Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  “I no longer see the point in standing on street corners yelling at people. To tell the truth, I never saw the point of that. Or the point of dressing as though I’m in mourning. I did it because I wanted to obey my parents.”

  “And you don’t want to obey them anymore?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, finishing her drink and handing the glass back to him. He was about to replace it in the cabinet, when she said, “Another, please.”

  Rowden narrowed his eyes. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “I’m tired of always being good. It’s all a lie, you know. It’s all pretense.”

  “I didn’t know that, no,” Rowden said, pouring her a splash of brandy and a great deal more of soda.

  She took the glass back. “All of these years while he was pretending to be a man of God, he was lying and going against his own teachings.”

  Careful here, he told himself. Step lightly. “I suppose your father is human, just like everyone else. He made a mistake. Or mistakes.”

  “For twenty years? That’s not a mistake.” She set her glass down, and Rowden was relieved she seemed to be drinking this one slower. “And my mother.” Tears were gathering in her eyes now and Rowden groaned silently.

  “She knew, and she just looked the other way.”

  Rowden did not consider himself a particularly intelligent man, but neither was he a fool. Quite clearly, she’d discovered her father had a mistress and her mother had known about it. She swiped at a tear trailing down her cheek, and Rowden swore under his breath. If there was one thing he could not stomach, it was tears. They made him nervous and uncomfortable. Already he could feel the back of his neck growing warm and had the urge to get away.

  But he couldn’t get away unless he wanted to jump from a moving coach. That being an attractive but also unpalatable option, he crossed to sit beside her. She immediately threw herself into his arms, and the feel of her body pressed against his made him forget that he didn’t relish tear stains on his coat.

  He patted her back and shushed her and murmured soothing words. When she’d finally quieted, he found himself thinking back to his relationship with his own parents. His father had always been rather a remote figure. Rowden and his siblings had seen the duke in passing as he returned from Parliament and left for his club or when they chanced to pass by his study and his solicitor was leaving and they caught a glimpse of him from the crack in the door.

  Their mother had been kind but always flitting here and there. She’d had balls and soirees and dinners to attend. Rowden remembered her in a cloud of perfume and silk. As he’d gotten older and been home from school on holidays, he had come to see them a bit more. Those were formal evenings in the drawing room or at dinner. They took an interest in him, but they had several children, and all of them vied for their parents’ attention. Rowden felt he hardly knew his parents or they him.

  He did not argue when his father told him he should become a soldier. Rowden was just glad he would not have to become a clergyman or join the Navy. He was given a commission in the militia and quartered in the countryside, where he was able to attend balls and invited to dinners by the mamas of pretty girls. It was at one of those dinners that he’d met Mary.

  He didn’t want to think about Mary, and he didn’t want to hold Modesty Brown. It seemed that every time he tried to escape Miss Brown, he ended up thrown together with her anyway. But that didn’t mean he had to give in to temptation. He’d made that mistake when he’d met Mary at the tender age of eighteen. He was a man now, and he knew his own mind much better. And he did not intend to ever marry, to ever fall in love again.

  “It’s a hard lesson when we realize our parents are not the paragons of perfection we’ve made them to be in our heads,” he said. She lifted her face and looked up at him. He was pleased to see she’d stopped crying.

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I suppose I did think of my father and mother as perfect, but of course, no one is without sin.”

  He pushed a strand of auburn hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “That’s what I hear,” he said. But he was having a hard time finding any fault with her. Those beautiful hazel eyes were looking into his, and he could lose himself in them.

  “I think the brandy has gone to my head,” she said. “I feel like I’m floating.”

  “I’ll keep you tethered to earth.”

  “I like it when you hold me,” she said.

  Rowden raised his brows. “I think the drink has done more than create the sensation of floating.”

  “Everyone says spirits loosen the tongue and the morals. I suppose it’s true because I can’t stop thinking that I wish you would kiss me again.”

  Rowden carefully set her back and tried to move away. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “I trust you,” she said.

  He laughed. “That’s one of us.”

  She frowned at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “Then let me make it clear.” He moved closer again because he wanted to scare her a little, let her understand that he was not someone to play with. “I want you, Modesty. I’ve wanted you since I first saw you in that ugly dress and hat. I wanted to strip it off you and see what lay beneath.”

  Her eyes, so expressive already, widened.

  “And every time I see you, I want you a little bit more.”

  She bit her lip, and he wanted to groan at the ache that caused. He wanted to take that mouth with his, feel her small white teeth nip at him.

  “I want to kiss you again, but I don’t want to stop at kissing you. And I have to stop there because I don’t intend to marry you. That’s not a slight. I don’t intend to marry any woman, and you’re not the kind of woman I can have without marrying. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. He thought that would be the end of it. He even began to move back across the seat, but she grabbed his hand. “I don’t intend to marry either.”

  Rowden shook his head, slowly. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re young. You’ll change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” she said, releasing him.

  He moved back to his seat and lifted his brandy, suddenly thirsty. “Why is that?”

  “Because it’s a lie. I used to think it was a sacred covenant. Of course, I knew some men and women broke their vows, but not the men or women I knew. Not men like my father. I was a fool. My poor mother was made to look like a fool. I won’t take that same path, accept that same fate.”

  He understood now that the contents of the letters had changed everything for her. Rowden wanted to tell her there was little her mother could have done, but he didn’t think that was the point. She’d looked up to her mother and her father, emulated them, and then realized she’d been emulating a lie.

  “What’s in Hungerford?” he asked.

  “My father’s other wife. Well, he calls her wife. I don’t know if he married her after my mother...” She made a gesture with her hand, and Rowden held his breath, hoping she did not begin to cry again.

  She didn’t.

  “If you don’t intend to marry, what do you intend? Most women marry out of necessity, not love.”

  She straightened—or at least tried to straighten. She was a bit disheveled in a way he found reminded him of a woman just rising from bed. “I have been thinking about that. I would make a good lady’s companion, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t want to mention that lady’s companions were usually the impoverished daughters of gentry. “Lady Lorraine would no doubt give you a reference,” he said. And this was true and might be enough to secure her a position that, while it might not be in the upper classes, could mean a placement with a respectable lady of modest means.

  “Do you think it would be presumptuous to ask her?”

  “No,” Rowden said. “You should ask when you return to Town.”

  She nodded then looked at him from under lowered lashes. “Did you mean what you said a few moments ago?”

&nbs
p; Rowden knew exactly what she was referring to, but he would rather not bring it up again. “I don’t remember what I said a few moments ago. And you should probably forget it as well.”

  CHIBALE SHOULD BE ON the way to Hungerford. He should be with his fighter. He should be enjoying the comforts of Mr. Aidan Sterling’s coach. Instead, he was still in London, still at home, trying to decide how he could change Thérèse’s mind.

  His mother always said once a woman’s mind was made up, there was no changing it. She liked to say she’d made up her mind to marry Gamba Okoro just hours after she’d met him, and once she’d set her cap for him, he didn’t have a chance.

  Chibale’s father, for his part, had taken a bit longer to realize his future was inextricably linked to Charlotte’s, but he’d given in at the end. Chibale had been pursuing Thérèse with this same precept in mind. She would realize they were meant for each other in the end. But since her declaration she would never marry, he had begun to doubt. She was not simply giving him a merry chase. She meant it. And as Chibale did want to marry, he wondered if he should simply let her go her way while he went his own.

  He put his head in his hands and groaned. Rowden would tell him not to give up so easily. But Chibale’s father would tell him that when a woman says no, she means it. Still, she hadn’t exactly told him no. She still wanted him in her bed. She just didn’t want him as her husband. Might he persuade her at some point that she did want him as her husband?

  Not if he didn’t know what her objection was. Did she hate marriage in general or was there something about Chibale in particular?

  A rapid tapping came at the door, and someone called out. “Mr. Okoro? Mr. Okoro! Answer if yer home.”

  Chibale checked the clock on his mantel, noted the early hour, and called. “Who is it?”

  “Twig, sir.”

  Chibale frowned. Did he know a Twig?

  “From Madame Renauld’s.”

  Chibale took the distance in two large strides and pulled the door open. “What’s happened?” he demanded, staring down at the boy.

  “It’s ‘er shop, sir. It’s been turned topsy turvy. All ransacked, like.”

  “Ransacked?” Chibale grabbed his hat and overcoat and pulled them on, closing the door of his flat and following the boy. “Was anyone hurt? Weren’t you there?”

  “No, sir. Me ma was home last night. She works at a factory, and I don’t see ‘er much. She came by to fetch me before dinner. I stayed with me ma last night.”

  Chibale walked briskly through the cold drizzle falling over the city. “Does she come to fetch you often?”

  “Nah. Only on Christmas and Easter, like.”

  “I see.”

  Twig ran to keep pace with Chibale’s long strides. “Why’d you say it like that?”

  “Because yesterday was neither Christmas nor Easter.”

  Twig stopped then ran to catch up again. “Ye think me ma turned the shop all topsy turvy?”

  “No, but I think it convenient she was given a half day yesterday and the one night you’re away, the shop is vandalized.”

  “I still don’t...”

  But Chibale saw the shop in the distance now. The sign was hanging askew and the front window was broken. He all but ran to the door and pushed it open. Several overturned tables impeded his progress. The parrot was not on her perch, but he spotted Thérèse standing in the center, directing her employees to this task or that.

  “Thérèse,” he said. She looked up, her face wearing the mask she wore when greeting customers, but as soon as she saw him, it dropped. Chibale jumped over the broken dress forms and bolts of silks to reach her and take her in his arms. She allowed him to embrace her but remained stiff. He realized she had to appear strong in front of her employees. “Let’s go to the back for a few moments.”

  She looked as though she might object, but Chibale put a hand on her back and guided her. “Your women have things well in hand. You can step away for a few minutes.”

  The back room, where the seamstresses worked, looked just as bad as the front. Worktables were smashed, cloth had been strewn everywhere, and a dress on a female form had been slashed, the scissors still hanging from where they’d done the damage.

  Thérèse opened the door to her office, and Chibale was relieved to see it had not been damaged. The parrot was there as well, preening at her feathers. She looked up at his entrance and said, “Merde!”

  Chibale raised his brows at the French curse, and Thérèse let out a sigh. “Silence, Bleuette.” She looked at Chibale. “Some days one does not want to hear the words repeated back, no?”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You see.” She waved a hand expansively, making the lace sleeves of her dark blue dress flutter. She looked as elegant and beautiful as ever. “Someone broke down the door and did thees.”

  “Not this door.” He indicated the door to her office, which he examined. The wood had been dented, as though kicked, but it was a thick, sturdy door with a good lock and had withstood the battering. Still, if the people who had done this wanted to break it down, they could have. But perhaps they were in too much of a hurry.

  “I have a good lock on thees. I keep my designs in here.” She reached for a bottle of wine on the marquetry cabinet behind her, but her hands shook, so Chibale rose and took it from her.

  “Allow me.”

  “It ees early to drink, but I am shaking with rage.”

  With a bit of fear, too, he thought, though he didn’t say it. “Have you sent for the magistrate?”

  “Oui. He will come at his own pace. I have dealt with him before when I have caught thieves. He ees very helpful to the white shop owners. He does nothing for me.”

  Chibale could do little about magistrates who treated Black merchants differently than white. His own parents had faced similar problems, but they were at least citizens of England, whereas Thérèse did not have even that advantage.

  “Do you have any idea who would do this?” He handed her the glass of wine he had poured.

  “No,” she said flatly. “I have thought about it. Madame LeMonde and I are rivals, but she would not do something like thees.”

  Chibale made a note to call on Madame LeMonde anyway. “Where were your bully boys last night? Your protection?”

  She sipped the wine. “I pay them to be here when we are open. To...what ees the word? Deter?”

  “Yes.”

  “To deter the thieves. They are not here at night. The boy who calls himself tree or branch—”

  “Twig.”

  “Oui. He is usually here. But yesterday his maman came to fetch him. Perhaps it ees good he was not here.”

  Chibale sat on the couch. “Perhaps so. But I wonder.”

  “Merde!” the parrot screeched.

  “Silence!” Thérèse said and put her head in her hands. “She will have to stay in the back or curse at the customers. If we ever have customers again.”

  “You will. You will clean this up in no time. But you will have to cancel your appointments for today.”

  She nodded. “I have already sent Phaedra to call on the ladies personally with our regrets. What ees it you wonder?” she asked.

  “Ah, yes. How often does the boy Twig’s mother come to fetch him?”

  “Not often. She works in a factory and has lodgings there. She offered to pay me for his board and food here, but I told her no. To keep her money, and he can watch over the shop. She makes so little, how can I take it from her?”

  “And yet she came yesterday. Unexpectedly.”

  Thérèse narrowed her eyes. “Thees ees true, but she would not do thees.” Thérèse rose, went to the door and called, “Boy! Come here!”

  “Merde!” Bleuette called. This time it was Chibale who told him to keep quiet. The bird looked at him. “Shall we have dessert?” the bird asked in a voice that sounded very much like Thérèse’s.

  Thérèse gasped and turned to glare at the bird. She sputtered something a
t the animal in French, which was too rapid for Chibale to understand. Apparently, the bird had been listening the other night at dinner—or, rather, after dinner.

  Twig trudged into the workroom and then slouched through the door of Thérèse’s office, where she had taken a seat behind her desk again. “Why did your mother come for you yesterday?” she asked. “It ees not usual.”

  Twig shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about that too,” he said.

  Chibale waited, but the boy said nothing more. “And,” Chibale prompted. “What is your conclusion?”

  He shrugged.

  Chibale tried a different approach. “We don’t blame your mother for this”—he gestured to the workroom—“but it is more than coincidence that she came to fetch you the night the shop was ransacked. Was she with you all night?”

  “Course. We slept at me aunt’s house. I got eleven cousins there, so we slept on the floor, but she were beside me all night.”

  “Did she say why she was given a half day?” Thérèse asked.

  Twig shook his head. “She just said the forewoman came to her and told her she could take a half day.”

  Thérèse looked at Chibale, and he looked at Twig. “You may go help clean up now.”

  “Shall we have dessert?” Bleuette asked.

  Twig paused. “There’s dessert?” he asked, eyes widening.

  “No,” Chibale said, pushing the boy out the door. “Not that kind of dessert.” He shut the door. Looking back at Thérèse he raised his brows. “Are you sure you have no enemies? I am not certain, but I think someone paid the factory manager or the forewoman to give that boy’s mother the night off so the shop would be empty. A few coins would do the trick.”

  “I think you are right, but I can think of no one who would do thees to me.”

  “I’ll help with putting things to rights,” Chibale said. “And I’ll stay with you tonight.”

  “Shall we have dessert?” Bleuette said.

  Chibale glared at the bird. “To keep you safe. Not for...dessert.”

  “Perhaps we can do both.” She glanced at him from under her lashes. “But I realized after I sent for you that I am imposing. You do not need to go to Hungerford?”