Page 17 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Morgan’s first words from Steadman since leaving Prudence’s house were those of complaint as they walked from the inn toward a seedy tavern.

“My level of discomfort is high over our working alone together after dark.”

An afternoon of sleep before nightfall had allowed Morgan to push her shame aside enough to experience pique. “Is that so? How would you gauge your level of discomfort? Cresting the banks or over the sandbags?”

Her retort caught his attention, for he looked her in the eyes for the first time since the interrogation. “Rediscovered you spirt, have you?”

“It was never lost, but merely secluded. But about my question. Bank or sandbag?”

“Definitely sandbag.”

She moved ahead of him to assess his eyes. Though the sun had long since set, Steadman’s expression remained visible through the planes of shadows cast across the contours of his face. He appeared as uncomfortable as he claimed.

“Why?” she asked. “Thus far on this journey, I have met two women with whom you seemed comfortable alone after dark. If so, then why the discomfort now? And me still masquerading as a man.”

The shadows of his eyes cut toward her. “You know why.”

“I do not.” It was the truth. Morgan did not know why and remained bothered by that fact.

He picked up his long-legged pace, forcing her into a near trot. “I should not be compelled to explain the obvious to a woman of your intelligence.”

“Please, do.”

He exhaled with exasperation. “Very well. If you must know, none of those women had become my friend.”

Minor disappointment settled in. “Is that all.”

“Of course. What else would there be?”

The disappointment mounted before Morgan wrestled it down.

Why was she practically begging for his regard?

He had never seen her as anything but an overgrown boy.

Why would she expect him to now notice her femininity?

Particularly when she had buried it beneath six feet of mud back in the London slums. And of her own volition.

Steadman slowed as they neared the tavern.

He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“We linger here in the shadows until the tavern closes, which it should any moment now. Then we follow Three-Finger Jack and surveil him. Do as I do, and practice extreme stealth. He is a dangerous man.”

“How dangerous?”

Steadman peered at her in the darkness. “No matter what, do not reveal your sex to him.”

She accepted his warning and stewed over it as they waited in silence.

Within minutes, the tavern belched forth a knot of staggering, laughing men who clung together for a few steps before falling into a dozen separate journeys toward respective homes.

Steadman raised his arm to point at the largest, drunkest, loudest of the lot.

“Three-Finger Jack. Let’s go.”

They followed the giant of a man, maintaining a trailing distance of about one hundred strides and hugging the shadows as they went.

As they had suspected, the man did not move in the direction of his house in Stoke Farthing.

He instead turned down a side street in the opposite direction.

Morgan could not resist wondering aloud.

“Meeting with his crew?”

Steadman shushed her but nodded. Another three blocks on, Jack banged loudly on the door of a narrow, two-story house. Within moments, the door cracked, and he slipped inside, out of sight.

“What now?” Morgan asked.

“We wait over there to see who else arrives.” He pointed to an empty courtyard featuring a small bench and a commanding view of the house.

After they occupied opposite ends of the old bench, Steadman settled into a silent sulk.

Morgan, on the other hand, remained perched and attentive, spinning scenarios of what she would do if ruffians approached them.

However, perhaps a quarter of an hour passed with no one else even passing by on the street.

She glanced at Steadman, who was making a comprehensive survey of the patch of grass between his boots.

He was hunched over with elbows on knees, swaying slightly.

The punishing gulf that had interrupted their friendship abruptly overcame her.

“Steadman.” She kept her voice low.

His head bobbed up. “Yes?”

“You mentioned a sister.”

“I did.”

“Might you tell me of her? While we wait?”

His head rocked back and forth on his shoulders before he resumed his slouch. “Three years younger.”

His willingness to divulge family information, no matter how laconically, prodded her hope. “Have you seen her? In the past several years, I mean?”

He grunted. “From a distance.”

Morgan’s determination drove her to pry further. “What is she called?”

“Evelyn.” A hint of wistfulness accompanied the name. “She was always strong. She might break you in half for daring to speak to her.”

The assessment startled Morgan. “Because she is proud?”

“No. Because she can.”

“I see.” She let the silence drift until it dusted them like late-Spring snow. “You seem as if you’d like to break me in half.”

He slowly lifted from his slouch. “Perhaps.”

“Why?” Her response came louder and with more injury than she had intended.

“Why? Why you ask?” He shifted to face her. “Beyond the danger in which you placed my reputation, you cheated me.”

“Cheated you? How could I…”

“You cheated me, conned me, and swindled me no less than would a charlatan. You pilfered my regard, stole my trust, and plundered my friendship. You took from me everything I value more than money, and under false pretenses. You took everything from me for no other reason than to conceal a ruse, to cover a trail of deceit, with complete disregard for the value of what I offered.”

His accusation burned a scorching trail through her soul.

However, she felt no shame because he was greatly mistaken.

She stood from the bench in agitation, fighting to keep her voice down.

“Is that what you think, almighty Sir Steadman? That our friendship was just a poison game of cards? A great con meant to make a fool of you? That I have no regard for what you entrusted to me?”

Her muted tirade took him aback, literally. He leaned away until the bench’s armrest stopped his progress. “I… well…”

“You could not be more mistaken on that matter. Your kindness and companionship these past days have been the most precious gifts I have received in, in, in… ever. They have proven the only comforting prospects in this entire sordid affair.”

She turned away briefly before wheeling on him again.

“I gave up everything for a job to feed my family. I surrendered my womanhood. I gave up my hair, for God’s sake.

My best quality by far.” Tears stung her eyes.

“If you recall, I tried to avoid this assignment. You had the power to decline, but you did not. So, I am here, placed in an impossible situation, further from sanity and gentility than I could ever have imagined. The unfairness of it all! It makes me want to crawl into a hole and let the world forget I was ever here.”

Spent of grievance, Morgan plopped onto the bench and let her face fall into her hands. The bench vibrated as Steadman shifted in place. The brief, light brush of his hand across her shoulder brought her head up. He was facing her straight on.

“I am sorry for what has happened to you, Morgan.” The sadness and empathy behind his words proved a cooling salve to her jagged wound.

“That life has forced you into such desperate straits brings me great sorrow. And you are right. The world is unfair. It tramples good people underfoot while bearing about the wicked on its shoulders. That is why I fight for the downtrodden and punish the oppressors. That is why I once robbed coaches and now seek to bring even lords to justice. And despite what you think, I am glad you are here.”

She wanted to believe him—that she mattered even a little. However, she now knew intimately the gulf between genders in nearly all things. “The world may trample good people, but it holds special hostility for women.”

He nodded. “Tell me, then.”

She rubbed her forehead vacantly. “Surely, you are aware of the second-class status afforded my sex in this supposedly enlightened society?”

“I am.”

“How we are dismissed as empty vessels, pretty to the eye but hollow inside. How we are given simple tasks to keep us busy and out of trouble. How a woman who dares speak her mind is called a harpy, and the one who shows intelligence is considered a witch. How those who attempt to rise above the low expectations of men are punished and discarded as a warning to the rest.”

“I have noticed.” He sounded sadder still. “For that, I am sorry.”

She shook her head. “Do you know what is worst about this?”

“No.”

“You may have noticed, but until recently I did not.” She heaved a ragged sigh. “I was once content to occupy my place, and sometimes even become complicit in the regulation of others. That is the genius of our suppression. That our captors use us to guard and reprimand one another.”

He dipped his chin. “But you notice now? What changed?”

She stiffened her spine and swept a hand from her chest to her legs.

“This changed. This costume. This identity. This ruse of masculinity. For the past several weeks, when I have worn this suit and hat, I have never been insulted for the circumstances of my birth. I have endured no leering looks, inappropriate remarks, or cold dismissals. I have suffered no prospect of assault by strangers and acquaintances alike. I have walked without fear, expressing my opinions openly, and garnering respect from those who hear them.” She paused to breathe.

“I did not know, until now, what has been stolen from me since birth. And it demolishes me.”

Steadman stood from his seat, removed his hat, and clutched it before him with both hands. “Morgan. I am sorry for how our society treats our precious sisters. How it mistreats you. And I am sorry for every action that has made me complicit in that injustice.”

She stood to face him, just out of arm’s reach. “Do not apologize. It is just the way of things.”

“It should not be the way of things.”

He leaned toward her, apparently ready to say more.

Or do more. A drunken laugh froze them both.

Morgan followed the sound to find Jack emerging from the house.

She mimicked Steadman’s example by pressing herself against a wall, deep in shadows.

The subject of their surveillance stood in the doorway with a woman entangled in his arms, exchanging passionate kisses.

His clothing hung askew as if hastily reassembled after, well, Morgan could venture a guess.

He disengaged from the woman, pinched her to elicit a squeal, and swaggered away in the direction of Stoke Farthing. They watched him go without following.

“So,” said Steadman finally, “He is conducting amorous liaisons with a woman not his wife.”

“It would appear so. What now?”

He turned his gaze upon her, his eyes locked in shadows. “Return to the inn to sleep. We will try again tomorrow night. Our choices are limited at this point.”

Morgan nodded and followed Steadman as he made good on his plan. However, she disagreed with him on one point. Her choices were not just limited, but instead non-existent.