Page 5 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

“At first. But one adapts through unavoidable repetition. Much like with everything else in life.” He glanced at her again, his eyes appraising too closely. She looked away, certain he had seen the truth. “So, you are a man of letters, then, working as you do for the chief clerk?”

“Yes. Brilliant detective work determining that.”

“As usual. And which school did you attend?”

Morgan cringed, feeling suddenly the subject of Steadman’s investigative prowess. “None. My father was a vicar. He taught me what he deemed necessary, and I discovered the rest with guidance from Reverend Merrill.”

“And yet you did not follow in your father’s footsteps?”

She huffed a breath. “No. He was not a man I wish to follow. I was a great disappointment to him, anyway.”

She saw him nod from the corner of her vision. “Very good. We have that in common.”

She peeked at him side eyed. “You dislike your father?”

“You do not know the half of it, boy. And I pray you never do.”

***

The intermittent rain failed to dampen Steadman’s spirits, and he knew why.

Every mile carried him nearer to the culmination of a fifteen-year journey, after which he might breathe freely again at last. No less a cause, though, was the thoroughly unexpected companionship of Mr. Brady on the road.

Though he actively tried to dislike the lad, he could not.

His candid demeanor, lack of pretense, willingness to bite back when bitten—these qualities drew Steadman into depths of conversation he had not plumbed in a long while.

Not since Lucy had found her own path, anyway.

With surprise, he realized how much he had missed such comradery.

And though his pleasant face was that of a boy’s in appearance, Morgan spoke with the sad wisdom of one much older, like a fey creature both blessed and cursed by eternal youth.

An odd combination, indeed. After a lull in the conversation during the late afternoon, he noticed Morgan grimacing in his saddle.

“Not accustomed to such long rides, I assume?”

Morgan flushed with embarrassment. “No. But fortunately, I lost all sensation in my legs hours ago. Can you tell me, are they still attached?”

Steadman glanced at Morgan’s mud-colored pantaloons. “I cannot rightly say. It seems you’ve the legs of a bird, though. Is that how you began the day?”

The young man’s cheeks became a deeper shade of crimson. “And you’ve all the tact of a wounded badger.”

“True. But about those bird legs.”

Morgan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Did you know an ostrich can kill a lion with a kick? Or a man if he particularly deserves it?”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, sir. Just a statement of fact. I will be sure to use smaller words and shorter sentences if ever I threaten you.”

“How magnanimous of you. But did you know that ostrich is a delicacy, especially when tenderized by nine hours in a saddle.”

Morgan grunted. “I suppose that’s a threat?”

“I never threaten. A waste of time. Why warn your adversary with a threat when you can simply strike them down unexpectedly?”

“I don’t know. Is that not ungentlemanly?”

Steadman chuckled, though his thoughts clouded.

“You clearly know little of gentlemen. I am well acquainted with the underbelly of society, but the worst cutthroats possess titles, lands, and the money to make miserable anyone of their choosing. Pardon me if I care little for what you might consider gentlemanly.”

Morgan leaned away from his sharp response. The boy stared ahead at the road for a time, clearly deep in thought while Steadman stirred the noxious stew of his past and sipped from the bitter pot. After minutes of silence, Morgan drew his horse nearer.

“I have considered what you said, Steadman, and have come to a conclusion.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And that would be?”

“I have decided,” said Morgan with great gravity, “that you are no gentleman.”

The spell of darkness in his blackened soul shattered, and he laughed loudly. “I have not been paid a higher compliment in years. But what about you? Are you a gentleman?”

Morgan’s face clouded and his mouth fell into a frown. “I will never be a gentleman. Nor do I wish it.”

“Again, we have that in common. But look, as we are two ungentlemanly scoundrels, then I know of the perfect place for a meal and a bed. If you can refrain from killing me with your bird legs, we should arrive within the hour.”

“I will do my best but promise nothing.”

Within half an hour, Steadman led them into the hamlet of Hook and straight to the Inn of the Red Monkey. When he dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a waiting stable boy, Morgan remained mounted while examining the decrepit inn with a baleful eye.

“Get off your high horse, Morgan, literally. This hovel is far better inside than it appears on the outside, as is true of most worthwhile things. Much that is gold does not glitter.”

The words prompted the reappearance of Morgan’s elusive dimples, and he dismounted.

Steadman watched while his traveling companion carefully freed his baggage and bedroll from behind the saddle, apparently trying to memorize the method of the latching as he unwound the rope.

He approved of the lad’s careful study of the binding.

Perhaps he might prove helpful in the investigation after all.

But not too helpful, Steadman reminded himself. Certain details he should never learn.

The meal he and Morgan shared inside justified his praise of the Red Monkey. He had never missed a chance to dine at the inn, including the time he had fought through a trio of thief-takers on his way out the door. Though Steadman ate like a starving man, Morgan appeared to pick at his meal.

“Nervous?”

Morgan flinched at Steadman’s question. “No. Not at all. Why?”

“Now, you eat like a bird. I assumed nerves.”

Morgan appeared to will away his sudden frown. “A poor metaphor. Did you know that a bird can eat its bodyweight every day?”

“I did not. Do you typically eat your bodyweight every day?”

Morgan’s forced grin melted into something more genuine. “Only at certain times of the month.”

When Steadman squinted with confusion, Morgan’s eyes grew wide and he stood abruptly from his chair, nearly knocking it backward. “I believe I shall retire to my room now.”

Steadman dabbed his mouth, stood, and retrieved the key from his pocket. “I believe I shall retire to our room as well.”

Morgan stared, his mouth hanging open as if poised to catch flies. “Our room?”

“Yes. Bow Street budget. One room, a shared bed.”

The young man blinked. “Shared bed?”

“Of course. Does His Highness require a separate bed? Or, heavens, a separate room?”

He nodded slowly with a hopeful expression. “If possible?”

“Not possible. The innkeeper had only one room available, anyway.”

The young man’s face went dark. “I will sleep in the stable, then.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Brady. A long day on the road requires a soft bed. Now, come along before I suspect that you dislike my company.”

Morgan followed him like a frightened colt as he climbed the stairs and entered the room.

Steadman found the young man’s deep unease a bit mystifying.

Perhaps his vicar father had raised his son to be a prude.

He’d known the type before. Steadman dumped his baggage next to the fire and began peeling out of his damp clothing.

Morgan, meanwhile, launched an intense observation of the utter darkness beyond the room’s window, silent as the dead.

After laying his clothes before the fire, Steadman considered discarding his shirt as well before shrugging and crawling into the bed.

He fixed his attention on Morgan, who was still staring out the window with baggage and bedroll in hand.

“Morgan.”

“Sir?” The reply was a squeak.

“Lay out your baggage and clothing before the fire and climb into bed. Unless, that is, you make a habit of sleeping upright as would a cow.”

Morgan turned from the window and slid along the perimeter of the room to the fire as if inspecting the wallpaper along the way.

Steadman shook his head and rolled away from the young man to face the wall, hoping sleep would come quickly.

Minutes passed before the bed creaked as Morgan lowered himself carefully onto the far side of the cramped bed.

The smell of damp fabric invaded Steadman’s nose.

“Mr. Brady.”

“Sir.”

“Are you still wearing your suit?

Silence. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Further silence. “To be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to go. In the morning.”

Silence.

“Mr. Brady.”

“Sir?”

“At least remove your coat and lay it by the fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

The creak of the bed signaled his rising. After another minute, it creaked again when he returned. Steadman continued to face the wall, waiting for Morgan to settle in. That did not happen.

“Mr. Brady.”

“Sir?”

“Why do you hug the edge of the bed?”

“This is how I sleep.”

“As if a bird perched on a ledge?”

Silence.

“Yes. But did you know that mallards can sleep with one eye open?”

“Fascinating, Morgan. In that case…” He rolled to his back to consume most of the bed. “I will enjoy the lion’s share of the space. If you require more of the bed at any point, just shove me aside.”

Sleep came quickly to Steadman, and he with a smile on his lips.