The hackney stopped, and the jarvey called down that there was some sort of obstacle ahead.

  “I’ll see if I can find a way around, guv.”

  “If I may?” Payne said and moved across the conveyance to sit beside her and peer out the window. As he had occupied the rear-facing seat, he hadn’t been able to see ahead of them. Now he lowered the window, peering out and frowning. The conveyance bounced, and she fell against him, righting herself quickly, but not so quickly that she didn’t feel the warmth of his body or catch the scent of him.

  She did not know what a warrior might smell like, but if she had to guess, she would have said it was the scent of Mr. Payne that evening. She detected a mixture of sweat, blood, wool, and—strangely—oranges. The scent wasn’t unpleasant, as she might have expected. In fact, it drew her closer. The voice that always arose in her mind bubbled up again, telling her she should sit back and move away.

  But Modesty pushed it away instead. Following all the rules had not kept her mother alive or made her father a faithful husband. Following the rules had not kept Modesty from being abandoned and becoming, essentially, homeless and penniless. What did it matter now if she moved away from him or allowed herself to soak up the heat and scent of him a moment longer?

  He sat back and looked at her. “An overturned cart. They are already clearing it.”

  She nodded, unable to speak. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes in the dim light, but she knew they were a lovely shade of green. She also knew he had a bruise forming on his cheek, but she couldn’t see that either. Right now all she could see was his strong jaw and mostly straight nose. He was warm,
his big body taking up more than half the seat, one of his thighs pressing against hers through layers of linen and wool.

  He looked at her for a long moment then cleared his throat. “I should move back.” But he didn’t move, and she didn’t speak. The hackney lurched to a start, and he caught her shoulders with both hands before she could tumble to the floor. Then the vehicle stopped again, and she was only cushioned by the fact that he held on to her. It took a moment before she realized she could feel his hands on her arms, and she looked down to see her cloak had come loose and fallen off her shoulders.

  “Allow me,” he said. He pulled the cloak up and over her shoulders then crossed the ribbons that had come loose at her neck. But instead of making a bow, his hands stayed where they were and one finger trailed along the bare skin just below her neck. Modesty gasped, but she did not pull away. Payne’s gaze met hers. “I neglected to tell you how well you looked in this dress tonight.”

  She couldn’t reply. She didn’t know what to say, and even if she had, she didn’t think she could have produced the sound. She wanted him to kiss her. She knew she shouldn’t want that, and she had never wanted something like that before, but he was so close and so warm, and that one finger left a trail of fire over her bare skin. And then both his hands slid back, letting the cloak fall away again, and he leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss at the base of her throat. His soft lips pressed against her bare skin, causing her to tremble. She couldn’t say why she should tremble. She was not cold—in fact, she was very, very warm—and she was not afraid. He would stop if she gave the slightest indication that she disapproved. So why should she tremble?

  He looked up at her. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m not myself. After a fight, I always find it hard to be a gentleman.”

  “Your blood is stirred?” she said, her voice low and husky. She hardly recognized it as her own.