Page 4 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Morgan, huddled beside the fence at Westminster Abbey, ready to run if threatened, and desperately tried to appear manly.

A drizzle of icy rain promised to fuel her misery hour by hour.

Just when she had decided to return to her dismal rented hovel, the clatter of approaching hooves drew her attention.

Steadman emerged from the gloom on a lithe mount while leading a second horse by its reins.

Even in near darkness, the shadowed planes of his remarkable face threatened to overwhelm her.

“Mr. Brady?”

“Yes, sir. It is me.”

He halted the horses by the fence. “Do you not own an alternative hat?”

“No.”

“A pity.” He straightened his fashionable John Bull top hat, dismounted, and offered Morgan the second horse’s reins.

She accepted them gingerly and stood rooted in place while staring at him.

She couldn’t help herself. His meticulous clothing contrasted with her dingy suit and ragged overcoat.

Steadman’s white teeth flashed in the twilight.

“Well, boy. Will you affix your baggage to your mount, or do you await the aid of a footman?”

Morgan kicked herself. With attention to male posture—elbows out instead of in—she wrapped the reins around a fence slat, retrieved her damp bag and a length of rope, and tied the bag behind the bedroll. Steadman seemed content to watch until she had finished. She faced him.

“Ready.”

He studied her for a moment longer, fanning the flames of her unease. Then he unfolded his arms. “You’ve not done this before.”

She gulped. “Sir?”

“Your baggage. It will break loose inside of two miles.” He handed her his horse’s reins. “Now, watch and learn.”

Panic seized her. What if he opened the bag?

What if he found the dress, bonnet, and pelisse she had packed in the event she was discovered and forced to abandon her disguise?

However, he merely untied her knots and resituated the baggage.

Morgan squinted in the darkness while trying to follow the complex operation of loops and knots executed by the former highwayman, but his fingers moved too fast.

“There,” he said. “Good for a thousand miles. Did you see how I tied it?”

“Yes.” Only a minor lie.

Steadman retrieved the reins and mounted his horse while hardly touching the stirrup.

She eyed her mount and gulped again. If Steadman did not see through her thin disguise in the next half minute, she would consider it a miracle of no less magnitude than walking on water.

After slipping the reins from the fence, she grabbed the front lip of the saddle and placed a foot in the stirrup.

When she jumped to mount, the horse skittered away.

She chased it, hopping on one foot as the horse spun in a half circle away from her futile attempts.

Just when she had decided to give up and confess to Steadman, a sharp yank on her jacket collar flung her upward to drape over the animal’s back.

She managed to find the saddle and corral the horse before it fled down the street in the wrong direction.

She wrangled it around to face Steadman.

He sat with hands folded across his horse’s mane while shaking his head as if he’d just caught her sneaking pudding.

“More accustomed to a coach, are we?”

Her cheeks burned from embarrassment and his mocking tone. She opened her mouth before she could bite back annoyance. “Why, Sir Steadman? Would you rob me then?”

Fortunately, he chuckled rather than striking her from the saddle. “No. I only robbed the rich. You appear to own absolutely nothing of value. You are quite safe from me.”

Her cheeks continued to burn. “We shall see about that. Now, should we be on our way, or do you wish to instruct me further?”

Steadman laughed then, a deep rumble like a cello. “Keep that up, boy, and I may take a liking to you. And as most of my friends have landed in jail or at the end of a rope, you should not wish for my friendship.”

With that, he spun his horse about and spurred it briskly westward through the streets of London.

She kicked her mount into motion and nearly tumbled backwards to the pavement from the ensuing lurch.

Regaining her saddle, she followed in his wake.

Although adept sidesaddle, she had only ridden astride a few times when her father was not around to disapprove.

How would she maintain this pace? How could she continue this ruse?

As Morgan struggled to keep up, she considered Steadman’s words.

Was she truly safe with him? Safe from him?

Despite his upper crust origin and supposed reform, he was an outlaw of the first order.

And even if he were the archbishop himself, what would happen to her reputation if anyone learned that she had been alone on the road with a man?

After a time, she came to a dismal realization.

Her reputation didn’t matter. Her prospects of marriage had dissolved long ago thanks to her father’s actions and her plain looks. Who could love her, anyway?

She and Steadman reached the countryside by the time the sun cleared the horizon.

Thankfully, the rain had abated. After her chattering teeth finally stilled, Morgan drew alongside her traveling companion and studied the pair of pistols secured to the back of his saddle.

Heavy double-barreled flintlocks—two barrels, two hammers, two shots apiece. He must have noticed.

“Do you know how to load and fire a pistol, Brady?”

She yanked her attention away from the weapons but recalled one of her few pleasant memories of her father. “Yes. My father taught me so that I might protect the parsonage during his absences. We practiced together until he was satisfied with my aim at thirty paces.”

“Then I will be sure to remain at least forty paces distant when you handle a pistol.”

“If only I had known a pistol would keep you away, I might have brought several.”

He snorted and wiped his nose. “That’s the spirit. I might make a man of you yet. And I will begin by telling you that true mastery of the pistol is in avoiding its use.”

“Avoiding its use? What do you mean?”

“Let me demonstrate.” He pulled one of the weapons from behind his saddle and looped the other arm through his horse’s reins. “A pistol properly wielded can dissuade violence. Like this.”

He lifted the weapon in his hand to aim at a tree some distance ahead, arm straight as an arrow.

He then brought his other hand from underneath to grip his wrist and leaned forward slightly.

“Point the pistol at the right eye of your adversary. Your left hand keeps your right hand deathly still. Maintain a stone expression for a count of three, then calmly say, ‘Lower your weapon, sir.’”

“Why the right eye?”

“Trust me,” he said while returning the pistol to its original stowage. “It works nearly every time.”

“Nearly?”

“I am still here, am I not?”

She chuckled. “Yes, you are. And when it does not work?”

“Put a shot into his thigh. The wound is survivable, and no man shot in the thigh has the wherewithal to shoot back.”

“Is that why you carry the double-barreled flintlocks, Sir Steadman? To have one shot left just in case?”

“Naturally. But, please, cease calling me Sir Steadman. Simply Steadman is perfectly adequate.”

“Very well, simply Steadman.” She cocked her head. “Are you really a knight?”

“No. The title of ‘Sir Steadman’ was invented by the adoring public, and I chose not to correct them.”

“But you correct me?”

He barked a laugh. “You do not appear to number among the adoring public.”

“Perhaps not, though you have ample time to change my mind. But shouldn’t I call you by your surname? Mr. Drew?”

“No,” he said too curtly. “I have never been Mr. Drew to anyone.” He peeked at her sidelong. “And what of you? We have days of familiarity ahead of us. Shall it be Mr. Brady or Morgan?”

She stilled a quiver of her chin. Mr. Brady, she said silently, Mr. Brady. Then she opened her mouth to repeat it. “Morgan.”

“Morgan it is.” Although chastising her uncooperative mouth, she considered how the sound of her name from his lips stirred her heart. She shook her head sharply to dispel the notion, only to find him speaking again.

“As we are on a Christian name basis, Morgan, tell me about your disastrous suit.”

She plucked at her coat. “Loaned to me by a dead man, as I mentioned. For my new position at Bow Street, I wanted to look the part.”

“Then you should wear a better fit. You look as if the suit fell on you from the now-naked body of a much larger man. Perhaps we can devote a modicum of effort to improving your fashion.”

The prospect of a better fitting suit mortified Morgan. How would she hide her too-ample curves then? “And just who are you to improve my fashion? Beau Brummell?”

“Brummell,” he sneered. “That pretender? Brummell took his advice from me until he fled to France in disgrace. Now, I must settle for advising a hapless youth. Just how old are you anyway?”

She bit her lip. “How old do you think I am?”

He shifted in his saddle to scrutinize her, a hand draped over his muscled, buckskin-clad thigh, his kerseymere coat snapping in the breeze. “Fifteen, I think, as evidenced by your smooth cheeks and reedy voice. However, you must be older given that the magistrate employs you. Seventeen?”

Morgan had prepared for just such a question. She could not very well admit to six-and-twenty. “Eighteen.”

“And still not shaving? A pity. But not to worry. With luck, you will be one of the fortunate few who escapes the daily need to drag a blade across his face.”

She could not help but notice the shadowed stubble of his jaw that threatened to burst forth at any moment. She shook her head again. “Does it hurt that much? Shaving?”