Page 24 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Perhaps it was the distraction over his highly unexpected encounter with Evelyn that doomed Steadman.

His sister had eviscerated him and left a welt on his cheek.

The reunion at Longford Castle that followed had gone much better than anticipated, though, and had buoyed his spirits.

Regardless, his thoughts were on the past rather than the present, which was usually a recipe for disaster when dealing with unscrupulous men.

Everything went well until he arrived at Lord Atwood’s barn in the abandoned tenant village alongside Three-Finger Jack and his gang. In fact, he had almost convinced himself that his suspicions of a trap were unfounded. Then it all went wrong.

“Worm. Let us have a word.” The gang leader flashed a decaying smile at Steadman as the wagon rolled to a stop.

Steadman leaped from the wagon bed as Jack tied off the reins, grabbed the single torch, and stepped down.

Dormant suspicions erupted into a frenzy of renewed apprehension.

Steadman joined Jack several steps away from the wagon in a halo of light cast by the torch.

He crossed his arms in a show of nonchalance despite his mounting concern.

“You wish to say something?”

“I do, in fact.” Jack’s languid tone reminded Steadman of a cat before the pounce.

The shuffling of feet forming a circle around him reinforced his realization that catastrophic events were about to unfold.

After fifteen years of life on the edge, this might be how it ended.

And just short of his goal! His only relief was having forced Morgan to remain at the inn.

If he were to die now, at least she would be spared.

Morgan was resourceful. She would find her way back to London without him.

He only wished he had kissed her the day before, one last time, and had told her the surprising truth about his feelings for her.

He unfolded his arms, ready for the inevitable conflict.

“Say what you must. I stand ready.”

The big man chuckled. “I asked around about you. Talked to Prudence Lightboddy this morning.”

“You didn’t hurt her, did you?”

He shook a shaggy head. “O’course not. She’s an old woman with rheumatoid knees.”

“What’d she say about me?”

Jack edged nearer, looming. “She was coy as always. Didn’t say who you were. But she admitted you was asking questions about me. And that you weren’t no low born man. Don’t think she meant to say that.”

“Probably not.” Steadman balled his fists and squared his shoulders. “She never knows when to stop talking.”

Jack chuckled darkly. “True. True. But now we know you aren’t what you claim, which means only one thing.”

Steadman dipped into a crouch, ready to spring. “And that is?”

“If you aren’t with us, you’re against us. Which makes you a lawman or worse.”

Steadman laughed long and low. This was it, then. He hoped Lucy would miss him. And Morgan too, though he didn’t deserve her. “I do not deny it. Here I am, then. But I’ll make sure to take you with me.”

Jack’s confidence wavered as a ripple of uncertainty passed over his coarse features. Then he drew his brow down until it touched the bridge of his nose. “Take him, lads.”

Before Steadman could launch himself at Jack’s throat, a pistol shot rang through the air. He froze—along with Jack and his men. A voice shouted from perhaps thirty yards away, alto but striving for bass.

“Bow Street! Step away from that man!”

He turned along with the others to find the shadow of a figure nearly blending with the near-darkness, complete with a Clericus hat.

A spark of reflection from the torch hinted at pistols—one in each of the person’s hands.

His spirit sank into the dirt. Morgan! No!

Why did she come? Did she not realize the danger?

“Bow Street?” said Jack. “And just one of you. A pity.”

In a flash of insight, Steadman ascertained that this would not end well. Morgan had three shots at most, having discharged one. The gang numbered seven. He could take down one or two. The math proved grim no matter how he massaged it. Three-Finger Jack laughed again.

“I was right about you, Worm. But I will not be defeated by a liar and wisp of a man who refuses to show his face.”

Steadman’s thoughts raced, searching desperately for a way to save Morgan from impending disaster. Her shouted command interrupted his calculations.

“I am an excellent shot, and my bead is on you, Jack. Release Sir Steadman or I will shoot you down.”

He cut his gaze toward Jack. The man arched his eyebrows and turned his regard on Steadman, blinking rapidly.

“Sir Steadman? The Beau Monde Highwayman? The Knight of the Road?”

He cursed silently. How had Morgan let that information slip? He raised his fists for battle. “The very same.”

Jack briefly continued to stare before throwing back his head and laughing. “Sir Steadman! Local boy turned hero! In the flesh!”

The gang closed in on him, but not to injure him. They slapped his shoulders and back and began peppering him with fawning questions.

“Is it true that you once…”

“Tell us about the time you…”

“How did you manage to escape after…”

Meanwhile, Jack grabbed Steadman’s upraised hand and pumped it repeatedly. “It’s an honor, Sir Steadman. You should have just told us from the beginning who you were.”

Steadman kicked aside his shock at the strange turn of events.

He released the handshake and lifted his palms for silence.

“I will answer all questions in time.” Then he raised his voice.

“For now, let me advise my associate to lower the pistols so we might have a civil parley, like gentlemen. But also, to remain in place to watch for the approach of others.”

Hoping Morgan would follow his advice after so effectively ignoring his previous instructions, he put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Why do you so admire me?”

Jack rolled his head back and forth. “Because you take from the rich and give to the poor. Just like ol’ Robin Hood.”

“Good. If you must admire me for anything, it should be that. So, do you know why I am here in Broad Chalke?”

Jack shook his head, and the other men mumbled curious uncertainty.

“I have come here to right a wrong. A rich man stealing from common men and in doing so, imperiling the lives of the poor.”

A look of umbrage seized the gang leader’s features. “Who? What rat is doing this?”

“You are.”

Jack’s features locked in confusion before his eyes widened with epiphany. “Dunwoody lied to me.”

“He did, and not just him.” Steadman briefly relayed Lord Atwood’s plan to corner the wheat market with unfair contracts in order to make an immense profit, denying subsistence to the poor who could ill afford such prices.

As he explained the plan, Jack’s chin drooped lower and lower.

The gang members industriously avoided Steadman’s gaze while studying the dirt beneath their boots.

When Steadman finished explaining the details, Jack raised his eyes.

“We meant not to hurt the poor. We are poor men ourselves.” Sorrow and regret dripped from his voice. “How can we make amends?”

“Glad you asked, for I have a plan.”

The big man’s eyes lit with hope. “Yes?”

“I have secured a new location for this wheat. Tomorrow night, we will meet here with wagons and men, take every last bag, and move it from here in a single trip.”

A smile split Jack’s face. “Steal from Lord Atwood? And that Dunwoody rat?”

“Yes.”

“You may rely on us.” Then he swept his eyes over his men. “Hear that, lads? We will be joining the Beau Monde Highwayman himself in relieving Lord Atwood of his illicit wheat stores to help feed our friends and families.”

The men whooped and shouted affirmation at the notion, renewing the slapping of Steadman’s shoulders. He accepted their accolades for only a moment before returning his attention to Morgan. She still stood in darkness with pistols raised.

“Now, if you will excuse me,” he said, “I must attend to my associate before he shoots someone. He is exceptionally accurate at thirty paces, or so I hear.”

***

Morgan lowered her pistols only as Steadman approached.

Her hands shook violently from the effort of maintaining the heavy pistols level and the abject fear of facing down an armed gang.

The fury on Steadman’s face didn’t help.

As he swept past her, his iron grip fell on her wrist and yanked her into motion.

She lurched into a stumbling trot to keep pace with his determined stride.

As they walked, he relieved her of the pistols one by one, carefully lowered the hammers, and stuffed the weapons into his belt.

She waited for his upbraiding, but he continued dragging her away from the barn without saying a word.

What had she been thinking? To put on her suit and follow him against his wishes was one thing.

To charge into the midst of a brewing conflict with pistols raised and no plan whatsoever was quite another.

Why had she done it? But how could she have stood aside to watch Steadman be beaten or killed?

Her mind remained chaos even as Steadman halted abruptly before the small chapel.

He paused before towing her inside and slamming the door shut.

He clutched her upper arms, one in each hand as if driving a team of mules.

The light of a dozen candles exposed the flare of his nostrils and the clench of his jaw.

“Just what were you thinking? Barging into the middle of a street brawl?”

“I wasn’t really…”

“Of course, you weren’t thinking! Only your unmasking of my identity saved us when it should have killed us both. Beyond that stupefying stroke of luck, you are supremely fortunate they failed to see through your disguise or recognize your voice.”