Page 29 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

“Talk to me, Morgan.”

She lifted sullen eyes to Steadman as he approached her through misting rain.

Angst had driven his morning-long search for Morgan after the innkeeper mentioned her departure from the inn just before dawn.

A quick check of the stables had shown her horse still there.

Where had she gone on such a damp morning?

And why without telling him? He had walked along the main road eastward, asking those he encountered if they had seen his partner.

With no positive reports, he had turned westward.

Finally, a milkmaid had described seeing a man wearing an old-fashioned hat walking across a field toward an isolated grove of trees.

Within minutes, he had finally spied her sitting beneath those trees with her chin resting in her hands.

The hat sat discarded on the turf and her rain-plastered hair hung limply to her shoulders.

“You found me,” she said.

“Not without difficulty. It seems you wish to be alone.”

“I do wish to be alone.”

He removed his hat and held it with both hands. “I will leave again if that is your desire. However, might I ask that you allow me to stay for at least a moment? So we can talk?”

She glanced up, impaling him with her remarkable gaze. “If you wish.”

He settled onto the grass opposite her, perhaps six feet away, and beheld her in silence.

She slumped with defeat, and he knew why.

All the promise of the glorious meeting in the candlelit chapel had abated when he’d confessed who he was and what he intended to do.

She clearly disregarded his need for justice entirely.

He deeply wanted to rectify that. He wanted her to understand the way she understood him in virtually every other way.

He needed her beside him through the difficulty to come.

“Well?” Her question made clear that the floor was his. He massaged his chin while gathering his best argument.

“I know you disagree with my plan. That much is evident.” She dropped her eyes and nodded. Though he expected it, the gesture still stabbed his heart. “I dislike the fact that we are not in accord. Therefore, I offer you a challenge.”

She lifted her head. “A challenge?”

“Yes. I propose that if you suggest a superior plan—one that dispenses justice without undue suffering of innocents—then I will consider it.”

He watched with wonderment as fire flared in her eyes. When she stood, he breathlessly mirrored her movement.

“I have been giving much thought to just that,” she said. “An alternative course of action.”

“Yes? And?”

“I have an idea.”

Her claim took him by surprise. For fifteen years, he had failed to envision any approach other than his current path. “Tell me, then.”

She moved a step nearer, her expression earnest and hopeful.

“I propose that you force your father to return the wheat to the farmers in exchange for half of what he paid them. This will save the farmers and allow your father to preserve enough capital to support your family and perhaps eventually recover.”

He shook his head instinctively. “But I vowed to ruin my father for his misdeeds.”

“He would know that you held in your hands the power to ruin him and instead offered mercy for the sake of your family and the farmers. Can you not find justice in that?”

“He killed my Mary as certainly as if he’d done it with his own hand. Where is her justice?”

Morgan blinked rapidly at his hot retort. “Do you not see? You have spent fifteen years dispensing justice in her name. Can you not offer mercy in her name just this once?”

“Mercy,” he spat. “He deserves no mercy. I deserve my retribution.”

She glared at him with hardening eyes. “True justice sometimes requires great sacrifice, Steadman.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You promised you would consider a superior plan.”

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands while envisioning the outcome of what she suggested.

All he could imagine was his father’s smug smile.

His declaration that his son possessed little sense and no purpose.

His lack of concern for those in his care.

His superiority over avoiding the consequences of his actions.

When he lowered his hands, he had his answer.

“I cannot allow him to go unpunished.”

All the hope that had built in Morgan’s eyes faded in an instant, like a candle reaching the end of its wick.

The deepening disappointment of her expression nearly shoved him from his righteous perch, but he held fast. He watched as she retrieved her hat from the turf, brushed loose soil from its brim, and placed it on her head.

She ran a sleeve across her eyes to clear them of rainwater.

“How will you do this deed, then? Ruin your father and whoever else might be in your path?”

Her accusation stung, but he squared his shoulders. “I dispatched letters to Lord Atwood and Mr. Dunwoody this morning informing them of the missing wheat and demanding that they meet me in the afternoon two days hence at Prescombe Manor.”

“So,” she said, her eyes colder still, “Your father will know it is you who is coming to ruin him.”

“I did not sign my name to the letters.”

Her brow creased and her frown deepened. “Why? Is this not the triumph you crave?”

“Yes, but I want to see his face when I destroy him. To watch his arrogance crumble and his hope die for what he has done.”

Much to his disappointment, she shook her head in disbelief. “You really intend to go forward with this, regardless of what I or anyone else says.”

“Without regret.”

She closed the gap between them and lifted a finger until it hovered inches from his chest. “Then hear me well, Sir Steadman. I want no part of this. I want no part of you.”

Her words struck him like a hammer blow. Surely, she did not mean such a thing. They were friends, and so much more. Could not two people disagree and remain friends?

“You can’t mean that.”

Tears brightened her eyes as she turned away without a word.

Steadman watched his mercurial partner, his confidante, his romantic interest walking across the field, deep in conflict.

He did not wish to lose the first friend—the first love—he had found since leaving home.

He could not imagine an aftermath of his vengeance that did not include Morgan Brady.

It seemed inconceivable that she might not forgive him.

However, he was a runaway cart in motion, driven by gravity, momentum, and an enormous burden toward an inevitable collision.

With growing resolve, he followed her path to retrieve his horse.

He had avoided his visit to Fovant long enough.

***

An hour later, Steadman rode into the tiny hamlet of Fovant, ancestral home of the Atkinson family.

He dredged up memories while studying each house as he passed it by.

In the fifth house, he found recognition.

After tying his horse to the gatepost, he approached the door of the small but well-kept house and rapped three times.

When a woman answered his call, her eyes flew wide.

“Mr. Drew!”

“Just Steadman, Mrs. Atkinson.”

She curtsied deeply and nodded. “Please come in from the rain, sir. You are soaked to the bone.”

He eyed the threshold warily. Crossing it meant reopening wounds that had nearly killed him. With a deep breath, he stepped inside. “Thank you.”

“Warm yourself by the hearth while I pour you a cup of tea.”

He followed her instructions and spread his hands with his back against the crackling fire. After a few seconds, she pressed a warm cup into his grip before standing expectantly before him wringing her hands. His eyes wandered the confines of Mrs. Atkinson’s home with approval.

“You appear to live comfortably.”

She smiled. “Between your periodic gifts and the help of others, I do more than simply survive. I am content and have you to thank.”

He waved his free hand. “My contributions are the least I could offer after what my father did to your family. But now…”

“Yes?”

“But now I have returned to avenge the dead. To avenge Mary.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How?”

“My father has placed himself in a tenuous financial position. I have come back to see him ruined. To pay for what he has done.”

Steadman expected many possible reactions from Mary’s mother. Relief. Approval. Resolution. However, the expression that rippled across her features indicated objection. She shook her head. “Pardon my saying so, but I do not believe that is what Mary would want.”

He peered at her with bafflement. How could she say such a thing? “Did you not understand me? Mary will finally have the justice she deserves.”

“I am sorry. But perhaps it is you who fails to understand.”

He set his cup aside and lifted his palms to her. “Did my father not evict your family in the dead of winter for no reason other than my interest in Mary?”

“He did.”

“And did not your entire family perish from sickness during that miserable winter?”

She blinked twice and shook her head. “They did, but that is not the end of the story.”

“I know how the story ends.” He was becoming agitated by her unexpected resistance. “Two days from now, I will destroy Lord Atwood financially, and when I do, he will know without a doubt that his heartless treatment of your family is the root of his undoing.”

She remained briefly silent while searching his eyes. “Perhaps you should reconsider your plan, Steadman.”

He grunted disapproval. “You are not the first to tell me that.”

Mrs. Atkinson stepped toward him and seized his hand. “Have…have you been to visit Mary yet?”

He failed to hold her imploring gaze. “No.”

“Maybe you should, then. And ask for her opinion on this.”

Her suggestion raised within him a toxic blend of guilt, confusion, and regret. When she released his hand, he stepped toward the door and halted. He bowed to her and held it long. “I bid you good day, ma’am. I apologize for staying away so long.”