Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  Her gaze flicked to Samuel Brown and then back to Rowden and then to Samuel. Rowden gestured to the young man. “This is Mr. Samuel Brown.”

  He saw her flinch when he said the surname.

  Her brother gave a quick bow. “Miss Brown.” She said nothing for a long moment, and Rowden thought she would demand to leave again, but cruelty wasn’t part of her being. And he could see her softening, even as she wanted to cut the man.

  “Mr. Brown,” she said, and held out her hand. “Or rather, I suppose you are Samuel Brown, Junior.

  Rowden could see her try to push the hurt away.

  “These are difficult circumstances under which to meet,” she said.

  “Yes, they are. I’m given to understand you didn’t know about me—about us.”

  She looked at Rowden, and he felt immediately guilty that he had revealed something about her.

  “I did not know until recently.”

  Samuel nodded. “I’m sorry you found out this way.”

  “Yes.” She paused, seemed to consider. “Mr. Brown? Might I ask how old you are?”

  “I’m twenty, Miss Brown. Is it presumptuous for me to ask your age?”

  “Three and twenty, Mr. Brown.” Her words were stilted. Of course, she’d known she would be older. Rowden thought she had a different reason for asking. Her brother must have realized it as well.

  “When did your mother die, Miss Brown?” Samuel asked.

  “Seventeen years ago,” she said. “Almost eighteen now.” She looked at Rowden. “I’d like to go, Mr. Payne.”

  Rowden wanted to tell her to stay, to talk to her brother. She’d been looking for her aunt, for family, and now she had found it. Instead, he opened the door to the coach and helped her inside. He shook Mr. Brown’s hand and wished he knew what to say to ease the pain he saw in the young man’s eyes. That same pain was reflected in Modesty’s eyes when she looked back at him as the coach pulled away.

  He would have liked to jump from the coach. He knew what was coming, and he hated when women cried. But this was Modesty, and he couldn’t leave her alone in her pain.

  He opened his arms, and she only hesitated a moment before she rushed into them. Almost immediately, she began to sob, and Rowden could do nothing but hold her. He couldn’t even offer her reassuring words. Though her father was alive, the circumstances in which she’d found him were not comforting.

  “He broke his leg,” she said, looking up at him through wet, clumped lashes. “That was why he did not return to London.”

  “I know,” Rowden said. “He was repairing the roof. Did you truly never suspect? Did he never have any other unexplained absences?”

  “I see it now,” she said. “Of course, I see it now. The times when he needed solitude to write his sermon and was away for several days. I always thought he was at the church. The times he sent me to spend a couple nights with the Plineys so he could spend time in meditation and prayer. I thought he was so pious, so holy. But he was lying.”

  “He should have told you.”

  “Yes!” She nodded. “I would have understood. I think I might even come to like Mrs. Smithson—er, Brown. But not like this—not like this!”

  He pulled her close again, held her. “What will I do?” she asked.

  And though he thought the question was rhetorical, he answered, “Whatever you want to do. You’re free now. You could seek out your aunt or come live here with your siblings.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?” He pulled back and looked down at her. “The children did not ask to be born. They did nothing wrong. You’ve lived all of your life thinking you had no family, and yet you have a sister and two brothers. You still have your father.”

  He was well aware that his voice broke on that last phrase.

  Modesty looked at him and then swiped her tears away. “You’re right. How selfish I must seem, crying over this when I have a family.”

  “You are upset, and you have every right to be.”

  “So do you!” she insisted. “Your father treated you most unfairly. And your sisters and brothers all fell in line. It’s not right.”

  “In their minds, I did the unforgivable. Just as in your mind, your father has done the unforgivable.”

  She slumped back onto the seat beside him. “I don’t want to forgive him.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I have to. Seventy times seven.” She was quoting the Bible again.

  “Well, you don’t have to forgive him today. Tomorrow or next week or the next week will be soon enough. Or is there a Scripture as to how soon?”

  “There is not.” She smiled at him, and he was glad to see her tears seemed to have passed. “I do not want to think of him tonight. Tonight I want to see you beat the German’s brains in.”

  He gaped at her.

  “Isn’t that what you say?”

  “I didn’t think you’d say it.”

  Her smile faded. “I suppose what my father said is true then.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said I was not the woman he thought I was.”

  “I don’t think he ever knew you any more than you knew him.”

  “That’s just it,” she said. “He never knew me. I never knew me. All I wanted was to be the daughter he wanted me to be. One he would love. One my mother would have been proud of. I thought I had to be perfect. I had to follow all of his rules. But he didn’t even follow them!” She shook her head. “So many years wasted, trying to be what he wanted, and I never thought once about what I wanted.”

  “And what do you want?” he asked.

  She looked at him, and the answer was plain. She wanted him. Rowden would have moved heaven and earth to give her anything she wanted—anything but himself. That he couldn’t do. She looked down, obviously seeing his answer on his face. “I don’t really want you to beat anyone’s brains in,” she said quietly. “Just knock him down long enough to win.”

  “I will. You can count on it.”

  AIDAN AND CHIBALE WERE waiting for them as soon as they returned to Battle’s Peak. Lady Florentia was entertaining them in her drawing room, but she was intelligent enough to know when the men wished to speak privately. She drew Modesty away, saying she looked weary and should rest before the evening’s events. Modesty must have been weary because she did not argue and allowed herself to be led away.

  When the door closed and the footsteps faded, Rowden looked expectantly at his two friends.

  “Bad news,” Chibale said. He was never one to mince words. “Notley is in Hungerford.”

  “I know,” Rowden said, sipping the tea Lady Florentia had poured him and wishing it was something stronger. But now that Chibale was here, Rowden should be relieved he didn’t have orange juice poured down his throat. “I saw him at the exhibition grounds.”

  “Did he approach you?” Aidan asked. He withdrew a silver flask from his coat pocket and added a splash of brandy to his tea. Rowden glanced at Chibale, who shook his head slowly.

  “Not really, but he was lurking about. I suppose he’s looking for a new fighter.”

  “He’s looking for revenge,” Chibale said. “For what we did to the Black Plague.”

  “If he is, he’s a fool.”

  “No question of that,” Aidan said. “And no question he wants revenge. He sent men to vandalize Madame Renauld’s shop.”

  Rowden shot up, his gaze darting to Chibale. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Chibale shook his head. “No. The shop was empty. The damage was monetary.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rowden sat back again. “How do you know it was Notley?”

  Chibale explained how he knew, and then added the last point. “If he’s come after Madame Renauld because of my association with her then he may very well come after Miss Brown.”

  “I knew it was him!” Rowden said, standing again, fists clenched. “I should have killed him before. He deserves to die for touching her!”

  If Aidan wasn’t
so quick, Rowden might have made it out the door, but Aidan caught him, and with Chibale’s help, they pushed him back to his seat. It took some time for Rowden to calm down and finally be able to explain what had happened to Modesty at the posting house.

  “It probably was him,” Aidan said. “Or one of his toadies.”

  “But you go for him now, they’ll disqualify you from the mill tonight.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do,” Chibale said.

  “You’ll be more effective if you make a plan,” Aidan said. “I’m not as good at strategy as Fortescue is—”

  “Fortescue?” Chibale asked.

  “One of our troop in the war,” Rowden said. “Stratford Fortescue.”

  “—but I always liked a good ambush,” Aidan said. “I say we ambush him after the fight. There will be a few magistrates at the mill. We have one lie in wait with us and force Notley to confess.”

  “Too much planning,” Rowden said. “Let’s just beat him until he begs for mercy.”

  Aidan winced. “Let me worry about the plan. You save that anger for the German.”

  “Yes!” Chibale said, brightening. “Channel it. And speaking of anger, what is this I hear about Tom Cribb taking over your training?”

  “He’s not taking over my training,” Rowden said.

  “Good.” Chibale pulled an orange from his pocket. “Because only I think to bring you gifts like this.”

  Rowden sighed, took the orange, and peeled it.

  THE TENT WAS FULL TO bursting with men wanting to watch the mill. Modesty even spotted quite a few ladies—true ladies, who were dressed well and richly. She felt she could almost be one of them as she wore a burnished gold dress embellished with velvet ribbons in a deep russet color. Apparently, Madame Renauld had sent it with Mr. Okoro so Modesty would look her best for the event.

  Lady Florentia had declined to attend, but she had her maid style Modesty’s hair, and it was a profusion of curls, elegantly arranged about her head with pieces down about her face and shoulders. She could not wait until Rowden saw her. She knew she looked well, and she wanted to see his expression when he spotted her. “Do you see him?” Modesty asked Mr. Sterling.

  He was escorting her this evening, keeping her close to his side but not so close that she couldn’t look about.

  “Not yet.” He pointed to a section of the tent that seemed to contain another tent. “He’s most likely in there,” he said. “The organizers like to increase the suspense by keeping the milling coves out of sight until they fight.”

  “Do you think he’s nervous?”

  Mr. Sterling pushed past a man and offered her a seat with a perfect view of the roped off area in the center. It was just high enough that her view would not be blocked and not so close that she would be splattered with blood or sweat. Modesty took the seat and looked around at the other spectators doing likewise.

  “I doubt he’s nervous. But he’s probably pacing back there with all the pent-up energy.”

  She nodded. “He did say it was difficult to sleep after a fight.”

  Mr. Sterling pointed to the arena. “There are the first fighters.”

  “They look so small,” she said, observing the men. They were both bigger than she but looked quite young and would have been outweighed by Rowden.

  “They’re young and new,” Aidan said, “but don’t discount them. They’re light and fast. They’ll put on a good show.”

  But Modesty couldn’t watch more than a moment of the fight before she turned her attention back to the crowd. She didn’t like to see anyone being hurt and found no pleasure when a man was knocked down. Except for the German. She would rather he be knocked down than Rowden.

  She thought she recognized a few people from London—men she had seen at the Cock and Bull. Mr. Okoro sat with a group of them. They huddled close, speaking in low voices, their eyes on the fight. Mr. Sterling had said when Mr. Okoro went back into the inner tent it wouldn’t be long before Rowden’s match. The manager would go inside to make sure Rowden was ready.

  “Is Mr. Trogdon with Rowden?” she asked.

  “Who?” Mr. Sterling looked at her then back at the arena. “That worthless manservant? He didn’t even remember the citrus fruit.” He pointed to a bag at his feet. “I had to bring it.”

  “Oh, dear. Poor Trogdon.”

  “Poor Trogdon! Poor Rowden. Lord Nicholas sent them both off in my other coach an hour before we left.”

  Modesty glanced at him. “Lord Nicholas?” She had yet to meet their elusive host.

  “He spends all his time in the stables,” Mr. Sterling said. “He’s horse mad, always has been, from what I hear. A horse fell on him during the war, though, and crushed his leg. He hasn’t ridden since and doesn’t like to be seen in company because of the injury.”

  “Oh, how awful. Did he lose his leg?” she asked.

  “No, but he walks with some difficulty. And don’t let him hear you pity him. He dislikes it.”

  Modesty surmised she would not be meeting Lord Nicholas. She would have liked to thank him for opening his home to them. She looked down at the sack of fruit again. “Should you bring that to Rowden before the fight?”

  He glanced down at the sack then at her. “I was thinking you might like to do that.”

  Modesty shook her head. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

  “Look around.” He gestured to the men yelling and waving their fists, the money exchanging hands, the pickpockets and prostitutes moving through the crowd. “There’s nothing appropriate about you being here.” He leaned closer to her and smiled. “And who cares? I think Rowden might like a kiss for luck before the fight.”

  Modesty felt her cheeks flame. “Mr. Sterling!”

  He shrugged. “On the cheek, of course.” He lifted the sack of lemons and limes and offered them to her.

  “Fine.” She stood and took them then allowed him to lead her through the crowd and to the tent where the milling coves waited for their turn in the arena. A large man guarded the entrance, and he shook his head as Modesty approached. She started to turn around, but Mr. Sterling motioned her forward.

  “Igor, my good man,” Sterling said to the large man as though they were old friends.

  “No one is allowed. Them’s orders,” Igor said, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest.

  “Igor, I thought we were friends. Friends do favors for each other.”

  Igor frowned at him and Modesty almost ran back to her seat again. But Sterling motioned for her to wait.

  “Name is not Igor,” the large man said.

  “I know your name is Tom, but Igor fits you so much better.” Mr. Sterling reached up and awkwardly wrapped an arm about Igor-also-known-as-Tom’s shoulders. “Listen,” he said, pulling the man down slightly. “I wanted to talk to you about a business proposition.”

  It took Modesty a moment to realize while he was speaking, he was motioning with his free hand for her to duck into the tent. Modesty did so, stepping into a smaller area lit by a few candles rather than the elaborate torches and lanterns in the bigger tent. When her eyes adjusted, she searched for Rowden, but didn’t see him. The place was crowded with half-dressed men, most of them looking at her.

  “I think you’d have more luck if you came to see us after the mill,” one of them said to her. Modesty swallowed. He obviously thought she was a prostitute. Most likely a highly paid one as she was well-dressed.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m looking for The Royal Payne.”

  The man who’d addressed her nodded. “He has all the luck. He’s in the back.”

  She followed his finger and made her way through the men, most of whom stepped aside to let her pass. Rowden sat on a chair in the back, deep in conversation with another fighter, but as she neared, he looked up then jumped up. “What are you doing here?”

  Modesty had a difficult time comprehending what he had said. He wore only breeches, and they were snug on his legs, ending just below
the knee to show off his calves, which were bare like his feet. His chest was also bare and somewhat shiny in the candlelight. He was either sweating or had rubbed something on it. She had the intense urge to run her fingers along his skin and see if it was as slick as it looked.

  “Modesty,” Rowden said. “Where is Aidan?”

  She gestured vaguely toward the front. “With Igor.”

  “What?”

  She held out the sack of citrus, still unable to take her eyes from him. “I brought these. Mr. Trogdon forgot them.”

  Trogdon suddenly popped up from behind one of the other fighters. “Ah, good. I was just looking for those.” He took the sack.

  “Your hands feel better?” she asked, noting briefly that he had taken the sack with his hands and that the hands were no longer bandaged. Then she looked back at Rowden.

  “The salve worked wonders,” Trogdon said, opening the sack. “Lemon?” he offered Rowden.

  “In a moment.” Rowden took Modesty’s arm and pulled her deeper into the tent. She thought he was looking for a dark corner to kiss her and have his way with her—at least that was what she hoped—but he pushed out of the tent and into the evening just outside. Modesty took a deep breath, glad of the fresh air and space. No one else was outside and Rowden backed her up against the tent.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking a look at you in that dress,” he said. “Madame Renauld has outdone herself.” Modesty felt her cheeks heat and looked down. His finger lifted her chin. “Now you look down? Your eyes were practically eating me up inside.”

  She couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting back to his chest, and her tongue wet her lips.

  Rowden groaned. “You’ll be the death of me if you keep looking at me like that. You don’t understand how badly I want you.” He moved closer, one hand reaching out to finger a curl. He was careful not to touch his body to hers as he did have something rubbed on his skin.

  “I think I understand,” she said. “I want you too.”

  He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “If I wasn’t covered in this, I’d take you right here and right now.”