Page 13 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Agitated fear, not interest, drew Morgan into the conversation.

“Simple? Simple you say? I tell you, I’ve no need or desire for striped coats and cotton top boots and ivory breeches.

I will wear my deplorable suit until I return to London no matter how long the investigation takes.

Then, and only then, will I consider the services of a tailor.

Until such time, I refuse to be measured, fitted, and dressed as if a simpleton! ”

Steadman and Mrs. Habersham stared at Morgan in astonishment as she launched her diatribe.

Their expressions were not unlike her own.

Her father had sought to make her meek, so her outpouring of mettle came as a great and welcome surprise.

For the first time in, well, forever, she felt in possession of her own destiny.

After a few blinks, Steadman’s brows lowered, and he grew a half-grin.

“Well, well, Mr. Brady. I am pleased to learn you possess an iron backbone. Another excellent quality in a man.” Then he sighed. “Although I am disappointed. I had so hoped to educate you in the art of finer dressing.”

She lifted her chin and folded her arms. “Another time. Not today. I stand firm.”

“I see.” He blew a disappointed breath. “At least allow me to purchase you a cravat. Yours is a relic from the last century.”

Morgan cut her eyes at a newly hopeful Mrs. Habersham and dipped her chin. “Very well. One cravat, but nothing else.”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Habersham sailed into motion. “I happen to have several options just over here, if you will assist me, Steadman.”

Within a minute, she placed in Morgan’s hands a well-starched cravat of fine thread cotton, ivory in color. “This should do. Please try it on, sir.”

Unease overtook Morgan again. She turned her back to her audience before discreetly untying and removing the old cravat, careful to conceal her smooth neck completely devoid of an Adam’s apple.

Although she had gained some proficiency at tying a cravat, her fingers abruptly became wooden.

She fumbled through three attempts before Steadman suddenly appeared before her. He snatched the cloth from her fingers.

“Oh, here.” Frustration colored his voice. “Let me show you the proper tying of a Waterfall knot so at least one portion of your wardrobe joins the current century.”

He stepped into her until only inches of separation remained between her charade and humiliating discovery.

However, his eyes remained focused on the cravat as he deftly tied it around her neck with a running monologue of his movements.

Morgan paid no attention to the instructions.

Instead, she drank of his presence while shouting dire warning to herself.

She felt like a tree on the lip of a precipice in a withering gale, clinging with every fiber to crumbling soil.

Steadman broke her dream state by patting the finished knot and engaging her eyes.

“There, Mr. Brady. That will quite…that will quite…”

His brows drew down as he stared intently into her eyes, searching. He blinked rapidly and stepped away abruptly. Fear of discovery set fire to Morgan’s veins.

“Is…is something wrong, sir?”

He tossed a hand at her while industriously avoiding eye contact. He laughed, though it sounded forced. “No, nothing. It’s just that I noticed the green that rings your brown eyes. The ladies will love that feature, I think.”

Morgan exhaled relief. So, he had not seen through her facade. Somehow, she had survived another day of emulating a man, much to her growing dismay.

***

On the return trip from Salisbury to Broad Chalke, Steadman could not dismiss what had occurred at Mrs. Habersham’s house.

Morgan’s absolute refusal to accept a suit.

His grudging acceptance of the cravat. Mostly, though, he dwelled on what had happened when he’d tied the cravat around Morgan’s neck.

In his impatience, he had drawn near to his protégé, unaware of just how near.

Until, that is, he glanced up to find Morgan’s mortified expression.

His smooth cheeks. His high cheekbones. His impossibly large eyes.

And something about his neck. A word had flashed immediately through Steadman’s mind, and not one he would ever have admitted aloud.

Beautiful.

So stunned was he by his reaction that he could not dislodge it from his thoughts. Perhaps it was a result of the unexpected friendship. Maybe it was simply the familiarity he had found with Morgan on the road.

Or.

Perhaps the moment might be explained by other means. That he had found a man attractive, which would be a first for him. Or, that Morgan was in fact a…

He literally shook his head at the thought. How could that be possible? Still, he stole repeated glances at his partner, wondering, until they entered Broad Chalke. Mostly silent during the journey, Morgan finally spoke as they dismounted at the inn.

“What happens next?”

Steadman tried again to dismiss his suspicions as he handed his horse’s tether to the stable boy. Focus on the investigation. Yes. That was the way to clear his head.

“I have an old acquaintance nearby. More of an accomplice, really. If anyone knows which scoundrels are afoot in the area, it will be her. Though my appearance will not likely please her. She swindled me last time we did business.”

Morgan listened intently, though Steadman tried not to meet his eyes. “This acquaintance. Is she dangerous?”

“Her? Oh, no. However, she might have associates who are. If any are staying at her house, then the meeting could become rough.”

“Rough? By that you mean…”

An idea formed rapidly, a means to address his disquiet. “Mr. Brady, are you a pugilist?”

“A pugilist?”

“A fighter. Can you throw a punch with bare knuckles sufficient to bloody a man’s nose?”

Morgan’s eyes grew wide with unease. “I, well, no. I found few opportunities to brawl while living in a parsonage under the nose of a vicar.”

“Few?”

“Uh. None, actually.”

He began removing his coat. “That won’t do. I must teach you to throw a punch. Remove your coat.”

Morgan pulled his coat tighter. “I will not remove my coat.”

While Steadman rolled up his sleeves, his creeping suspicion rose on hind legs to sniff the wind. “Very well. I will try to not damage your cherished garment. Now, make two fists.”

Morgan did. “Like this?”

“Not with your thumb inside your fingers. You will break it with the first punch. Besides, unhindered thumbs remain free to gouge eyes and other orifices.”

The color drained from Morgan’s face, but he complied and then copied Steadman’s boxer stance. Fairly effectively, he noted. He stepped towards Morgan.

“Jab, uppercut, ribs.” He threw his fists at the boy in alternation, leaving each punch short by an inch, eliciting a wince from his pupil. “These are the tools of your combat. Now, show me.”

He followed Steadman’s instruction, throwing the three-punch combination in the air. “Good. Again, but with more aggression. As if your father stood before you now.”

Morgan complied with marked improvement. He couldn’t help but smile. “I believe you may have tickled his jaw just then. Repeat, but faster, sharper, and with more violence, and then again.”

While Morgan flung her fists at the air, Steadman prodded. “Faster! Harder! Hit the man!”

After two minutes, Morgan was huffing for breath.

“Stop,” Steadman said. “Rest a moment.”

Morgan leaned with hands on knees, breathing hard. “I believe…I have just…defeated my first shadow.”

“Perhaps. I will verify with the shadow later.” He peered at Morgan, daring to see what he suspected. “But a shadow does not punch back. Stand up.”

Morgan stood, cheeks flushing with exertion. “Yes?”

“Hit me.”

“Sir?”

“Hit me, hard.”

Morgan threw the combination, tapping him lightly.

“Hit me, I said. This is not a tickle fight.”

The next combination came harder, but not enough to leave more than a momentary sting. He stepped towards Morgan. “Hit me, by the devil! As if I mean to kill you if you fail to knock me to the dirt!”

Morgan’s eyes flew wide, his jaw flexed, and he threw a murderous combination at Steadman.

The jab caught him on the bridge of the nose, the uppercut rocked his jaw, and rib shot sent a pulse through his backbone.

He staggered back in surprise and rubbed his nose while Morgan shook the sting from his hands with a persistent grimace.

When the lad glanced up at Steadman, a look of horror rippled across his face.

“Sir! Your nose! Your jaw! I did not mean to…” In an instant, Morgan closed the gap between them and laid a palm against his jaw.

Softly. They froze together, as if insects preserved in amber for all time, exchanging stares.

The touch of her hand became his entire universe for the space of two heartbeats before he grabbed it and peeled it away from his cheek.

The action unlocked Morgan. She blanched and yanked away the hand.

“Steadman. I…I am…” Morgan spun away without another word and disappeared into the inn.

Steadman stood rooted to the spot for another minute as the impossible notion consumed the entirety of his mind. Only when he had decided how to address the notion did he follow Morgan inside.