Page 32 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

As the sun attempted to beat back mid-morning clouds, Morgan’s thoughts were of Steadman.

He would be meeting with his father soon to destroy him and shatter his loved ones in the process.

She shook her head with crushing disappointment.

His mission of vengeance was so dissonant with his life of seeking justice for the poor and the powerless.

That he could not discern justice from revenge gnawed at her bones like a ravenous beast. If only he could see the difference.

If only he could leave behind the life of a legend to find contentment with an ordinary woman who loved him.

She shook her head for the hundredth time to dispel the destructive fantasy.

“Thinking about him constantly will not make all things well.”

Morgan raised her eyes from the road to find Prudence smiling slyly at her. She nodded meekly. “You are right. It will not.”

“You would not be the first to pine over him, my dear.”

Morgan’s stomach seized briefly. Prudence was right. She was just another in a long line of women who had fallen for his charm and devastating good looks. She had thought for a brief shining moment that perhaps she might be the first to keep his attention.

How deluded I have been!

Why would he choose her after dismissing so many others?

Stewing in misery would not change the facts.

She glanced at Prudence to say as much, only to find the older woman staring fixedly at the road ahead.

Her expression was abruptly grim. Morgan whipped her head around to find three masked men in the road.

Two carried cudgels, while the third casually aimed a pistol in the general direction of the cart.

“We’ll have your cart, Mrs. Lightboddy. And the French port it carries.”

The tenor of the man’s voice communicated complete disregard for the ability of Prudence and Morgan to mount a challenge.

In the ringing silence following the demand, Steadman’s advice from that first day on the road came to her.

Without thinking, she pulled the flintlock, leveled it at the man’s right eye, and steadied her wrist with her free hand.

The footpad’s eyes grew wide as she counted to three.

“Lower your weapon, sir,” she said with a masculine growl.

His aim wavered and the pistol descended to point at the road. “You cannot shoot all three of us.”

“No.” Unearthly calm infused her. “But I can shoot you. Twice.”

The man took a step back as his accomplices eyed him with growing discomfort. The exchange of glances appeared to embolden the leader, though. He looked again at Morgan, his hand slowly lifting. She had only three seconds to change the calculus.

“Sir Steadman will be along shortly to finish the rest of you.”

The mention of Steadman’s name produced the desired results. The rising hand froze. “Sir Steadman?”

“Yes. Our partner. He will be very displeased if any harm comes to us or the French port.”

Without another word, the three men melted into the woods and were gone. She kept the pistol trained at the trees for a solid minute, but they did not return. When she finally lowered the weapon, her hands began to shake, and she slumped in her saddle.

“Are you well, Miss Brady?”

“Yes. A little overcome.”

Prudence laughed. “I only thought I knew what Steadman saw in you. Now, I know the truth. You are magnificent, just as he said.”

Morgan straightened. “I grow weary of magnificence, Prudence. When I return to London, I will burn this suit and never think of it again.”

She spurred her horse ahead, anxious to be done pretending. Pretending to be a man. Pretending to be brave. And pretending she could dismiss Steadman from her broken heart.

***

The ten-mile ride from Broad Chalke to Prescombe Manor seemed twice that as Steadman wandered the cavernous regions of his mental distraction without a map or compass.

The culmination of his fifteen-year plan was just over the horizon.

He should be studying his plan, refining his speech, exulting in impending triumph—anything other than what he was doing, which consisted primarily of obsessing over memories of Morgan.

The conversations between them. The adventures they had shared.

The kisses. Whether wearing a frumpy suit or a flowing dress, Morgan’s splendor had burst forth to reveal the finest person he had ever met.

His choice to press on with his mission at the cost of her regard felt more misguided with each mile his horse covered.

However, he was currently a captive of simple physics—an object in motion must remain in motion.

So said the great Newton, anyway. The gravity of vengeance drew him deeper into its well despite his rising angst. As a man who had never known retreat, turning back to escape that gravity was proving impossible.

So mired was he in his thoughts that the appearance of Prescombe Manor elicited a sharp intake of breath.

With eight gables, a multitude of chimneys, and even the odd turret, it looked more like a remnant of Camelot than a grand manor house.

As he drew nearer, his fortitude returned little by little.

The sight of Mr. Jarvis waiting nervously at the end of the tree-lined drive solidified it. He tipped his hat.

“Constable. Your presence pleases me. Did you bring the warrants?”

“Yes, sir. And two sets of irons.” He patted his saddlebag to produce the clink of metal on metal.

“Very well. Let us finish this.”

When they arrived at the front entrance, a pair of servants in Atwood livery met them to take their horses.

Steadman recognized one as the older version of the stable boy who had prepared his mount the day he had left.

He dipped his forehead to the man, who’s jaw had nearly come unhinged with surprise.

“Corliss.”

The servant bowed. “Mr. Drew. We did not know it was you who were coming. It is good to have you home again.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The door opened as they approached it, and a butler bowed and motioned them inside.

When Steadman crossed the threshold of his childhood home for the first time in half a life, the first thing he saw was the great hallway before him that bisected Prescombe Manor.

The second was his mother and sister standing at the far end of it, the whites of their eyes visible even at eighty feet.

They clearly had not expected him to be the one coming to ruin them, even though Evelyn knew he was in the area.

His mother rocked sideways to steady herself against her daughter.

Morgan’s arguments about wounding innocents surged back to him, chipping at his recovered resolve like a relentless hammer.

He gave them a nod as if to say, “All will be well” while despising himself for the lie.

“Mr. Jarvis.” He turned his back to the women. “Remain here until I call for you.”

“Yes, sir.” The little man still appeared nervous, but remarkably more vivid than before.

He turned to the butler. “Where are they?”

“The study, Mr. Drew. I can show you.”

“No need. I recall the way.”

He walked to his right along the forward hallway to the oaken door anchoring one end and entered without knocking.

His eyes immediately fell upon Lord Atwood and Cecil Dunwoody, the mismatched masterminds.

Dunwoody’s pronounced belly pushed through his coat to strain his bowed legs.

Lord Atwood stood long and lean, even leaner than Steadman remembered, with a face that might be his in thirty years.

Steadman took pleasure in the measure of unmitigated shock seizing the expressions of both men.

In fact, his father’s skin appeared ashen. The man blinked with confusion.

“Steadman?”

“In the flesh.”

“My son.” His pronouncement proved far more hopeful than the situation demanded. Steadman returned his father’s stare in silence, his words having failed him. What had he planned to say? Dunwoody rescued him, even if maliciously.

“So, it was you who stole our wheat. I should have known.”

He turned his iron glare on the portly man.

“Your wheat? Your wheat, you say?” He growled low in his throat.

Primal. “No. Not yours, but rather the wheat you extorted from poor farmers barely clinging to their land. Livelihoods wrenched from the hands of good men by hired bandits in hopes of making you a fortune when you leverage the market with prices unaffordable to the poor. Futures stolen from decent families when you scoop up their bankrupt farms with the profits earned by taking bread from the mouths of children.”

Dunwoody recoiled at the accusation and glanced furtively at Lord Atwood. Steadman watched with growing fascination as his father slowly rounded to face his lifelong friend and business partner. The baron’s surprise had grown a hard edge of indignation.

“Cecil, what’s this? Is it true?” He took a step toward Dunwoody. “You claimed the wheat was fairly purchased. What Steadman describes sounds decidedly criminal.”

“Please, John…”

“That is Lord Atwood to you.”

Dunwoody’s brows flared upward. “Yes, yes. I spared you the particulars given your situation. You have never been one to care about the details, anyway.”

Lord Atwood advanced another step and began raising his hands. “Dunwoody. You fool.”

Dunwoody stumbled backward while stabbing a finger at Steadman. “He is the real criminal, not I. He is the one who has brought shame to this house, and even now continues in his criminal pursuits.”

The baron looked sidelong at Steadman in question.

In response, Steadman folded his arms. “What you say is mostly true. My past is quite checkered. But now I am a criminal who happens to be in the service of the Bow Street magistrate and under the protection and favor of the Crown, and I have brought the constable to serve warrants of arrest.”