Page 31 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Sleep came fitfully for Morgan that night.

The twin monsters of crushing disappointment and dread for the future conspired to rob her of much-needed rest. Well before dawn, she rose to pull on her dress, brush what remained of her once luxurious hair, and wonder what would become of her and those who relied on her.

When her thoughts repeatedly returned to Steadman, she gently chastised herself.

Despite her resistance to the idea that he might find her attractive, his declaration to her in the chapel had ignited a flame of incredulous hope.

The snuffing of that flame by Steadman’s refusal to trade his path of vengeance for her affections left her dejected and resigned.

But what had she expected? That a man of his stunning good looks and masculine charm could ever find an unremarkable, aging spinster worthy of his lasting affections?

Any such notions seemed now nothing more than girlish fantasies.

Mired in despair, Morgan needed to escape the four walls of her room.

Within minutes, she found herself outside the inn awaiting the sunrise.

For her entire life, she had been forced to dismiss more bad days than she could count.

She had learned to embrace the rising sun as a promise of better outcomes.

As she strolled slowly toward the east along the thoroughfare, a two-wheeled cart moved toward her, drawn by a single horse.

She shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun just peeking over the horizon to find the driver waving.

When the cart halted, she blinked with recognition.

“Mrs. Lightboddy?’

The older woman appraised Morgan with sharp eyes and smiled shrewdly. “I figured you for a beautiful girl. I am always pleased to be proven right.”

Morgan ducked her head, unaccustomed to such praise. “I would not be so sure about that.”

Her reaction drew a laugh from Prudence. “Come, now, Miss Brady. Everything Steadman said of you is correct. You should not dismiss yourself so lightly. We live in a world where women are systematically overlooked. Do not aid your detractors by believing their lies.”

“But I am plain. Steadman is, well, the desire of women of all stations.”

Prudence shook her head with a matronly smile. “Oh, my dear sweet girl. Do you not know the truth?”

“What truth?”

“That every woman is beautiful. And when a man like Steadman reminds you of that fact, you should not disbelieve it.”

She shook her head adamantly. “But he has chosen vengeance against his own father over me. Anything he says of me does not matter against such a dismissal.”

“Steadman does not know what he wants. Give him time.”

“I have run out of time.” Morgan meant that on many levels. She eyed Prudence’s cart, which appeared heavily loaded, and noted the bedroll tucked into the corner just behind Prudence. “You wouldn’t be traveling to London, would you?”

Prudence smiled suspiciously. “Why are you asking?”

“This is not a Bow Street affair. I am simply anxious to return to London to finish this entire charade. I cannot afford a coach, I am unfamiliar with the way, and Steadman does not want me to travel alone.”

Prudence watched Morgan with calculating eyes for several seconds. “I am indeed traveling to London with, shall we say, wares to trade.”

“What wares?”

“Did you not say this was no Bow Street affair?”

Morgan sighed. “It is not.”

“Then I will offer you companionship in exchange for no questions concerning my cargo…”

“I agree.”

“I am not finished.”

She cringed over what additional caveats might lie in store. Prudence cocked her head while examining Morgan’s dress again. “I wish you to travel as Mr. Brady.”

She shook her head. “I am finished with that alias. I have put aside the suit for good.”

“A pity, then. The presence of a mounted and armed Bow Street officer might provide us more safety than as two women traveling alone on a cart. And I was rather looking forward to our journey together.”

Morgan sighed again. “Very well. I will resurrect Mr. Brady one last time. I have funds enough to purchase my own food and am quite accustomed to sleeping in the open.”

Prudence laughed. “Nonsense. As you are providing for the security of our journey, this has become a business venture with us as partners. We will sleep at coaching inns along the way and dine like queens. When we arrive in London and I conclude my business, I will pay you a guinea for your efforts.”

“You need not bother…”

“I insist, Miss Brady, and prefer to get my way. Besides, I expect you will need the funds with your impending dismissal from Bow Street.”

Morgan winced. “You know about that?”

“Merely a guess. But men take exception when a woman makes fools of them. There will be no mercy.”

The finality of the situation struck Morgan for the first time.

She would be cast adrift from Bow Street upon her return to London.

She clenched her fists with disappointment.

However, determination welled inside her to displace the darker tide.

She would not wait to be dismissed, to be discarded.

She would march into the magistrate’s office, confess her identity, and leave with her dignity intact. It was the least she could do.

“I agree to your caveats, Mrs. Lightboddy. Just give me time to change my clothing and to pack.”

“And no farewells to Steadman?”

She shook her head. “I believe our farewells have already been said.”

“Very well, dear. Bring your flintlock when you come. And please, call me Prudence.”

Half an hour later, Morgan rode alongside Prudence’s cart with her head spinning and heart heavy.

Every stride of her horse took her away from the strange, exotic dream that had been her two weeks with the Beau Monde Highwayman.

Leaving him behind was beyond excruciating.

Forgetting him would prove impossible. That she would never speak to him again left her heart crumbling piece by tiny piece.

***

The glaring sun through his window woke Steadman. He’d overslept. He never overslept.

“Bollocks.”

He blamed the condition on a night of tossing and turning between fitful dreams of Mary, Morgan, and his father.

After rubbing his bleary eyes and stretching, he rose to dress.

There was much to do ahead of his meeting, which was still more than a day away.

Upon leaving his room, he looked down the hallway at Morgan’s door.

He took a step toward it before catching himself.

He had pressed her hard enough the day before.

Perhaps a reprieve might bring her around to his way of thinking about the necessary vengeance he must serve.

He left the inn without speaking to her.

His first visit was to the sundry shop of Mr. Jarvis.

The constable must have seen him coming, for he was furiously attempting to lock the shop door when Steadman reached for the handle and yanked the door open.

The man retreated swiftly behind the counter, much to the surprise of the same two shoppers as before.

Steadman tipped his hat to them. “Ladies.”

They twittered in his wake as he strode to the counter. Jarvis pressed himself against the wall behind it, his eyes large with fear.

“Constable Jarvis.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Put yourself at ease. I have not come to threaten you, coerce you, or otherwise pummel you.”

The constable’s brow descended in a display of overt suspicion. “No?”

“No. I come in an official capacity on behalf of Bow Street to request two warrants of arrest.”

“Warrants? Of arrest?”

“As I said.” Morgan’s advice regarding the handling of the constable circled his thoughts.

He placed his palms casually on the counter and smiled, wishing to communicate safety and geniality.

“Our investigation has shown that several local farmers have been extorted to sell their wheat at criminally low prices. I have a writ of affidavit from Three-Finger Jack identifying the culprits behind the scheme. Mister Cecil Dunwoody and Lord Atwood.”

Jarvis’s brow rose again, and he began shaking his head while pressing deeper into the embrace of the wall. “No, no, no. I can’t… you can’t simply… we cannot…”

Steadman chuckled. “Oh, but we can.”

“But Mr. Drew, I am a lowly shopkeeper. I cannot serve a warrant to a lord. Such things are simply not done by the likes of me.”

He leaned toward the man and beckoned with a finger. To Jarvis’s credit, the shopkeeper mustered what little courage he possessed to leave the safety of the wall and lean within punching distance of the Beau Monde Highwayman. Steadman steepled his fingers and extended the smile.

“I know you fear Lord Atwood. However, you are the constable of Broad Chalke, and it is your solemn duty to uphold the law. You are as the barons of old who forced King John’s signature on the Magna Carta.”

“Me? Like a baron of old?”

“Absolutely. You uphold a great tradition of English democracy this day.”

“I do?”

“Of course. May I count on you for those warrants?”

Jarvis stared at him like a rabbit before the fox. However, he nodded his head slowly. “Yes, Mr. Drew. I will uphold my duty.”

“Good man.” He laid a hand on the constable’s shoulder. “Meet me at Prescombe Manor on the morrow at two in the afternoon, sharp, with warrants in hand. Do not be late and bring two pairs of irons. We’ve justice to serve.”

A tiny smile tugged at Jarvis’s lips. “I’ll be there, sir.”

Steadman bid him farewell and rode toward the estate of Lord Radnor.

Upon arriving, he went straight to the barn.

One of the blacksmith’s apprentices was there, taking a turn guarding the grain.

Steadman had paid the smith and his friends well to keep watch for as long as it took to ruin Lord Atwood.

“Good day, young Turner.”

The teen bowed. “And to you, Sir Steadman.”

He remained astride his horse. “Any sign of trouble?”

“No, sir. Nary a peep.”

“Excellent. But make me a promise.”

“Sir?”

“If you encounter trouble, do not put up a fight. Ride hard for Longford Castle. Lord Radnor will provide you the aid of his men.”

The young man smiled with apparent relief. “I will. Thank you.”

Steadman pulled a loaf of bread from his pouch and tossed it to the apprentice. “Feed your belly.”

He waved farewell and turned for Broad Chalke.

However, he soon found his path veering toward Great Yews.

He wasn’t sure why he’d coaxed his horse in that direction.

Within minutes, he rode into the grove of ancient giants.

Memories gathered around him, pressing close with nostalgia and the comfort of simpler times.

He dismounted to walk the grove, thinking.

It should have come as no surprise, then, when his thoughts returned to Morgan.

Bittersweet recollection dogged him. Of the days on the road before he really knew who she was.

How she had befriended him as no one had before.

His shocking discovery of her gender, and his even more bewildering fall from his lonely pedestal into the wonder of her affection.

His dismay that she was slipping away from him.

As he strolled the shadowed ground, the need to see her again grew within him.

He was soon astride his horse, intent on making the hour-long journey back to Broad Chalke in record time.

When he arrived at the inn, his mount was breathing hard and blowing flecks of saliva at the stable boy.

Steadman tossed a shilling to the young man.

“Treat him well. He has done a yeoman’s work today.”

He took the stairs by twos and soon stood before Morgan’s door. He raised his knuckles, hesitated briefly, then rapped three times. He smiled with anticipation as the door opened. However, his brow tightened when a white-haired man appeared behind it.

“Who the devil are you?” he blurted.

The man stared back with a frown. “I might ask the same. What do you want?”

“I am looking for Mr. Brady. Or Miss Brady. Either one will do.”

The man shook his head. “Don’t recollect knowing any Brady, miss or mister. You have the wrong room.”

Steadman blocked the door from closing with a well-placed boot. “When did you take possession of this room?”

“An hour ago. Now, I’d like to enjoy it in peace.”

“Of course.”

The door slammed in Steadman’s face. He glanced down the hall with confusion before sailing downstairs to find the innkeeper dusting tables.

“Sir.”

The man looked up with brows arched in invitation. Steadman approached him. “Is Mr. Brady still here?”

The man smiled wryly. “You mean ‘Miss Brady’?”

“Her, too.”

“She left.”

Steadman cocked his head. “When?”

“This morning, early. Put on her suit, packed her horse, and left in the company of Prudence Lightboddy.”

The stunning revelation robbed him of speech. He turned away from the innkeeper without a word, exited the building, and stared down the road leading toward London.

“Gone?”

A wave of dismay washed over him. He had hoped to use the return journey to reclaim her regard, just as she had claimed his during the trip to Broad Chalke.

But she was gone. He leaned against the low stone wall beside the road, suddenly weary.

Her flight to London without bidding him farewell was a sure sign that she could not accept him for what he planned to do.

She was finished with him, and it was his fault.

He rose again to pace back and forth along the road, whipsawing between doubt and resolve.

However, he could not escape the inevitable momentum of fifteen years.

He finally realized that he no longer owned the mission, but the mission owned him.

To turn back now was to cease to exist. Having decided, he returned to his room, shoulders slumped and head hanging low.