Page 33 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Dunwoody remained frozen for a three count before bolting toward the door as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.

Steadman rolled his eyes and considered letting him go before leaping after the man.

Moving remarkably fast for a man of his squat stature, Dunwoody blew past the surprised constable and darted out the manor door.

When Steadman reached Jarvis, he stopped.

“Mr. Jarvis, I hereby deputize you as an associate officer of Bow Street for the day.”

The constable’s eyes went wider still. “Me? Bow Street?”

“Yes. And your mission is to pursue that man, clap him in irons, and return him to Broad Chalke for holding.”

A wide smile stretched across Jarvis’s face, and he gave an awkward salute. “Yes, sir!”

He was gone in a flash. Steadman’s brief smile faded when he turned to find his father approaching the atrium with haunted eyes.

“It is really you,” he said with whispered regret. “After all this time, it’s really you.”

Steadman squared on his father, eye to eye.

The moment of truth had arrived. He had his father over the deepest of barrels—on the cusp of destruction and at the mercy of the son he had aggrieved so long ago.

The words of his carefully crafted speech flowed back to sit on his lips, waiting to call down judgment.

Of how his father was now ruined, never to recover.

Of how his own son was the instrument of his downfall.

Of how he was doing all of it in the name of Mary, the Atkinsons, and the many others his father had mistreated, discarded, and annihilated along the way.

He only needed to speak the words, and the triumph would be his.

However.

Steadman’s tongue remained locked in place.

His righteous speech began to slip beneath the rising tide of memory of other words from the woman he loved.

Of the vast difference between justice and vengeance.

Of how true justice can only be found through forgiveness and redemption.

As Morgan’s wisdom rose to claim his thoughts, he continued to stare at the man before him.

He looked older, frailer, less proud than the monster he remembered from his youth.

A flash of astonishing insight seized Steadman, causing his fingers to spasm into a fist.

Morgan had changed him.

Somewhere along the road, she had remade him into a better man and freed him from the grievous burden of retribution.

He just hadn’t noticed—until now. A wave of liberation crashed through the shoals and reefs of his soul, and he laughed.

She had nudged aside his vengeance and imbued him with loftier sentiments.

But where does one begin after such a rebirth?

How does one honor the dead and the living while satisfying the need for justice that connected them?

His father waited, the haunt of his expression growing deeper.

Steadman closed his eyes, found the opening, and took it.

“Father, I came here on behalf of Mary Atkinson…”

Before he could explain, before he could seek a just resolution that did not result in his family’s ruin, Lord Atwood closed the gap between them and fell at Steadman’s feet.

“My son, oh, my son. I am sorry for what I did all those years ago to the Atkinsons, and to many others.” The baron kept his eyes pinned to the floor between Steadman’s boots, his words emerging in a ragged rush.

“I tried to make amends where I could. I bought Mrs. Atkinson a house and still help her when I can. But I cannot bring back your Mary no matter what I do. Any punishment you have in store for me is rightly deserved. I only ask that you spare your mother and sister your wrath and see that they do not suffer unduly for my many sins. I should have begged your forgiveness long ago.”

Steadman’s chest seized as the confession struck like a hammer blow to his beating heart.

A torrent of tears welled in his eyes to begin descending his cheeks.

He stooped to lift his father to his feet and gripped the man’s arms. Astonishing words gathered on his lips, placed there by a remarkable woman.

“I forgive you.”

His father’s chin quivered as matching tears wet his cheeks. “After what I did?”

“Yes.”

“How? How can you?”

Steadman nodded with a tremulous smile and wiped the moisture from his eyes. “Because I have recently found something more powerful than vengeance. I have found the love of a magnificent woman.”

His father sniffed and returned the smile. “Whoever she is, I am happy for you.”

“What if she is poor? A tenant’s daughter, or a swine herd, or a milkmaid? What if she wears men’s clothing?”

The baron shook his head. “I mean what I say. If you love her, then I will, too.”

The mounting wave of epiphany crested and broke, and Steadman gathered his father into an embrace for the first time in his life.

His father returned the clench, but tighter.

In seconds, other arms encircled him. He looked up from his father’s shoulder to find his mother and Evelyn with their heads buried in his back, crying.

He was glad to have his family surrounding him, for he surely would have collapsed to the floor without their physical support.

His family had always been too proper for shows of emotion and loving embraces.

Unknowingly, Morgan had changed them all.

He wished she were present to witness the miracle of her mad creation.

After what seemed an hour, the embrace softened, and they pulled apart. Steadman wiped his eyes with embarrassment, even while chastising himself for feeling that way. He sniffled and addressed his abashed father.

“So, Dunwoody fooled you?”

“He did, and I was desperate to believe his lies. I needed to improve our financial situation for the sake of your mother and sister before it is too late.”

Steadman peered deeply into his father’s eyes, hearing the unspoken. “What are you not telling me?”

“I am dying, son. So the doctors tell me.”

The news stunned Steadman. Shock and sorrow settled into his soul as he considered that death always has the final word on justice. What could he do? What would Morgan advise? An answer came with the resolution of a new dawn.

“We must choose another path, then.”

His father squinted with suspicious interest. “What other path? My reputation is in tatters and tenants will not work our land. Our means of income are limited, short of selling your heritage to Lord Radnor or others.”

“Make amends,” he said. “Beginning now.”

“Amends?” asked Evelyn. “What can be done after all this time?”

“We shall sell the wheat back to the farmers for half the price they paid. That will recoup half of your liquid funds.”

His father shook his head. “Would that not simply hasten our final ruin? And leave your mother and sister in dire straits sooner?”

“Let him speak, John,” said his mother softly. Steadman smiled at her and kissed the top of her head.

“Use the goodwill of selling at half price to gain an audience with the farmers and farm workers. Form a collective effort to help all the local families through the difficult winter ahead. And dedicate ourselves to preserving the small family farms. People are the true richness of England, not the land. We will recover.”

Only after speaking did Steadman realize how thoughts of “them” had changed to visions of “us.” His father’s slow nod became more enthusiastic as he pondered the plan. “Yes. Yes. That is exactly what we will do.”

“Very well.” Steadman straightened his desperately crumpled cravat. “I will gather men tomorrow and we will return the wheat, you and I together.”

“And then what?”

“And then I must be off to London to win again the favor of a certain young woman who currently thinks me the worst of cretins.”

Evelyn put a hand to her mouth. “The woman I saw with you at Broad Chalke?”

“The very same.”

His sister smiled sweetly, uncharacteristic for one of her mettle. “She is lovely, brother.”

“I agree, though she is much more than just a pretty face. And I nearly let her go. As God is my witness, I will not make the same mistake twice.”