by Gina Conkle
A black carriage rolled up to her shop’s front window. The thing was as big as a mail coach and as brutish in size as the man who owned it. The stark conveyance boasted no flourishes and no noble crest on the door but gleamed everywhere with rich, burnished-brass fittings and trim: door hinges, elaborate handle, and fine candle lamps for evening rides. Even the wheel hubs and spokes gleamed with brass trim.
Her hand slowed its rotations on the grinder, meeting with less resistance. Maybe things would go smoother for her? Ryland moved off the counter, his guarded stare roving her cap, her face.
He set his hand over his heart and tipped in a bow. “You can be sure I’ll pay close attention to this business experiment.”
* * *
Cyrus leaned a shoulder on the window sash, his hands jammed in his pockets. Behind him was the rich world of London’s finer gentleman’s clubs, though not the finest. This one accepted commoners. Leather seating arrangements ensconced the elite within a dark-paneled citadel for men. North and his scoundrel of a brother sat enthroned in a cluster of four armchairs, waiting for another acquaintance to join them.
Conversations stayed at a murmur; even the footmen whispered. Yet, beyond the glass square, Cyrus glimpsed men and women walking and talking, enjoying twilight. How easily the sexes mixed from where he stood. Would that ever happen for him?
He breathed in, convinced he could smell sugared apples and cinnamon, the aroma of one very determined woman’s coffee shop. The taste was something he could savor for a long time—like a taste of her.
Or was she smooth like custard?
One corner of his mouth curled at his not-so-innocent thoughts.
Miss Mayhew aroused him, yet beyond the obvious surface attraction, he couldn’t figure out why. Was his fervent interest because she stood her ground, facing him like some fine-boned fighter in a skirt?
Or was this entirely about parts hidden by said skirt?
He took his seat with the brothers. At least bothersome questions were answered, questions that had pestered him since the woman had invaded his home. But, as with most things in life, when one question was answered, several more demanded gratification like an itch refusing to go away.
Bowles lounged in his chair, stretching his legs and flexing one booted foot before crossing it over the other. His heavy-lidded smile a sure sign trouble brewed.
“The coffee shop used to be Tottenham’s,” he said. “But of course, you knew that, owning the property and all.”
“He owns so many,” North countered, accepting a message a footman delivered on a silver tray. “One can’t expect him to pay attention to the signage of each establishment.”
Bowles linked his hands in his lap, his stare speculative. “Odd how she was Miss Tottenham at the ball, but today she’s Miss Mayhew.”
Cyrus gripped the chair’s arms, the need to protect Miss Mayhew surging.
“Sneaking a lightskirt into a proper ball…and here I thought you were all work,” Bowles went on. “Bold move on your part.”
“She’s not a lightskirt,” he stressed.
North stuffed his message into his coat pocket, glaring at his brother. “As if you’d be one to counsel him on what’s proper.”
“Guilty as charged.” Bowles grinned and faced Cyrus. “You did know your pretty shopgirl used to be in service…housekeeper to the Earl of Greenwich?”
Cyrus snapped his fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen her. Last winter. I visited the earl over a patent question.”
Was the reclusive earl the one who gifted her with the fine necklace? And what had she given in return? Whatever was done in the past was no more. The prickly Earl of Greenwich was supposed to be famously in love with his new countess.
“If you wanted to find your masked lady, you should’ve come to me,” Bowles said. “I’d find her a lot faster than Bow Street for half the reward.”
Cyrus glanced at North, who sat mute and properly rigid, brushing off an invisible speck from his breeches. Cyrus bristled at his private matter becoming fodder for discussion between the brothers. He’d confided in North about his hunt for the mysterious woman in confidence.
“You’ve known about her long?” Cyrus asked Bowles.
“Awhile. Saw her open shop one morning. Hadn’t put her mobcap on yet. Hair that color’s rare. Then I saw the old Tottenham sign come down and strolled in for a coffee.” The former soldier’s voice dropped with suggestion. “And who can forget her mouth, her form…though she tries to hide the goods.”
Bowles knew her whereabouts and kept the news to himself. Cyrus’s jaw ticked as much from that knowledge as the miscreant’s provocative words. A decade ago, he would’ve reacted in a bad way, but not now. Time had tempered him, and he’d not give the man the satisfaction of witnessing his agitation.
Bowles chuckled, a hoarse sound from too little sleep and too much liquor. “Planning on the shopgirl replacing Lady Isabella Foster? A real step down for you, going West End to midtown.”
“You speak as if these women are commodities he trades…one for another,” North said.
“Isn’t that what he does? Moves things and people around to suit his purpose?” Bowles answered, his bloodshot stare sweeping from his brother to Cyrus. “Seems to me there was a lot of effort to find one woman.”
“So he wanted to know what she was about…her sneaking into his home and running off the way she did. Can’t blame a man for wanting an attractive woman.”
“There’s wanting a woman and then there’s remembering a woman.” Bowles’s head lolled against the chair. “Question is which one applies to Cyrus and his shopgirl?”
Breath snagged in Cyrus’s chest. His shopgirl.
He turned his attention to the window, his muscles tensing with the want to strike. He tolerated the scoundrel because he was North’s younger brother. This time, Bowles went too far.
“The shopgirl has a name,” Cyrus insisted. “Miss Mayhew. You would do well to remember it, though I doubt you’ve tarried long enough with any woman to learn her name.”
Nor did he want the miscreant tarrying with Miss Mayhew.
“A coffee shop, not your usual haunt,” North said to his brother.
Bowles withdrew a tarnished metal flagon from inside his coat. “Man cannot live by ale and tavern wenches alone. Coffee and the company of an upstanding woman could be what a degenerate like me needs.” He grinned at Cyrus, something wolfish and sly. “Former housekeepers must know how to clean a man’s nook and crannies. I wonder about her thighs—”
“Marcus…” North cautioned.
Cyrus’s back came off the leather.
“Stay away from her,” he snapped. “There’s enough other women’s thighs in London. Or have you exhausted the Town supply of lightskirts?”
Murmuring ceased nearby. Two heads turned their way, a middle-aged baron in an oversized wig and the footman attending him. One look at Cyrus’s scowl and the two averted their attention.
“Touchy about this one, aren’t you?” Bowles took a quick swig.
“If you know what’s best, you’ll leave her alone.” The scoundrel’s bloodshot eyes opened wider.
“So that’s how it is?” Bowles rubbed his jaw, heavy with whiskers. “Then you must like them hard to get, Cy. Because if I read things right in the shop, the pretty blond doesn’t want anything to do with you.” He raised his flask in mock salute. “Here’s to your merry chase.”
Bowles took another quick draught and returned the flask to his inside pocket. He pushed off the chair, saying something about seeing a friend across the room.
The familiar rush of attack filled Cyrus’s veins. He looked at his lap where his fist ground into his thigh. His reaction was as startling as it was defining. Miss Mayhew was of particularly powerful interest. At the same time, he couldn’t help but think the sly Lord Marcus did some neat scou
ting with his provoking words.
North’s gaze beetled from his brother’s retreating back to Cyrus.
“Rare is the day I agree with my brother, but have you asked yourself why you’re so focused on this one woman? Is this because you want her in some carnal way and she doesn’t want you?”
Forbidden fruit.
Cyrus smiled at nothing in particular, recalling his innuendo about wanting to see her accounts in full and the pretty flush that had colored her cheeks.
“This is about business. About what’s best for a woman alone in London.” Cyrus crossed his arms loosely over his chest, satisfied with that sliver of truth. “I feel a sense of responsibility.”
Was his interest in Miss Mayhew purely about the age-old pursuit? He didn’t understand all the facets, but he wouldn’t reveal any more about her, especially her forgery. Such dangerous information would stay between him and Miss Mayhew, because he wanted to…protect her.
From men who’d prey on her like Bowles?
Or from himself?
Equally vexing was Bowles’s accurate observation: The pretty blond doesn’t want anything to do with you.
What was he going to do about that?
Five
Wit must be foiled with wit; cut a diamond with a diamond.
William Congreve, The Double Dealer
A few days later…
“Women go positively weak kneed over a few things in life.” Lucinda stretched forward for an eyeful of the wooden box on his lap. “At least I’m guessing the receiver is a woman by the rather large and pretty red bow.”
Cyrus set his hand over the incriminating box. His other hand kept time against his knee, as though he could tap the distance to their destination and make the carriage go faster. All morning, his body had itched with the want to be in motion. The contents of the box put him on a cliff of uncalculated risk, an uneasy place for a man to be when matters pertained to a woman.
His sister sighed loudly. Lucinda wanted to wrench secrets from him as much as she wanted his full attention, and normally he would have lavished attention on her, but today was different… All because of a flaxen-haired woman who had left her shoe on his front steps.
“In my estimation, a surprise gift tops the list of ways to capture a woman’s heart,” she said, intruding on his thoughts.
Capture her heart?
Cyrus slid a finger inside his neckline, tugging on his cravat. Capturing Miss Mayhew’s heart wasn’t top on his list of wants.
Was it?
Lucinda fidgeted on the seat, her dark brows arching. “It is a surprise, isn’t it?”
“The box is none of your concern, Luce.” The words came out with regrettable sharpness.
Her eyes rounded with feigned shock. “So that’s the way it is?”
She bounced back against the squabs, but her impish smile told him she wasn’t put off in the slightest. Lucinda had fished all morning for information since he had told her to cancel her plans and then been vague about his.
He kept words at a minimum where Miss Mayhew was concerned, wanting no poking or prodding as to his intent. Let events unfold as they will. The proprietress had haunted him body and soul since he last visited her shop.
The bold idea in his lap had struck last evening, a decidedly harmless way to walk into the New Union Coffeehouse as patron rather than landlord, but the exposed parts of the suggestive red ribbon taunted him.
Not completely harmless.
The secretive package containing provocative contents had left him pushing his breakfast around his plate. The audacious red bow might’ve been too much, but his carriage sped toward Cornhill with all the inevitable force of a storm. His course was set. Too late to turn back now.
He had one goal in mind today: smooth things over with Miss Mayhew. He hadn’t left under the best of circumstances after his first visit to her coffee shop days ago. One glance at his sister, and he shifted the box on his lap. If the gift failed him, Lucinda wouldn’t. She unwittingly played into his strategy this morning. Time he laid some of the groundwork.
“Think of the War Widows Betterment Society. That’s why I’m bringing you with me today.”
“No you’re not.” She laughed, her chestnut curls bouncing. “You hardly give my work a second thought. You’re up to something. That overbearing tone of yours gives you away.” Her mischievous gape lit on the package. “And the box with a shiny red bow.”
His sister crossed her hands in her lap, looking like a satisfied schoolgirl who had stumbled on the answer to a vexing riddle ahead of other students.
“You want something, Cyrus.” Her thin lips worked to restrain a smile. “Badly, I think.”
His breath caught on her last words. He was a man in his third decade, well beyond the years of a youth mooning over a maid. Yet Lucinda’s simply stated truth proved sharp, cutting to the heart of a matter. He lifted his hand, hoping he hadn’t crushed the bow. Too late. Faint wrinkles marred the glossy ribbon.
“Perhaps I’m mending my ways.” One finger tugged a red coil back to life. “About your work, I mean.”
She snorted a very unfeminine kind of sound. Lucinda had gone through years of instruction to gain her current comportment and polish, but part of their modest roots stayed in her bones. The same was true for him.
“Of course you are…a leopard changing his spots all of a sudden.” She smiled, but then her brightness dimmed. “Wait a minute. You’re not trying to force the Marquis of Northampton on me again? I’ll marry when I’m good and ready to a man of my choosing. And it won’t be a business arrangement to a friend of yours.”
Cyrus smiled benignly, acknowledging her upset at the debacle with North. His youngest sister would marry well, but next time, matters needed finessing.
Her shoulders slumped under her velvet cloak. “You haven’t dropped your plans to marry me off to some title, have you?”
“Of course not. A Ryland will marry a peer of the realm. And since you’re the only unmarried sister I have, you’re the logical candidate.”
“Why don’t you marry into the aristocracy, since it matters so much?”
“I will. Someday,” he said, breathing easy. “But it’s not the same for me. A man doesn’t gain a title by marriage, as you well know. A woman can. If even one of us makes that kind of connection, all of our family, our sisters and their husbands, and our nieces and nephews will benefit.”
His sister sat across from him in all her finery, a beautiful purple gown, her favorite color. Her cheeks boasted healthy color now. In years past, those same cheeks had worn a sickly pallor. Too often he’d held a young Lucinda wheezing for breath, seized by coughing fits, attacks he was helpless to stop. Everything changed when he could afford the exotic, bitter yellow tea that gave her blessed relief.
“I don’t understand.” Lucinda flounced on the seat, looking equal parts spoiled and sweet. “Why do you press so much?”
Pictures of the past spun before him, particular moments reminding him that, through will or wealth, he would provide one thing without fail for his sisters and their families.
“Security.”
His shoulders squared, ready to carry any burden for the ones he loved. Lucinda was not so old that their days as freehold farmers escaped her memory, a time when he was not yet a man trying to be a man at the head of their farm. After his father’s death, Cyrus failed miserably at the task.
At the untried age of sixteen, he’d struggled wearing the mantle of authority, looking to the care of his mother and sisters. The costly mistakes he made sometimes left the larder bare and caused his long-suffering mother to take in laundry among a mountain of other labors she did. The memory of one hungry season hung heavy, causing Cyrus’s mouth to harden as he stared out the carriage window at nothing in particular.
No man delighted in reliving his failure, no matter h
ow youthful the error.
Lucinda plucked the yellow trim on her velvet skirt. “I’m sorry, Cyrus.”
Her small-voiced apology wrenched him. “No need to apologize, minx.”
He was supposed to be the solver of all problems, provider of all things necessary to his sisters and his mother, when she’d been alive. This was the stamp his father had impressed on him since he had strapped on his first pair of boots, the way of a man with the weaker sex.
“Take care of them,” his father would always say.
“But this meeting today, we aren’t going to see Lady Foster, are we?” Lucinda’s brows pressed in a dark line. “I thought your…connection with her was done.”
He frowned at her choice of words, but she waved off the disapproval. His sister was an interesting jumble of innocence and burgeoning awareness. Lucinda tolerated the self-assured, sharp-tongued Isabella in part because Cyrus spent time with the lady and because the lady lent a generous hand to Lucinda’s newly formed War Widows Betterment Society.
“Really, Cyrus,” she chided. “It’s no secret she was your lady-bird. I did just turn twenty-three. I’m not a babe anymore.”
“I won’t ask where you acquired such a colorful phrase as lady-bird, but you will refrain from using it in the future.”
She gave a mutinous shrug and stared out her window. Cyrus guessed the war widows she’d begun to help in recent months were more than forthcoming with information to Lucinda’s boundless, inquisitive nature. But the carriage rolling to a stop prevented reminders of decorum.
“A coffee shop.” Her brown eyes glinted with a troublemaker’s light. “You’re taking me to a coffee shop? Rather daring of you with my reputation, since proper West End ladies don’t visit them.”
“Today we make an exception, all for the war widows. The pastries here’d make an excellent addition to your next luncheon.”
They exited the carriage, tasting fall’s late-morning fog. Gray skies and the Thames’s metallic, briny aroma hung heavy. The change of season—autumn’s quarterly rents were due in five days.
