A Second Chance for Love: A Bachelors of Bond Street Novella

by Minerva Spencer

  “Yes?” he prodded. “You’re not . . .”

  “I’m not a seamstress; I’m the all-around dogsbody.” She’d not meant to sound so belligerent, but there it was.

  “You didn’t like governessing?”

  “Yes, actually, I enjoyed it a great deal.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Oona was about to ask him just what it was he saw, but then she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  He glanced around and then stooped to pick up the spool. “Where does it go?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to—”

  He sighed.

  “Fine.” She pointed to the second to last dowel. “By the navy thread.”

  He had to stand on his toes to slide it onto its holder, but it was done in a blink.

  “Are you finished here?” he asked.

  “Yes. I just need—” but he’d already bent to pick up her empty box and lamp.

  “Come, I’ll walk you out.” His tone was peremptory—commanding. Certainly not the tone a groom would use. But then he wasn’t a groom anymore, was he?

  When he opened the door, Oona gasped. “Oh, how lovely.” She stared up at the dark sky, the view a dizzying one as thousands of glinting flakes hurtled toward her.

  When he said nothing she turned to find him staring at her from beneath heavy lids. “Yes, isn’t it?” he said, and then pulled the door shut with a sharp snap, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Um.” Oona reached a shaking hand into her coat pocket for the heavy key. “I need to—”

  He held up a ring with a half-dozen keys. “I’ve already locked it.”

  “Do you always—”

  “Finish other people’s sentences?” His lips curved that same non-smile. “No, not always.” He gestured toward Cork Street, where she saw a luxurious black coach with four restless chestnuts. “May I offer you a ride anywhere, Miss Parker—is it still Miss Parker?”

  “No—I mean, yes.” She shook her head at her bumbling. “Yes, it’s still Miss Parker. No, I don’t need a ride as I’ve not finished work for the evening.” She remembered her manners at the last moment. “But thank you.”

  He handed her the box and lamp and then bowed. “I wish you a good evening, Miss Parker.”

  Like a street urchin staring in a shop window, Oona watched as he made his way to the magnificent carriage, his booted feet muffled by the thin layer of snow. He opened the door and hopped in without steps, his greatcoat fluttering like a dark flag in the snow-dotted night.

  Oona wondered if he’d look back before he closed his door.

  But he didn’t and the carriage rolled away into the darkness.

  Two

  The beautiful, fluffy white snow from the night before had turned into a brownish-gray sludge that stained a good four inches of Oona’s hem. Fortunately she’d worn her oldest woolen gown, a tobacco-shade that had once been rich with golden undertones but was now the color of dirt. Or mud, would be more appropriate.

  It took forty-five minutes to walk to Madam LeMonde’s but Oona had more time for walking than she had money for a hackney. Besides, she liked walking, even when the weather was cold and the streets filthy; it gave her time to think. She’d thought working as a dogsbody would give her time to think, but her mind merely focused on the tasks at hand during a day filled with tedious minutia and manual labor. It was nothing like teaching; when she taught, her thoughts had been as rich as a tapestry.

  Spilt milk.

  Indeed, she thought as she gave a farthing to the young boy who risked life and limb to sweep a path across the busy street. Yearning for the days when she’d been a governess was pointless. Oona usually did a good job of forgetting, but seeing Juss Taylor—Mr. Taylor to you—brought it all back with a painful ache.

  Oona shivered and pulled her old gray coat tighter around her as she scurried through the early morning light, her mind returning yet again to last night—to Juss and the feel of his powerful arms around her body.

  “Not today,” Oona said with regret as she hurried past a young girl holding a basket of oranges. She had no extra money—not even for an orange—and needed every penny to purchase a seat on the stage out of London in six days. She knew she should probably wait until she’d saved more money, but if she didn’t visit Katie now, it would be months before she’d have another two days off together, which is what she needed as it took half a day just to get to Katie’s school.

  Madame LeMonde’s shop was sandwiched between the Greedy Vicar pub and Hungry Mind bookstore. The bookstore wasn’t open this early but Gabriel St. Aulyn, the handsome proprietor gave her a friendly wave as he unlocked the door to his shop.

  Oona had to step around a huge wagon full of casks and crates already filling the mews behind the pub.

  “Good morning, Miss Parker,” the manager of the Greedy Vicar called out.

  “Good morning, Mr. Shaw,” Oona replied, oddly warmed by the friendly, but polite, acceptance of the two men.

  Just as she was heading for the steps to LeMonde’s the owner of Bond Street Coffee & Tobacco, Mr. Gaines, passed through the mews on his way to the storage vaults.

  Mr. Gaines tipped his high crowned beaver at Oona and nodded at Mr. Shaw. “Good morning to you both,” he said with a pleasant, if somewhat distracted smile—the look of a man with a long list of tasks on his mind.

  Mr. Gaines was a very attractive Black man who’d only recently opened his shop. He moved with the efficient decisiveness of someone determined to see that his new business flourished.

  Oona had gone to the coffee and tobacco shop’s grand opening and had enjoyed both the delicious coffee and pastries. Mr. Gaines had shown that, in addition to being a business man, he was also kind, and had offered the employees who worked near the coffee shop a substantial discount on any pastries which had not sold by the end of the business day. Already his generosity had meant Oona didn’t need to eat porridge every night of the week.

  Oona began unwinding her muffler as she climbed the back steps to the dress shop. Looking at the entrance to the vault made her stomach tighten as she recalled last night—not that she needed the sight of the building to remind her of the odd encounter with Mr. Justin Taylor, an encounter she’d been relentlessly reliving all night long.

  Oona grimaced at her racing thoughts, for once grateful for the mindlessness of her work; it would be a relief to have a few hours not thinking about him.

  She closed the door to the shop and hung her muffler on the hook that was reserved for her. She’d just taken the pin from her hat when the door to the small office where Madam kept her books flew open and bounced against the wall, making her jump.

  “Good morning, Madam Le—”

  “You ungrateful wretch,” the older woman thundered, her French accent sloughing away like skin from a snake.

  “Wha—”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what’s goin’ on,” she snapped in cold, hard Cockney. “It’ll just make things worse for you.”

  “But—”

  “You should have waited until somebody else used the key to the vault—that would have been wiser.”

  “The vault?”

  Maria, Madam’s assistant clerk, came from the front of the shop, her face a mask of mortification as she looked at Oona. “Perhaps you might let her explain, Madam?” she asked faintly.

  LeMonde didn’t take her eyes off Oona. “What’s there to explain? She is a thief. I’ve already sent Will to fetch the constable; he’ll be back any moment.”

  Oona felt as if she’d drifted off to sleep and fallen face first into a nightmare. “I stole nothing from you.” Oona shook her head, although the other woman hadn’t spoken. “It’s unjust of you to assum—”

  “You have the key.”

  Oona blinked. “No, I’m sure I—” Then suddenly she recalled who’d locked the door last night: it had been Mr. Taylor. She dug through the pockets of her coat, even though she knew they contained nothing but her gloves and handkerchi
ef because she’d had her hands in her pockets all the way to work. She tore open her reticule and dumped the contents on the nearby work table: a few coins, a card of pins, a frazzled silk flower that she’d found in the park on her walk, and the small leather case that held her miniature of Katie.

  And the heavy iron key to the vault.

  “A-ha!” LeMonde snatched the key off the table as if Oona might take it.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot—I—” Oona stopped. What could she possibly say?

  I was overcome after just being rescued by the most distracting man I’ve ever met and so I must have dropped the key into my reticule rather than put it back in its place. . . .

  It was the truth, but it was hardly one Oona wanted to share—nor did she think the other woman would believe her.

  “But, Madam, why would she bring the key with her if she was the thief?” Marie asked, risking LeMonde’s wrath for Oona—an action Oona never would have expected from the other girl.

  Madam snorted. “How do I know what a thief thinks? No doubt she hoped to replace it and none would be the wiser.” She crossed her arms over her ample bosom and leaned against the door, as if Oona might make a break for it.

  Oona met Maria’s eyes and the other woman gave a slight shrug, as if to say she had done all she could.

  “Won’t you give me a chance to explain myself?” Oona asked.

  “You can explain it to the constable.”

  “But Madam, I don’t—”

  The older woman’s eyes flickered to something over Oona’s shoulders, and her entire demeanor transformed from a vengeful harpy to a pliable, voluptuous siren. Oona knew who’d walked in the door before Madam LeMonde even spoke.

  “Thank God, you’re here, Juss. You’re just in time to help me deal with this.”

  Oona gritted her teeth at the woman’s casual, almost sensual, use of his pet name; this would not end well for her. She sighed and turned.

  In the light of day she could see the subtle signs of age she’d not noticed last night in the near darkness. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, a deep, crescent-shaped groove on the right side of his mouth, likely the result of all the smirking he did, and even a few flecks of gray in his inky black hair. He was dressed for riding and looked twice as broad and even taller in his caped coat and glossy black top boots. He took off his hat and held it under one arm, his unearthly blue eyes moving from Madam LeMonde to Maria before settling on Oona. “What seems to be the problem, Miss Parker?”

  Madam LeMonde gave an outraged squeak. “Why are you asking her—”

  He raised his hand, the one still holding the crop, in a staying gesture. “One at a time, please.”

  To Oona’s amazement, the other woman remained silent, if seething.

  “Miss Parker,” he prodded.

  “She accused me of stealing.”

  His eyebrows rose slightly and he turned to the dressmaker. “What do you think she stole from you?”

  “There are all kinds of things missing from the vault—two bolts of silk, a package of ostrich feathers, a cask of paste jewels for slippers.” She cut Oona a slit-eyed look. “I might not have noticed for days had the door not been flapping open when I arrived this morning.”

  “The door was open?” he said sharply.

  “You should tell the other tenants to check their vaults because she might have stolen more.”

  Mr. Taylor’s gaze was heavy on Oona while the other woman spoke. “How long were you here after I saw you in the—”

  “You saw her last night?” LeMonde shrieked.

  He grimaced. “I’m right here, Dotty. You needn’t yell.”

  Oona wasn’t surprised the modiste’s name was Dotty rather than Celine, but she was surprised that Juss Taylor knew and used it.

  “What time, Miss Parker?”

  Oona forced herself to focus on the moment, rather than this man’s possible relationship to her employer. “I left perhaps five minutes after you. When I came back up to the shop Madam had already locked the front door and was ready to go.” She shrugged. “I took off my apron, found my gloves, and left.”

  “Is that true?” he asked LeMonde.

  She nodded grudgingly.

  “And then you took a hackney home?” he asked.

  Oona shook her head. “No, I walked.”

  “You walked home in a blizzard? In the dark?”

  Oona was hardly going to tell this man that she couldn’t afford to pay for a hackney. “What of it? I like the snow.”

  “It means nothing that she walked,” LeMonde said. “She had the key with her. She must ‘av—have—come back with a carriage—and likely an accomplice or two.”

  “You had the key?” he asked.

  Oona’s face heated. “Yes, I—I forgot to return it last night.”

  The faint smile on his full lips told her he knew exactly why she forgot: because she was flustered. Because of him.

  “Did you come back later on and steal from Madam LeMonde’s vault?” he asked her.

  “Of course not,” Oona snapped.

  He turned to the modiste. “There you have it, Dotty: Miss Parker is not your thief.”

  Madam LeMonde made a sound like an enraged goose. “You’re just going to take ‘er word for it?”

  “Have no fear, I shall get to the bottom of this,” he assured her, a chill in his voice and a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I dislike thievery on any of my properties. In the meantime, draw up a list of what is missing and I will see that you are reimbursed. After all, I am responsible for the safety of goods kept on my property.”

  Madam LeMonde’s impressive bosom was rising and falling faster than ever. “And what about her?”

  “Does she still have her position here?” he asked.

  LeMonde snorted.

  “Well, then it is none of your concern, is it?”

  LeMonde’s lips parted, but no words came out.

  Justin Taylor fixed his uncomfortably piercing gaze on Oona and said in a silky voice. “I shall see to Miss Parker.”

  Three

  They said nothing to each other as Justin Taylor led her from the dress shop.

  Outside there was a young boy walking a magnificent black horse up and down the mews, steam billowing from the mouths of both horse and boy.

  “I’ll hold Brummel,” Mr. Taylor said when the boy stopped in front of them. “Go fetch a hackney and bring it back here. I’ll send a man back to fetch the horse.”

  “Aww, guv! I can bring ‘im to yer ken.”

  The two males locked eyes and some form of wordless communication passed between them before Taylor nodded and then handed him the reins.

  The boy grinned wide enough to split his face. “I’ll ‘av an ‘ack in a twinkle, Mr. Juss.” He turned tail and scampered off, the horse prancing cooperatively beside him.

  Oona looked up at him. “An employee of yours?”

  He tapped his whip against his boot as he looked down at her, pausing before answering, another annoying habit of his she’d recalled last night. It was a lazy pause, as if he wasn’t quite sure he could be bothered to speak the words. “Never seen him before.”

  “And you just gave him your horse?”

  He nodded slowly. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “But he knew your name.”

  “Yes, he knows who I am.” The inference was clear: lots of people knew who he was, and those who did would not steal from him.

  He wasn’t frowning or scowling or speaking in a threatening tone, he simply dripped danger. Oona didn’t like her body’s response—what sort of woman found danger . . . arousing? Of course her body had always reacted oddly to this man, although it seemed she had even a more severe case of whatever it was now than she’d had then.

  She swallowed and looked up; yes, he was still staring. Her mouth opened and words came out, “Brummel is an unusual name for a horse.”

  “Is it?” he asked with a smirk.

  Oona knew that was all he would say unless sh
e asked. “Why would you name your horse after Mr. Beau Brummel?”

  She saw a gleam of humor in his eyes. “He’s vain and impeccably turned out, it seemed to fit.”

  Before she could come up with a suitable answer a hackney rolled down Cork Street. When it stopped Mr. Taylor handed her inside and then said something to the driver before climbing in and taking the seat across from her.

  “Where are you taking me?” Oona asked when he seemed content to sit in silence while she had suddenly begun to shake, a delayed reaction to being accused of thievery and almost thrown into gaol.

  “Home.”

  “You—you know where I live?”

  “No. I thought we’d just drive around a while—perhaps get lucky and find it.”

  A slightly hysterical laugh broke out of her at his sarcastic response and Oona clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “Why are you doing all this, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Call me Juss. Or Justin, if you must,” he said, turning back to the window.

  “Why did you help me, Juss?”

  “Because I know you didn’t steal anything from that vault.”

  Oona ignored the thrill of joy that seized her at his words. “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.” He sounded bored, as if her questions were something that had to be tolerated, like bad weather.

  What a maddening, obnoxious, high-handed man.

  Oona took a deep breath and suppressed her annoyance; he was also the man who’d just liberated her from the bowels of hell. “I appreciate your faith in me, but—”

  “Why were you working as a drudge for LeMonde?”

  “That’s hardly your affair, is it?” she snapped.

  Rather than be insulted by her rudeness, he laughed.

  Oona bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “You can say whatever you like.”

  “I know I can say whatever I like, but that doesn’t mean you deserve my churlish behavior. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged.

  “Why did you involve yourself this morning?”

  “Why not?”

  Oona returned her teeth to her lower lip to keep from saying something she would immediately regret. She’d never met a more unresponsive man in her entire life. He gave away nothing, his face a harsh, unreadable mask.