Page 15 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

“I am truly sorry for that. I did not intend for this to happen.” Her reply was soft and broken.

How had he never noticed just how soft her voice was?

Or had he, but had not admitted it because of his utter confidence in his perception of the truth?

He glanced away and ran a finger over the now-extinguished candle wick.

“Well, it did happen.”

She caught his gaze for the beat of an angel’s wing before returning her eyes to the stained floor. “Will you tell the magistrate?”

“I must.”

She nodded before removing her hat to clutch it in both hands. With a force of will akin to raising the dead, she lifted her gaze to engage him. “Will you at least allow me time to find another job for the sake of those depending on me?”

“So, that was not another lie?”

Her eyes glistened with moisture, and he saw the beginnings of umbrage. “Everything I told you was the truth, other than my sex. I am not a liar.”

Empathy stirred within him. He knew more than most what it was to be something other than what you were made to be. He knew the path of creating fiction for the sake of conviction. “Very well. I will grant you that request.”

“Thank you.” Her gaze retreated to the study of her feet. “Will… will you send me back to London?”

He considered the question longer than he should have. “No. A gentleman would not allow a…woman… to travel unchaperoned on the road.”

Her eyes flicked upward again, softer. A hint of gratitude in them? “What shall I do, then?”

He opened the door and straddled the threshold. “I must finish the investigation as I promised. Remain here. Avoid others as best you can. I will work as fast as I can.”

Her shoulders sagged in defeat, and she nodded. “Do…do you despise me now?”

Her plaintive question stabbed him through the heart for his inability to answer it.

He didn’t know what he felt. He experienced everything and nothing all at once with no means to sort through the chaos.

“I have not decided. I will let you know when I do. In the meantime, I must interview my old acquaintance. But first, I need a drink.”

“But it is not yet ten o’clock in the morning.”

“Nevertheless, I need a drink.”

He pulled the door closed behind him, brooding over what he might have just lost.

***

In the silence of Steadman’s absence, Morgan’s every heartbeat sounded in her ears like an accusation. “Done, done. Done, done.”

Over the nearly four weeks since joining Bow Street, she had anticipated the moment of discovery, imagined every scenario, examined every reaction, guessed every sensation—and had built the defenses necessary to survive the moment.

Despite her best efforts, one emotion galloped freely through her, wholly unexpected and therefore impervious to her pitiful defenses.

Heartbreak.

Morgan pressed both hands to the sides of her head and began to pace back and forth in her small room, two steps to every turn.

A singular horror haunted her thoughts. She had begun to fall for Steadman.

Without intention, she had begun to think of him not as a mentor, not as an associate, but as a man.

A man with whom she could be a woman and perhaps see her worth reflected in his warm gaze.

A groan escaped her. “Foolish woman! Utter fool!”

Another dozen turns returned her to reality.

What would a man like Steadman, an Adonis who drew every woman’s desire, want with a plain woman dressed in substandard men’s clothing.

A woman with no wealth, no connections, and only burdens to offer?

She shook her head. Nothing, she decided.

He could want nothing of her. The friendship that had formed between them only magnified the heartbreak.

Its presence had been palpable, tangible.

It had begun to refill the dry well of her isolation with the promise of new life, new hope.

Now, he hated her. Tears that had descended her cheeks began the journey to the floor as individual drops, only to fall beneath her pacing feet.

After minutes trapped in turmoil, Morgan stopped before the door and brushed her fingertips against it.

She inhaled a pair of stuttered breaths, wiped her sniffling nose with a sleeve, and rubbed away tears with the heels of her hands.

With clearer sight, she examined the door.

The rest of her life lay beyond it. What would that life be when she finally stepped through?

Quiet resolve began to well inside—the same resolve that had allowed her to survive a harsh father, to bring her family to London, and to embark on the most audacious ruse imaginable.

Treading in the rising waters of intention, her principled courage returned.

She was still an employee of Bow Street, if only for another few days.

She had pledged to the magistrate to aid in the Broad Chalke investigation.

Steadman had told her to remain hidden; to avoid others. She balled her fists.

No!

She would not. After her deception, the least she could do was her duty. And duty called her to help Steadman as she had promised. Her hand found the knob and she stepped through the door to begin discovering the remainder of her life, no matter what the cost.

When Steadman lifted his eyes to find her standing beside his table, surprise rippled across his features. When she sat, his forehead pinched above his nose.

“Morgan?”

“Sir. I will complete the task assigned to me by the magistrate and will not accept a rejection of my duty. To do any less is to surrender my character. I may have little left, but that remains.”

Steadman stared, as if searching her face for something recognizable.

She waited to engage him in a pitched battle of wills.

After a moment, however, he emptied his glass in one swallow and clanked it down on the tabletop.

“If you insist.” Then he stood and peered down at her.

“But you must do as I say. And you must not reveal to anyone else what has been revealed to me. Understood?”

She stood with shamed relief. “Yes.”

As she followed him outside, though, demons of doubt about her ability to comply tormented her with hot pokers, howling with laughter at her pain.