Page 2 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Four Weeks Later, Bow Street Magistrate’s Office

“You sent for me, Sir Hugh?”

The Scotsman glanced up from his writing, and his eyes lit. “Mr. Brady. Come in. Take a seat.”

Morgan approached the chair before Sir Hugh’s desk as if it might conceal a wolf trap and sat gingerly.

With a defeated exhalation of breath, she faced him.

This was the moment she had dreaded for a month.

The moment her superior would call out her fraud, the moment her dead uncle’s suit would no longer conceal her gender.

She sank into the oversized jacket and waited for the gavel of judgment to fall.

Sir Hugh steepled his fingers and offered the hint of a smile, free of malice.

“At ease, lad. All is well.”

Morgan nodded with minor relief. “May I ask what this is about?”

“Of course.” He slid a letter from the corner of his desk to the middle and waved a hand over it.

“Mr. Stafford writes a favorable assessment of your performance thus far. Only three weeks in the position and you have tidied up the loose ends of the newsletter dramatically. Hue and Cry has never looked better nor sounded more poetic.”

Morgan reminded herself not to smile too broadly.

A man wouldn’t. He would just grunt as if entitled to the praise and annoyed that it had not come sooner.

However, Sir Hugh’s words lifted her pride in a manner she had not felt in a long time, so she forgot to grunt. “Thank you, sir. I enjoy the work.”

“Clearly. Your editorial skills are all that Reverend Merrill indicated in his letter of recommendation. How did you develop such proficiency?”

She faked a dry cough to give her time to smooth the jagged edges of a half-truth.

“My father and Mr. Merrill served as vicars for neighboring parishes. I authored Mr. Merrill’s parish newsletter at his request despite my father’s protests.

Fortunately, Mr. Merrill knew how to manage my father, which was a skill I never mastered. ”

“Ah, that explains it.” Sir Hugh pushed aside the letter and steepled his fingers again.

His chair creaked as he leaned forward. “As you know, the Bow Street Magistrate’s office has published Hue and Cry for decades now.

It remains our primary tool for rallying public support and exposing the whereabouts of wanted criminals. ”

“Of course, sir.”

“And although your editorial skills are without question, I fear you might not possess a nuanced understanding of the job performed by our investigative officers.” He held up a hand when she inhaled sharply.

“Not that I blame you. Criminal investigation is unfamiliar to nearly all but those who practice it. The work is seemingly a brand of magic that allows us to solve apparently unsolvable crimes.”

“What can I do, then?” She cursed the jitter of her voice. “To better understand?”

He smiled broadly, like a man should not. “I am glad you asked.” He looked past Morgan and called out. “Mr. Jeter.”

“Sir?” The voice of Sir Hugh’s assistant rang from outside the office.

“Send in Sir Steadman.”

Morgan blinked. Sir Steadman? The Beau Monde Highwayman?

The Knight of the Road? The castoff from an upper crust family turned criminal but now reformed and working for Bow Street?

Even though she and the remnants of her family had only arrived in London two months prior, they could not escape the fantastic rumors.

The slums of the Almonry were awash with tales of Sir Steadman’s legendary exploits, of his mysterious connection to a duke’s granddaughter, and of his improbable switching sides of the law with the blessing of the Crown.

Morgan didn’t believe most of the rumors, including those of how handsome he was.

The women of the Almonry spoke of his looks in hushed tones with eyelashes fluttering and hands patting their chests.

Nobody can possibly be that handsome.

“You called for me, Sir Hugh?”

The low, velvet voice behind Morgan’s left shoulder brought her head around to find the Beau Monde Highwayman looming behind her.

Her eyes drifted upward from his gleaming top boots to his tight breeches and pressed jacket to halt on his face.

She clicked her jaw shut, suddenly aware that it had gone slack.

The rumors of his looks, it seemed, were untrue.

He was not merely handsome. Sir Steadman’s face was pure devastation of the kind that sacked morals and laid waste to good intentions.

A mop of black hair and sweeping eyebrows framed a countenance chiseled from marble by a master hand.

His hint of a smile alone nearly undid her.

She snapped back around to face Sir Hugh, willing the blush away from her cheeks.

She tried not to stare as Sir Steadman settled into the chair beside her, his left elbow mere inches from hers.

“And who is the boy?” His sweep of the hand came perilously near to touching Morgan’s sleeve.

“Steadman, allow me to introduce Mr. Morgan Brady, assistant editor of Hue and Cry. Mr. Brady, Mr. Steadman Drew, Bow Street special officer.”

“Steadman will do.”

Morgan flinched when Steadman shifted in his chair and his right hand appeared before her. She performed her best imitation of a lifeless statue before remembering what a man might do. Rallying every fiber of her fortitude, she turned her gaze to meet his and reached for his hand.

“Mr. Brady,” he said. The shock of his palm’s warm press evaporated immediately when her hand began to crumble beneath the crush. She gripped harder in self-defense before he released the handshake.

“Sir Steadman.” She tried to growl from low in her throat, certain that even those two words would expose her. He seemed not to notice and returned his attention to Sir Hugh, gutting her femininity further.

“What’s this about?”

Sir Hugh chuckled. “Right to the point as usual. Well then. Is it still your intention to ride for Broad Chalke tomorrow to investigate the incidents there?”

“It is.”

“And you volunteered for this assignment?”

“I did.”

Sir Hugh nodded and hummed softly. “Is not your family from near Broad Chalke?”

When Steadman failed to answer, Morgan glanced his way. His glare impaled Sir Hugh with suspicion. He clearly preferred not to answer the question. However, his jaw unclenched long enough for a reply. “Yes. Nearby.”

“Is that why you volunteered, then? Perhaps hoping for a pleasant family reunion?”

“No.” Steadman practically exhaled the curt response, and his borderline scowl softened. “The farmers near Broad Chalke are a good sort and undeserving of what has happened to them. I only wish to see justice done.”

Sir Hugh slapped a palm on his desk, causing Morgan to jump. “Excellent. Then we are in accord about the purpose of your visit.”

“Again, what is this really about?” He jerked a thumb toward Morgan. “And what of him?”

Sir Hugh stood from his chair and gripped his lapel. “I wish you to take Mr. Brady along as your protégé. Show him the ropes so he might better understand our mission and methods for the sake of editorial accuracy.”

The blood drained from Morgan’s head and spots floated across her vision.

Had she heard right? She was to be sent on the road, unchaperoned, with the most magnificent man she had ever met in the flesh?

She cut her eyes toward Steadman to find him coolly regarding her with barely concealed disapproval.

Yes, she had apparently heard correctly and now knew that his feelings on the matter mirrored hers.

***

Steadman appraised the cowed young man slumping in the chair beside him.

He seemed like no more than a boy, his cheeks smooth and eyes wide.

An oversized and threadbare suit of a fashion ten years gone swallowed his fragile frame and pushed the jacket’s collar up to brush unkempt, curly hair.

A ridiculous Clericus top hat favored by clergymen and quack doctors occupied his lap.

Wide-spaced brown eyes continued to meet his scrutiny, though, alarmed yet bright with heightened intelligence.

Steadman shifted his regard to Sir Hugh.

“I work alone, as you know.”

Sir Hugh waved a hand. “Of course. However, Sir Nathaniel has ordered it, and such an order cannot be countermanded.”

Steadman cocked an eyebrow. “He ordered it, you say? At your suggestion, perhaps?”

“Not that it matters now.”

Steadman exhaled a long, slow breath and looked again at the boy, who struggled to meet his attention. “Mr. Brady.”

“Sir?”

“Does your mother know you’ve left the house wearing your father’s suit?”

He expected the young man to wilt further, to fall back with a stuttering explanation while staring at the floor. What happened next, then, surprised him. The boy’s eyes lit with fire. His spine straightened and his jaw tightened. His nostrils flared with challenge.

“As my mother has been dead these past fifteen years, she does not know. And this suit is borrowed from my dead uncle, as my father was buried in his suit only three months ago.”

Mild shame rippled through Steadman over his misstep. “I am sorry for your many losses.”

Mr. Brady’s jaw unclenched, and he waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. And I’ve no doubt that if she were still alive, my mother would agree with your assessment of the suit. It wears like a miller’s sack.”

“So, you approve of wearing a miller’s sack in public?”

Brown eyes flashed again and regarded his clothing. “Why not? Given the ridiculous dress of London’s dandies, a miller’s sack is no less flattering.”

“Do you consider me a dandy?”

“You appear to dress the part.”

“And you disapprove?”

Mr. Brady’s eyes softened, and the sides of his mouth tipped up to reveal previously hidden dimples. “No, Sir Steadman. You look far from ridiculous. You seem the exception to the rule.”

A light chuckle escaped Steadman’s throat.

Despite his intention to dismiss Brady, he liked the boy’s spark.

He possessed… a certain quality that Steadman couldn’t quite pin down.

Perhaps he could teach the lad a thing or two.

“I will take that as a compliment, then. And please, just call me Steadman. Sir Steadman is dead.”

“Then you agree to take along Mr. Brady?” said Sir Hugh.

Steadman’s reluctance battled with growing intrigue. “If I must. He seems lively enough and not above teaching.”

“But I…” The young man cleared his throat, disappearing again into his suit. “But I have not agreed to this.”

Steadman grinned. “Afraid of the Beau Monde Highwayman, are we?”

Once again, the spine straightened, and the eyes flashed. “Given that you have pronounced him dead, not likely.”

Steadman laughed. The boy possessed a wicked sense of humor. He reminded Steadman of his former ward, Lucy, who still practiced a sharp tongue. “Very well, then. Pack light. Bring a bedroll and food for the road. I will secure a pair of horses bred for distance.”

Mr. Brady’s eyes went flat. “But I’ve no bedroll and no food to spare without my small brothers going hungry.”

Something about the haunt of his eyes stirred Steadman’s empathy. The warmth with which he mentioned his brothers, perhaps. An ache grew in Steadman for what he himself had lost. He stood from his chair and donned his hat.

“Very well. I will provide a travel kit for you. Can you ride?”

“Well enough.”

“Good. We will be moving at a brisk pace for long hours, covering fifty miles per day for two days. If you do what I say, when I say, and how I say, then we will get along like honey and bread. Do you understand?”

Mr. Brady rose to his feet, fidgeting with his battered hat. “Yes, sir.”

“Where do you live?”

He hesitated before mumbling, “The Almonry.”

The Almonry? Perhaps the most dismal neighborhood in London. “I am personally acquainted with several of the cutthroats in your area. We should find you and your brothers a better address. In the meantime, meet me at the entrance to the abbey just before first light. Do not be late.”

The boy blinked and nodded slowly. Something of his lost demeanor stabbed Steadman’s heart. Which was silly because everyone knew his heart was made of pure granite.

Sir Hugh clapped his hands. “Very well, then. I wish you two a swift and successful mission. Quick notice and sudden pursuit.”

Steadman repeated the Bow Street motto to Sir Hugh. “Quick notice and sudden pursuit, indeed.”

He left without a backward glance, already having second thoughts about agreeing to haul human cargo swamped by a threadbare suit all the way to Wiltshire and back. If the boy managed not to die and didn’t interfere with his deeper plans, Steadman would consider the trip a victory.