Page 12 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

“They all tell the same story as Nott and Thrup did yesterday.”

Morgan voiced her conclusion as she and Steadman left another interview with farmers, their fourth in two days.

When he cut dark eyes at her, the breeze caught his unruly locks and splayed them across a grizzled cheek.

She tamped down an erupting tremor to upbraid herself silently.

He was as out of her reach as the condemning stars in the night sky.

“They do,” he said. “Same intruders, same demands, same contract. Same offers from Dunwoody beforehand to sell their land.”

Morgan mounted her horse and urged it toward Broad Chalke before Steadman called out.

“Wrong direction, Mr. Brady. Today, we go this way.”

She swung her horse in the road to join him already traveling the opposite direction. “To Salisbury?”

“Yes.”

“Are there others to interview in Salisbury?”

“No.”

She waited, but he offered no clarification other than grinning boyishly at her, inviting. She rolled her eyes. “Right, then. I will play your game. Why do we travel to Salisbury?”

“Simple,” he said while inspecting his nails. “It is nearby, and I know an excellent tailor.”

The jocular tone of his reply raised alarm bells. “A tailor? For what purpose?”

He turned in his saddle to flash that wicked grin that threatened to slay her every time. “To replace that excuse of a suit you wear.”

“Is that right?” She beat down the urge to flee to Broad Chalke as fast as her horse could carry her. “I do not require a new suit.”

“Oh, but you do. Most definitely.”

“But I haven’t any funds.”

“My treat. We cannot have an associate of the Beau Monde Highwayman dressing like a gin row derelict.”

“Your offer is too generous. I cannot accept.”

He turned to face the road. “I insist. And when a highwayman insists, you’ve no choice but to stand and deliver.”

Dread swept over Morgan. How would a tailor not notice her, uh, physique? How could she possibly maintain a lie when stripped nearly naked in broad daylight? She stewed for two miles in an ever-deepening morass of dread. When they came upon the edge of Salisbury, her dam of dismay broke.

“Can this not wait until our return to London? Surely the tailors there are superior.”

Steadman lifted his chin in challenge. “Still fighting me? A detrimental strategy, boy.”

“But…”

“Look, Mr. Brady. I shall be as frank as possible.” He waved a hand at her disheveled coat. “You are a fine young man just coming into the flower of his youth. You will need a suit to woo a woman. You cannot woo a woman dressed liked a failed gravedigger. I have seen better suits on corpses.”

At his goading, her dismay tipped into annoyance. “A suit? To woo a woman? I thought you said the look was more than sufficient for that task. Were you wrong then or are you wrong now?”

He grew a half-grin. “Welcome back, Morgan. I thought I’d lost you.”

“You failed to answer my question. About which time you were wrong.”

He shook his head. “I was wrong neither then nor now. The purpose of the look is to attract a woman’s interest, nothing more. Holding her interest requires a larger strategy, a longer game.”

“But you said not three days ago that the rumors of your amorous activities were a fiction. Were you lying then or are you lying now?”

“I tell the truth.”

“Have you ever truly wooed a woman, then? Anyone at all?”

When he looked away and fell silent, remorse bubbled within her. She had clearly touched a nerve. After perhaps a minute, though, he began speaking.

“One.” His tone was uncharacteristically restrained. “I have properly wooed one, a long time ago.”

Sorrow dripped from his confession, drawing Morgan closer.

She shouldn’t pry, but her heart ached to know what had happened.

What kind of woman had captured his heart?

What manner of magnificence did a woman possess that could win the devotion of the Beau Monde Highwayman?

Against her better judgment, she decided to press the interrogation, but gingerly.

“Might I ask, did she reject you?”

“No.” His tone grew more melancholy still. “But others intervened to rip us apart.”

The need to offer him comfort overcame Morgan. She began to reach for his hand before remembering her facade. How would a man lift the spirits of a downhearted friend?

“Well,” she said while mustering false cheer, “I have never wooed a woman. As you have wooed one, might you offer me advice? Other than finding a better suit?”

Steadman lifted his attention from the road ahead to meet her gaze.

His frown gave way to a sad smile, but a smile, nonetheless.

“I can tell you the ways to fail. For I have tried them all. Bravado, arrogance, self-aggrandizement, domination. These are false trails leading to misery for the subject of a man’s affection. ”

Morgan counted herself lucky. No man had ever taken enough interest in her to leave a wound. “I shall avoid those behaviors, then. But might I rephrase my question?”

“I suppose.”

She drew a deep breath. “What would you do to rectify your mistakes? If you met another woman worthy of your attention?”

“A good question.” He set his jaw and stared at the horizon.

“To begin, I would not try to win her regard with flashes of fire and gales of manliness. I would find her in the still, quiet moments and speak to her of small things. Of meaningful things. Of sacred things. Through a collection of such moments, I would find the hidden and closely guarded trails to her heart. I would follow such a trail to approach gently and with reverence. In the fullness of time, she might find the desire to let me love her. And to love me in return.”

His description settled upon Morgan like the breath of morning, a fresh breeze blowing through her exposed soul. Oh, to be so pursued, so cherished, so exalted by anyone! She rubbed her eyes to prevent even the hint of tears and nodded sidelong at him.

“An excellent plan, but for one flaw.”

He lifted his vacant eyes again from the road. “Flaw?”

“You vowed never to let a woman draw you close. What you describe is the very opposite.”

He grunted. “You asked how I would woo a woman should I ever choose to do so. I have chosen not to, as you so aptly explained.” He smiled at Morgan. “Yet another way in which you understand me. In which you befriend me.”

Ache and hope fought for supremacy in Morgan’s heart as she reveled in his surprising assessment. “You…you consider me a friend?”

“I do.” He laughed lightly. “Much to my surprise. I have missed such friendship for a very long time. You are reminding me just how much.”

***

Morgan’s head was still spinning from the paradox of friendship shrouded in deceit when they arrived at a non-descript house at the edge of Salisbury. She forced herself to talk to Steadman.

“I thought we sought a tailor. We appear to be calling on an elderly woman for tea and biscuits.”

He shot her an I-know-something-you-don’t smile. “Excellent, Morgan. And not so off the mark. This happens to be the home of a remarkable tailor who retired from London’s most reputable shop a few years ago and now spends her days reminiscing.”

One word leapt from his reply. “Her? But tailors are men.”

“True. But Mrs. Habersham was the talent behind the business. The selector of fabrics. The designer of suits. The sewer of dreams. And now, she is here with little to do but improve your fortunes.”

Morgan dismounted with dismay and followed Steadman to the door.

Trepidation dogged her steps. Not only a tailor, but a woman!

Her ruse was doomed. While she spun visions of how to dodge the trap, Steadman rapped on the door.

Before Morgan could choose an escape route, an elegant older woman answered the door. Her eyes lit with surprise.

“Why, as I live and breathe! Mr. Drew!”

“Just Steadman. And how are you, Mrs. Habersham?”

He managed to continue a civil conversation with the woman while physically dragging Morgan into the house and found the wherewithal to make introductions and explain their purpose in the process.

“Pish posh,” said Mrs. Habersham to Morgan with a flick of one finger. “A suit is elementary. It will be finished before your return to London.”

“But I don’t…”

Mrs. Habersham was already retrieving a measuring tape—a long strip of unmarked brown paper. “Here, Mr. Brady. Remove your coat and let us begin with a measurement of your chest.”

Morgan crossed her arms instead. “Really. This is unnecessary.”

She stared nails at Mrs. Habersham to make her point, apparently befuddling the woman. Steadman smirked and nodded.

“The boy is shy about his body. Perhaps you should instruct him how to measure himself and notch the paper.”

Mrs. Habersham coughed with affront. “As if a boy could learn my trade in five minutes. Ridiculous.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Steadman. “Let us at least decide how to outfit him and give his reluctance time to thaw.”

“Capital!” Mrs. Habersham clapped her hands. “What do you suggest?”

Steadman and Mrs. Habersham fell into a discussion of men’s clothing as if Morgan had ceased to exist. She simply stood to one side and repeatedly checked the door to make sure it had not moved.

“There we have it,” said Steadman after ten minutes.

“Waistcoat of striped maroon and gray. Single-breasted close fit tailcoat, kerseymere. Breeches in lieu of pantaloons, with knee buckles of polished brass. Cotton shirt, plain fronted with ivory buttons, and high collar to mask the lack of a beard. And a new cravat, starched cotton, white. Top boots to complete the ensemble. Quite simple.”