Page 16 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Steadman allowed Morgan to trail behind him as they rode west toward Ebesborne Wake.

He hoped his information was correct—that his old acquaintance had returned to her family home at the edge of the tiny village.

However, his thoughts kept drifting to the rider behind him and the silence that stretched between them minute upon minute.

His hot anger from earlier had abated to a smoldering mound of antipathy, allowing him to think more clearly than before.

Her deception had blindsided him. However, why was he so disturbed by it?

He had deceived and been deceived more times than he could count.

How was this so different? The more he asked the question, though, the more apparent the answer became.

He cared for Morgan. Deeply.

She had awakened in him the long dormant desire to embrace another soul as an equal, without restraint. Her ruse seemed more betrayal than con, more treason than fraud, and after he had taken such care to avoid deeper female relationships. And romantic entanglements.

He was still mired knee-deep in thought when he blinked to find his destination only fifty yards away. He reined his horse to a stop and dismounted. Morgan mimicked his action. Her expression remained wary, defensive, and equally wounded.

“Our target lies just there.” He pointed to an ancient house that looked like a leftover from Saxon times. “We tie the horses here. Approach the door and count to one hundred before knocking and announcing yourself as Bow Street. Try to sound manly when you do it.”

She cut her eyes towards him. “Why? Are we in danger here?”

“Only if you believe compelling lies.”

He spun on his heel and prowled through a vacant lot adjacent to the house. He slid along the back of the house until reaching the rear door. There he waited.

“Bow Street! Open up!” Morgan’s shout echoed through the open windows of the house.

After a few seconds, the quick padding of feet approached from inside, and the rear door flew open.

Steadman grabbed the startled woman as she attempted to sail past. As her momentum failed, she jerked surprised eyes up to meet those of her captor.

“Steadman!”

“Prudence. Nice to see you again. Where are you off to just now?”

She recovered her wits in an instant. “Oh, a little stroll. Nothing more.”

“Into the river? Not likely.”

She looked the same as he remembered. Silver hair and timeless features that put her somewhere between fifty and seventy, and a lithe frame that might blow over in a stiff wind or run all day, depending on her needs.

She had been a startling beauty in her younger years, a trait that had made her deceits easier to sell.

“You should have told me you wished to visit,” she said calmly. “I would have put on tea.”

He prodded her back into the house. “Difficult to make tea when running. Now, sit.”

She settled in a chair at the kitchen table while Steadman opened the front door for Morgan. She glanced inside cautiously before entering and followed him to the kitchen.

“Morgan, Mrs. Prudence Lightboddy,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Prudence, Miss…Mister Morgan Brady.”

Prudence smiled at Morgan while addressing Steadman. “He’s a mere slip of a lad. And wearing such an unfortunate suit. How have you not rectified that?”

“I tried. But that is another story.” He tossed a glance at Morgan while pulling up a chair. “Sit. Let us converse.”

Prudence stared at him through narrowed eyes. “So, the rumors are true, then. You’ve turned.”

“I am still the same. But now, the law works for me rather than against me.”

“How nice. I am happy for you, though now even more skeptical of the law.”

Morgan, who had remained standing, took a seat at the table and motioned toward Prudence. “Steadman, I expected a rogue. She is just a nice old woman.”

He shook his head. “She would sell her own mother for a handful of shillings.”

Prudence frowned with faux hurt. “Oh, posh. I never sold her so much as rented her out from time to time. But that was long ago. Now, I’m just an old woman with rheumatoid knees.”

“Try again.”

She glared at him. “If this is about the Temperance job, I don’t have your money.”

“This is not about the Temperance job.”

“About the ‘bag of feral cats’ incident, then?”

“Not that either. I escaped unscathed, no thanks to you.”

She cocked her head and frowned. “To what does this pertain, then?”

He leaned forward and placed a palm on the table. “The extortion of wheat from local farmers for a criminally low price. And as you are acquainted with every scoundrel in the area, I assume you are either involved or know who is.”

Prudence donned her innocent Sunday-go-to-church smile and waved a hand. “Oh, I have left that life behind. I know nothing of scoundrels or dastardly incidents. I have become a God-fearing woman.”

“That’s not what I heard at the tavern.” Morgan’s remark came no sooner than Prudence had closed her mouth. Steadman eyed Morgan and then found Prudence doing the same. The older woman’s features constricted with concern.

“At the tavern, you say? Was it Mulroy? Or that wastrel Stokes?”

With practiced ease, Morgan retrieved a piece of paper and graphite pencil from the voluminous confines of her suit. “How do you spell ‘Mulroy’?”

Prudence’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, a gesture which Steadman recognized as unease. He suppressed a smile. While Prudence was familiar enough with him to spin falsehoods with no conscience, Morgan was an unknown quantity who had set the woman on edge.

“I know of no Mulroy. Or of Stokes.” Prudence crossed her arms to make her point and to mask her disquiet. He jumped into the small breach opened by Morgan.

“But Stokes knows of you. How would he know of you if you had left your criminal life behind?”

“I don’t know. I’m just an old woman with rheumatoid knees. And Stokes talks too much. How did you meet him anyway?

He smiled. “I had never heard of Stokes until you mentioned him just now.”

Prudence blinked. “Pardon me. I’m old and my mind doesn’t always work right. I don’t know any Stokes.”

Morgan leaned toward Prudence, her eyes bright with the hunt. “But let us speak of Mulroy. What if I said we expected him any minute? What do you think he would say?”

Prudence let her eyes flit toward the door. “Who knows? But Mulroy is a liar. You cannot believe a word he says. What did he say about me?

“How am I to know, Mrs. Lightboddy? I had never heard of Mulroy until you mentioned him just now. So, what would he say about you?”

Prudence fanned her face with a diffident hand. “Oh, he would say that I’ve turned over a new leaf and now live the life of a poor, harmless, elderly saint.”

“But as Mulroy is a liar,” Steadman interjected, “And cannot be believed, then we would interpret such a response to mean the opposite—that you still participate in criminal activity.”

“Perhaps I was mistaken about Mulroy.”

“About him calling you a saint or about him being a liar?”

“Uh, the latter.”

“So, when Mulroy told me that you know very well who is behind this, he was telling the truth?”

Prudence straightened, her eyes going wider. “I thought you said you never heard of Mulroy until just now?”

Morgan slapped the table. “I said I have never heard of Mulroy until just now. I do not speak for Steadman, and as you are aware, he knows everybody. And you failed to answer his question. Was Mulroy telling the truth?”

“Mulroy would have said nothing, no matter the coercion.”

Morgan leaned back into her chair with a show of confidence that threatened to make Steadman proud. “Because of the way you’ve blackmailed him?”

Prudence stared at her and blinked with surprise. The toughest of nuts was cracking. “How did you know about that? I told no one.”

Morgan smiled and examined the nails of her left hand. “I did not know. I simply guessed.”

Steadman edged nearer to Prudence. “But given that you are blackmailing Mulroy, by your own admission, how can you say you have left the criminal life behind? Blackmail is an imprisonable offense.”

Prudence forced a matronly smile. “Oh, Steadman. You would not send an old woman to prison?”

“You sent your own mother to prison with your testimony. And as you have become a God-fearing Christian, what is the famous saying about the treatment of others?” Prudence sat in silence, cutting her wavering gaze between her interrogators.

He snapped his fingers at Morgan. “Morgan, your father was a vicar. What is the saying?”

“Therefore, all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them. Gospel of Matthew, chapter seven, verse twelve.”

“There you have it, Prudence. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. And as you sent your own mother to prison, then I assume by the standard of your God-fearing principles, you now want to go to prison.”

Prudence stared aghast. “Why would I want to go to prison? I’m just an old woman with rheumatoid knees.”

“You were quite spry when running away from me,” said Morgan. “Too fast for rheumatoid knees.”

“Did I say knees? I meant elbows.”

“I see,” said Steadman. “Then explain how you manage to lower bottles of contraband gin into the space beneath the floor with rheumatoid elbows.”

Prudence narrowed her eyes again. “How did you know about that?”

“A guess. You have always kept contraband gin beneath the floor of every place you’ve lived.”

“But not here.”

He smacked the heel of his boot three times on the floor at his feet, revealing a hollow beneath. “And you’ve always placed your table over the hollow space to prevent visitors from walking over it.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. Her benign smile betrayed alarm. “There is nothing in the hollow space.”

Morgan pushed the table a few inches toward Prudence. “Then you won’t mind when we confiscate whatever is in the hollow space? Given that it is empty?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Morgan waved the same piece of paper on which she had been writing. “We have a warrant.”

The old woman’s defenses crumbled. “You cannot! My life savings are tied up in that gin. Do you want an old woman with rheumatoid knees to starve?”

“Rheumatoid elbows,” Morgan said. “And you will not starve in prison. Consumption will kill you first.”

Prudence glared at Morgan in silence as Steadman checked his smile. Then the old woman faced him, her expression grim. She heaved a defeated sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“I thought you would never ask. Now, who is behind the extortion scheme? Answer truthfully, or we will also confiscate the French port you keep in your cart in the barn.”

She deflated. “I may have heard something.”

“Enlighten Mr. Brady and me.”

She leaned toward the table and motioned him and Morgan to do the same. Then she whispered, “You cannot tell anyone it was me who peached.”

“We promise. Now, who is behind this?”

She breathed deeply. “Three-Finger Jack. But I’ve nothing to do with him.”

Steadman was familiar with the man. Not a throat slitter, but capable of any misdeed short of that. “Where does he reside these days?”

“Stoke Farthing, just past Broad Chalke, with his wife and five brats. He visits the tavern in Broad Chalke every evening.”

Steadman rose and donned his top hat. “Now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? We will not impose on you any further, Prudence. It was a pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise. Now, leave and don’t come back. And take Miss Brady with you.”

His brow knotted. “You think Morgan is a woman?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?”

Without a word, he stomped away from the table.

As Morgan followed him out the door to their mounts, he remembered that he was still angry with her.

He admitted, however, that they made good partners.

She had displayed an impeccable sense of timing, reserve, and aggression at just the right moments—as if she were reading his thoughts.

He wasn’t sure if that eased or heightened his disappointment in the loss of their friendship.

He stewed on this and other things as they returned to Broad Chalke if for nothing else than to keep from considering her remarkable eyes and what was concealed beneath her tragic suit.