by Gina Conkle
Would Miss Mayhew meet the first requirement?
Overhead, the shop’s new sign boasted bright blue letters carved in relief with a mug and curling steam at the bottom, all outlined in fresh black paint…a costly choice. Many sturdy midtown shingles honored the tried-and-true flat standard, keeping to traditions of the business name with a simple picture of what the shop purveyed.
Between the fine stencils on her mugs and the showy signage, Miss Mayhew was a tad flashy for a woman fond of staid gray broadcloth and matronly mobcaps. Did she exhibit such daring in other places?
He dismissed the carriage and the rest of midtown came into view. Laborers toiled up and down Cornhill, slower of purpose this cold morning.
“Pastries for the War Widows Betterment Society?” His sister folded demure hands against her skirt. “We’re here for no other reason?”
Of course, she would figure out the lay of things soon enough, but no need to present all the facts yet.
“And to meet Mr. Pentree,” he said, searching one side of the street for his employee. “He’s providing a report on a damaged cistern from a property on Lombard Street.”
“Mr. Pentree. He’s your new employee. The one with the spectacles. He’s meeting us here?”
She glanced at the shop’s facade, her cheeks staining red. Nate, the raven-haired lad, stood out front cleaning the window. The shop boy nodded his greeting, his hand slowing its rotation on the glass.
“Good morning, sir, miss.”
The young man focused on Cyrus with keen interest. They exchanged morning pleasantries, and Lucinda pinched her skirts, moving into the shop. He followed his sister and was about to step through the doorway when a few choice words stopped him cold.
“I know who ye are,” Nate called out. “Ye’re the Stretford—”
He gave the shop boy a hard look, sufficient to make the lad clamp his mouth shut. The East Ender had figured him out, had he? Cyrus turned casually around, holding the box in one hand. The young man glanced at the fluttering red ribbon, his smile sly beyond his years.
“And I know why ye’re here,” he said, crossing his arms over his thin chest. “Ye think ye’re the only one to go sniffin’ around Miss Mayhew? May as well get in line if ye want her to give ye the time o’ day.”
Cyrus stepped closer to Nate, but his boots could have been filled with lead.
How much did the lad know?
Moments like these, small intersections in a man’s life, tested his character. A man’s secrets never truly left him alone. Nate’s youthful, bewhiskered jaw worked—likely he was near bursting with certain knowledge about Cyrus and his past.
Beside them, midtown’s music played. Harnesses clinked. Horse hooves trotted on hard-packed earth, adding to the daily rhythm that was Cornhill.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly. “Your full name.”
“Nathaniel Fincher.” His black forelock fell across one eye. “What’s it to ye?”
Mr. Fincher’s sullenness returned, part of the armor that must’ve saved his hide more than once. Cyrus grasped full well the youth’s position. Hadn’t he been there before?
“Because when I meet a good man, I want to know his name.”
Nate’s jaw dropped. The grind of a young man scraping to survive in an unforgiving place wrote survivor all over the lad. The East Ender must’ve clawed his way out of some hellacious hole, landing in the respectable, midtown employ of one pretty, kindhearted Miss Mayhew. Not a bad spot to be.
He glared at Cyrus. “Why’d ye say that?”
“Because a good man looks after a woman, takes care of her, be that woman his mother, sister, wife”—Cyrus looked to the mullioned window—“or his employer. We are their protectors. That’s the measure of a real man.”
Nate brushed back unruly hair, his brows pressing together. Behind Cyrus, Lucinda’s voice beckoned from the shop doorway.
“Cyrus, aren’t you coming?”
“In a minute,” he said over his shoulder, keeping a careful eye on Nate. “Go ahead to the counter. Take a look at the pastries.”
He waited until the rustle of her skirts faded. Through the wavy, diamond-shaped panes, he spied her moving through the shop. Satisfied she was out of earshot, Cyrus tucked the box under his arm.
“Let me give you some advice.”
Mr. Fincher clamped his arms across his chest again, fingers gripping his biceps. The conversation couldn’t be going as he’d expected, a fact that pleased Cyrus. His father had been dead a few years by the time he was Nate’s age. He remembered the daily mix of fear and bravado when forced to navigate life without an older, wiser man offering guidance. Was the lad adrift without family?
Nate cocked his head. “Go ahead.”
“The mark of a good man”—Cyrus slipped his hand inside his coat pocket—“his word is gold.”
Like a magician at a summer fair, he produced a gold guinea, holding up the coin between his thumb and forefinger. Nate’s eyes brightened on seeing the shiny metal.
Cyrus tipped the guinea at the youth. “Keep your mouth shut about the Stretford business. I don’t want Miss Mayhew to know.”
Cyrus suspected the young man harbored more than brotherly affections for his fair-haired employer. All the more reason depending on Nate to keep a confidence put him on edge.
But the needful want of gold dropped a potent lure, more enticing than the power of spilling information.
“It won’t matter none to Miss Mayhew, but”—the youth licked his lips and reached for the coveted coin—“I won’t say a word.”
Cyrus passed him the guinea, and Nate rubbed the piece across his sleeve. He held up the coin, admiring King George’s imprint before pocketing it.
“Keep your mouth shut, and I give you my word to help you in the future,” Cyrus said, nodding. “Do we have a bargain?”
Nate nodded, his green eyes wary. “I won’t say a thing. And, Mr. Ryland, here’s some advice I can pass yer way: ye’d best come by more often.” The lad grinned. “Lord Bowles stops in for coffee. Every day. Flirts a lot with Miss Mayhew.”
Cyrus’s upper lip curled against his teeth, but he nodded his thanks, moving to the doorway. Flirt with Miss Mayhew? Bollocks. Bowles was a master of the skill. Cyrus wasn’t about that today.
This was business and…
The wooden box pressed against his ribs, evidence to the contrary. He hitched the package higher under his arm. The provocative contents came as close to flirting as he’d get. And Lord Bowles? He spied the miscreant currently leaning against the counter as relaxed as you please with a harem of five females in his thrall.
An ember of hotness seared him square in the chest at the sight of the younger man’s encroachment. He longed to give Bowles the boot. Miss Mayhew stood at her counter, her mouth turned in an effort to suppress laughter at the scoundrel’s anecdote. The shop buzzed with patrons sipping dark brew and scraping forks across their plates while they discussed the day’s business.
Cyrus removed his hat, his insides raw over his bold risk, but he looked to the counter again. Miss Mayhew dipped her head, laughing with the other women, when her body stilled. Her jeweled gaze met his across the shop, touching him with something soft and secretive.
His spine straightened, and he met her gaze across the distance. The others laughed around her, but Miss Mayhew’s lips opened with a gentle gap. For him. The invitation was the same as when they almost kissed at the ball, and her small, unspoken welcome seeped through bone and sinew, sealing his purpose.
She was temptation today, an Eve garbed in a dark blue dress hugging her slender body. White ties laced back and forth up the center of her bodice, cinching Miss Mayhew into her worker woman’s dress. His stare followed the pale lacing against dark blue; the white ties were like lines on a map, marking the way to feminine delights.
Her chin dipped and one feminine hand reached up, grazing her collarbone where a linen neckerchief curved sedately over her shoulders. She touched the exposed sliver of white skin all the while looking at him across her shop.
A quiet, rusty chuckle moved in his chest.
You can run, Miss Mayhew, but you cannot hide.
Baser parts of Cyrus clenched inside his breeches, wanting this enticement—a man on the chase of a woman.
The claiming was only a matter of time and a matter of ridding the field of poachers, one being Lord Bowles, who stood, hip cocked against the counter, regaling the women, Lucinda among them, with a colorful tale. Putting one boot in front of the other, he walked with steady confidence, arriving in time to hear Lord Marcus finish with a quip.
“My money’s on the heir, dresses better.”
The bevy of females tittered, but within the group, a woman with stygian-black hair spied Cyrus and brazenly arched her neck for a better view of him around Lord Bowles. Her coal-dark eyes measured him from head to boot, alighting with interest on the beribboned box under his arm. Lush lips curved in a moue, emitting a final humph before her curious, carnal stare drifted away with well-practiced disinterest.
On the other side of the counter, Miss Mayhew brushed away flaxen wisps, tucking them into her mobcap only to have them fall around her face again. Her cheeks colored nicely when he drew near. Had her thoughts slipped to something less than virginal?
“Good morning, Mr. Ryland,” she said, glancing at the box, her voice crisp and efficient. “May I get you some coffee?”
“Good morning, ladies.” He gave the cursory greeting to all, pausing on Lord Marcus. “Bowles.”
“Ryland.” Lord Marcus stood to full height and took note of the box.
With his jaw freshly shaved, boots polished to a shine, and a new black tricorne on his head, Bowles had cleaned up for this morning’s midtown visit. Cyrus put his hat on the counter, claiming more space.
“Yes, a cup and a moment of your time, if you please…for a business proposition.” He gave polite attention to the women lingering at the counter, avoiding Bowles. “When you’re not too busy, that is.”
Miss Mayhew paused in the act of reaching for a mug, her brows furrowing. “What kind of business proposition?”
“We’d like you to provide a variety of pastries and desserts for a special luncheon next Saturday,” Lucinda spoke in a rush. “I’m hosting a meeting for the War Widows Betterment Society. Cyrus raved to me about your baked goods.”
“Did he now?” The words rolled off Lord Marcus’s tongue, ripe with suggestion. “Only the baked goods?”
Miss Mayhew ignored Bowles and poured coffee from a heavy pewter pot she grabbed from a squat corner stove.
“I hadn’t thought of that, selling my baked goods in such magnitude. I’d only take on such an order if I could do the job well.” She set the mug in front of him with care, her blue-green stare probing Cyrus. “Though…unexpected…it shouldn’t be impossible.”
Was there a message in her words?
The way Miss Mayhew studied him, absorbed and pensive, he could only guess she tried to read his intent. Why shouldn’t she? Days ago, he’d laid out his doubts regarding her abilities to conduct business without a man to shepherd her. His mind wasn’t changed on that score, but she deserved the promised chance to prove herself.
Cyrus reached inside his coat for the required pence to pay for his coffee, keeping eye contact with Miss Mayhew. This close, he couldn’t help but notice faint shadows under her eyes. More pale tendrils fell in disarray around her face today and a spot of coal dust smudged her chin. Was something wearing her down?
“’Course we can.” Annie spoke up from her position beside Claire. “And what better place to come to than a business of women to help other women in need?”
Annie’s pale blue eyes glowed, as if Cyrus were a warrior hero of old come to save the day; he stood stiffly accepting their praise, his conscience pinching him miserably. Beside him, Lord Marcus crossed his arms in that loose-jointed way of his. His face, a mask of well-defined features, turned shrewd and calculating on Cyrus.
“Big supporter of women in commerce now?”
Cyrus gave Bowles a close-lipped smile. The dark-haired woman beside Lord Bowles set a delicate hand on the woman next to her. Both had to be cut from the same familial cloth: though their coloring was different, their slender noses and lush lips marked them as sisters.
“Come, Elise, we dare not keep Claire from her work.” Her words came in the lavish way of a woman born to another tongue. French by the look and sound.
She faced Lucinda, tipping her chin in a most expressive way. “But, Miss Ryland, should you crave gowns of original design, my door is open to you.”
The Frenchwoman’s feline gaze reached out to Cyrus before returning to Lucinda.
“I’d be delighted to visit your shop, Miss Sauveterre, but I forget my manners.” Lucinda touched Cyrus’s arm. “Allow me to introduce my brother, Mr. Cyrus Ryland.” Lucinda motioned to the woman with obsidian eyes. “Miss Juliette Sauveterre, a mantua-maker and her sister, Miss Elise Sauveterre.” She grinned at Cyrus. “Friends of Miss Mayhew. Their shop is around the corner on Birchin Lane.”
“Je suis enchanté, Mr. Ryland.” The sisters parroted the greeting in near unison.
Cyrus tipped a bow, and Miss Elise Sauveterre, a lighter, wistful version of her sister, smiled at him open and warm, giving an altogether different greeting than her sister. She dressed simpler, but her elegant comportment came from having been born in Society’s highest places. Her hands touched, fingertips to fingertips, at her waist. The way she carried herself, the more serious Miss Sauveterre could be conversing in a fine salon rather than a midtown coffee shop.
“Your sister has been telling us about the Betterment Society. What you do helping these widows, this is a good thing.” Her graceful, Gallic accent was smooth as amber port. “I wish only for you to cast your net a little wider, Mr. Ryland, and help more women in need. But perhaps in due time, with someone of your unique position to champion the likes of us, much can be changed.”
Cyrus tucked one hand behind his back. “My thanks for your generous words, Miss Sauveterre.”
Then he averted his gaze lest he burn to ashes from the undeserved admiration shining from Miss Sauveterre’s and Annie’s eyes. Champion of working women? He shifted the load under his other arm, the gift turning more burdensome by the second.
Bowles smoothed the front of his waistcoat. “That’s Cyrus, quite the dragon slayer. Always helpful to women in need.”
“Come, Lord Bowles, my sister and I require your safe escort back to our shop.” Miss Juliette Sauveterre slipped her hand over his sleeve, and the other Miss Sauveterre followed suit on his other sleeve. The darker Miss Sauveterre’s onyx eyes settled on Cyrus. “Cornhill abounds with dangerous men these days.”
* * *
Claire flashed a reproving glance at the departing Juliette. “Dangerous men, indeed,” she said under her breath.
Of course the Sauveterre sisters didn’t need an escort to walk around the corner. The wily Frenchwoman returned the chiding look with a dismissive shrug.
Her friend would return tonight, once the business day was done. They’d close the New Union’s door, share a cup of velvety chocolate, and discuss their day. With Juliette, men always topped the list of conversation, and Mr. Cyrus Ryland made himself the prime candidate with this morning’s appearance.
She regarded him with interest stoked by, of all things, a business proposition. The man was full of surprises—enough to throw a woman off balance. She wanted a day free of complications, but his appearance today added a new twist.
The shop’s bustling demands brought her back to the present. Annie carried a cup of chocolate for Miss Ryland, chattering as she walked with her to an open table. With the exodu
s of the others from her counter, she stood alone with a stoic Mr. Ryland. Again. He watched her quietly with a curious box under his arm.
Scooping up the coins for his coffee and his sister’s chocolate, she couldn’t help but feel his presence touching her. Her underskirts brushed sensitive thighs, as though she scandalously wore no drawers. A warm glow poured through her at being near him again. Even the heavy wooden counter made a flimsy barrier between them, failing to stop this dismaying pulse thrumming inside her.
She dropped the coins in her till, her slow exhale stirring bothersome wisps of hair gone loose from their pins. Did his attendance this morning mean he came to offer his full consent to her proprietorship of the New Union Coffeehouse, after all?
Beyond the legality of signature sheets, his nod of approval meant a great deal to her. For some reason, she wanted his complete support, and a business proposition sounded like an endorsement.
“Has this section of Cornhill become a hazardous place?” His rich voice reached her, and her face angled to meet his.
“You mean what Miss Sauveterre said?” She wiped her clean, dry hands on her apron, since she didn’t have anything better to do with them. “In case you haven’t noticed, my friend has a flair for the dramatic. I vow she left on the arm of the most dangerous man to lurk in midtown.”
Mr. Ryland smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling nicely. “Then I’m honored that you feel safe and secure in my company.”
Her heart expanded twice in size. His beautiful male smile was a shared connection for her alone, restoring the unusual familiarity they’d shared in his study. She stood taller, breathing in this vitality bouncing between them.
“Secure…” Her voice quavered faintly. “Yes, you’d protect me to the death like some gallant knight of old. I’m sure of it.”
His shoulders squared under the unusual praise, and potent male satisfaction glowed from his eyes.
“But safe?” She shook her head. “Mr. Ryland, your nearness messes with my sense of purpose, causing me to stand on treacherous ground whenever I see you. You, sir, are anything but safe.”
