Page 14 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Morgan flew awake in the night, consumed by the twin monsters of dread and regret that loom largest when the hours are smallest. After tossing in her bed for a long time, she surrendered all hope of sleep and rose in darkness.

When she had tossed and turned the night before, she had used the cover of darkness to steal to the river to bathe.

A peek through the window told her that dawn was coming.

Dare she venture out again? Before anyone stirred?

More importantly, before Steadman stirred?

After vacillating, she pulled on her pantaloons and slipped outside with towel and soap to repeat her new ritual.

As before, Morgan stripped from the pantaloons and hung them on the protective hedge.

Swaddled in the security of a blanket of cloudy, moonless night, she waded into the brisk but lazy current.

She bathed with urgency, taking care not to soak the front of her shirt as she had done twice already.

When the small dish of soap slipped from her hand, she cursed softly.

With great care to keep her shirt free of the river, she squatted to probe with her right hand until locating the dish.

The soap had all but vanished, bringing an abrupt end to her efforts.

Morgan sighed and stepped carefully onto the bank.

She reached toward the amorphous shape of the hedge, feeling for her pantaloons.

When her initial probes proved fruitless, panic began to awaken.

She swept her hands from one end to the other without success before dropping to her knees.

Perhaps they had fallen to the ground. A similar search turned up nothing. She sat back on her heels in shock.

Someone had stolen her pantaloons.

But who? What kind of monster would steal a person’s pantaloons in the dark of the night?

Morgan pivoted her head side to side but saw no sign of the thief.

Her initial shock swiftly made room for the return of panic.

What was she to do? She couldn’t very well traipse around Broad Chalke with bare legs.

Was this the end of her ruse, then? Was this the moment she donned her dress?

She shook her head. No. I must not allow that.

Her aunt and brothers depended on the success of the lie, so she must do everything in her power to maintain it.

She stood and paced back and forth behind the bush before lifting her eyes to the east. The black of night was purpling, announcing the coming dawn.

Forcing calm, she constructed a plan. She would steal back to her room, lock the door, and claim illness when Steadman knocked.

Once he left for his next interview, she would go out in her dress and bonnet and try to beg a pair of pantaloons from Mr. Jarvis, hoping he would fail to recognize her.

She hoped the thirty shillings she carried would be enough for the purchase.

Though unsatisfied with her plan, she could come up with nothing better.

Resigned, she crept to the edge of the hedge and listened intently.

Silence.

After inhaling a deep breath, Morgan ran to the back door of the inn and slipped inside.

The clank of dishes in the kitchen told her that she was not the only one awake.

Heart pounding, she broke for the stairs and mounted them two by two.

She treaded lightly down the hallway to her room, praying like a dying sinner that she would encounter no one.

Her hand shook as she rattled the knob to open the door.

She slipped inside, pressed the door closed, and settled her forehead against it, surprised by her successful run.

However, any elation was short-lived. The lit candle on the candlestand adjacent to the door caught her horrified attention.

Her head grew light. She had not lit a candle before leaving the room.

Whirling about, she found Steadman standing beside the window with her pantaloons dangling from one hand.

Despite the shadows, she could tell his expression held no mirth.

Only then did she remember her state of undress.

When she crouched and flung her arms across her chest, Steadman turned away to face the window.

She remained locked in place, wanting to disappear.

“You are a woman.” Steadman’s voice rumbled in the dimness, dark with accusation.

“Pardon me?”

“You are a woman, Morgan Brady. Or is that even your real name?”

She rose from the crouch, though still covering her chest. “It is my real name.”

“But you are a woman.”

She heaved a stuttered breath. “Yes. But I can explain.”

He threw a hand up and pumped it three times in her direction. After a pause during which an entire civilization might have risen and fallen, he tossed the pantaloons onto her bed. She darted aside when he lurched for the door. He paused again in the door frame and swayed back and forth.

“You should learn to lock your door.”

Then he was gone. She blinked in stunned denial before gently closing the door and turning the key in the lock. Minutes passed and she failed to move from the spot, as if she had grown roots seeking groundwater.

“Oh, God,” she breathed aloud, finally. With the spell broken, Morgan retreated to the bed to stew.

The moment she had dreaded had lived up to its frightful anticipation.

What would become of her? Would he send her home straightaway?

Would he dispatch word to Bow Street of her fraud?

Would she suffer legal trouble in addition to the loss of income?

Trapped inside the endless circle of alarm, however, she kept returning to the moment Steadman had brushed past her to leave.

More distressing than her crumbling fiction had been the expression on his face.

He was angry. And wounded. And both were her fault.

***

Steadman wandered in the pre-dawn twilight down the Salisbury highway as if to offer himself as a blood sacrifice to the rising sun.

His thoughts spun in a maelstrom of denial, hurt, awe, and anger as he reconstructed the events leading to moments earlier.

When he had tied Morgan’s cravat the previous day, a flash of intuition had burned through him, shouting for him to notice the truth.

He had not believed the intuition. He had not wanted to believe it.

When Morgan touched his reddening cheek, though, he had finally listened to the scream. But what to do?

Two mornings earlier, he had risen before the sun and spied Morgan returning from the river in the gloom.

Convicted, he had waited up most of the previous night watching her door.

Waiting. When she had emerged, he followed her, taken her pantaloons, and returned to her room for the inevitable confrontation.

Steadman came to a lurching halt in the middle of the road.

Her. He had been thinking of Morgan as her.

All trace of Mr. Brady had vanished, and remarkably quickly.

Why was that? Could it be that his heart had known the truth all along and merely waited for his mind to catch up?

His recollection returned to that singular moment when Morgan had burst into her room.

When she had stood before him clad in nothing but a long shirt that hung nearly to her knees, the contours of a woman had been unmistakable.

How had he not noticed before? How had she managed to fool him so thoroughly?

Was he not the master of concealment and evasion?

Could he not spot any con, discover any subterfuge, unravel any crooked game, unearth any lie?

And yet he had missed the con, the subterfuge, and the lie right beneath his nose.

He rocked back into motion, continuing his journey into the welcoming sun.

His fists balled in anger. Morgan had put his reputation at risk in every conceivable way.

He had spent fifteen years carefully avoiding the label of a philandering gentleman, never allowing himself into compromising situations.

And yet Morgan had allowed him to unwittingly spend days in unchaperoned company with an unmarried woman—assuming she was unmarried.

She had jeopardized everything. What had she done?

As he walked, though, the sharp edges chipped away from his anger to reveal the ache of a new wound.

He had long held friendships at bay. He had vowed to never again let a woman close lest it destroy his mission—and his heart.

And yet Morgan had slipped beneath his carefully constructed battlements without notice and without malice to storm the heart of the keep.

In a matter of days. How had he allowed that to happen, given his extensive list of inviolable promises to himself?

And with the scar of his first love, his only love, still so jagged on his heart?

He continued wandering in a muddle. Without quite knowing when, he left the sun to find another tribute and returned to the inn. With no plan and no intention, he found himself standing outside Morgan’s door. Was she still inside? He gathered his resolve and knocked.

“Yes?”

“We should talk.”

“Of course.” The key rattled in the lock and the door opened a crack.

He gingerly pushed it wider. Morgan backed away from him, her eyes downcast. She was wearing the borrowed suit and battered hat, the latter pulled low over her hollow eyes.

She appeared unwilling to speak. He stepped inside and closed the door but hugged the wall for space.

“You should have told me.” Her eyes flickered at his conclusion but remained averted. “You risked both our reputations with your deception.”