Page 7 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Without further warning, Steadman leaned toward Morgan and dipped his chin until dark eyebrows cast his eyes into shadow from which emerged the merest glint of light from his irises.

His lips stretched slightly as those fervent eyes plumbed the vulnerable depths of her soul.

Her breath caught when a shudder rose from her gut into her throat.

The gaze could only be described as a divine smolder, like the aftermath of Vesuvius or the slow burn of a sieged city—a testament to devastation and a promise of danger to come.

She yanked her gaze away in self-preservation and forced a laugh to cover her erupting unease.

What did he just do to me? She felt as if he’d invaded her senses with a cavalry charge, and by her invitation.

She was certain that, at any moment, he would see through her pitiful disguise and sentence her to ruin.

“See,” he said. “Did I not warn you how ineffectual it is on men?”

She nodded and inhaled a deep breath before facing him again.

Fortunately, the look had given way to a tolerable smirk.

She knotted her brow, suddenly annoyed by having felt anything for something as trivial as a smoldering gaze.

She failed to bite back her pique. “Steadman, you must think women to be vapid creatures to fall for such nonsense.”

His smirk faded. “Vapid? Never. Quite the opposite. I find women to be mysterious, clever, and willing to savage an unsuspecting man for nothing more than brute ignorance. The look is my only means of self-defense. Which brings me to another word of advice.”

Surprised by Steadman’s confession, she blinked twice. “Advice?”

“Yes. Whatever you do, Mr. Brady, never let a woman draw you too close, lest it be your downfall. I never have. I never will.”

Morgan turned her head away to hide her amusement and pretended to scan the far distance. “Excellent advice, sir. Your sterling record of evasion is a credit to manhood everywhere.”

Despite her mirth, though, Morgan casually accepted a sad fact. Steadman would never spare the look for one as unremarkable as she.

***

Several hours into the day’s journey, Steadman’s spirits remained remarkably buoyed.

More than a decade of evading the law, holding unsavory associates at arm’s length, and sheltering Lucy from both had left him isolated—an island in a sea of adversarial humanity.

He hadn’t realized the extent of his detachment until the past two days.

Morgan’s presence—the intelligent conversation, the exchange of wits, the easy camaraderie—this and more reminded him of what he had let slip away over time.

He had not felt so content in years, despite knowing what lay ahead at Broad Chalke.

“Mr. Brady,” he said, interrupting Morgan’s detailed description of the inner workings of a Stanhope iron printing press.

“Sir?”

“Just how hungry are you at this very moment?”

The dimples reappeared. “Eating an elephant is not out of the question, I must admit.”

Steadman returned the smile and nodded. Morgan’s earlier nerves had clearly abated with each mile of the road. “I have a perfect solution, then. Follow me.”

He turned up a lane on the outskirts of the village of Andover. Within two minutes, the Broken Cauldron came into view behind a natural screen of massive oaks twisted with age. The tavern remained a picture of rural England, its high gables and thatched roof a throwback to simpler times.

“My favorite haunt west of London. What do you think, Mr. Brady?”

Morgan cocked an eyebrow. “Seems nice. Although off the beaten path.”

“Which is largely the reason I favor it so. Come, then. My treat.”

He dismounted and tethered his horse to a large tree. Morgan began to do the same, but with clear skepticism.

“Are you not concerned someone will steal the horses?”

Steadman grinned at the lad’s naivety. “No. I am known here. As are the consequences, should anyone abscond with anything belonging to me or my associates.”

When he entered the tavern with Morgan at his heels, his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim interior. Wood paneling and beams stained by three hundred years of lantern smoke soaked up the light and made identification of the patrons difficult. Another reason he favored the place.

“Sir Steadman!”

He turned toward the call of a woman’s voice and smiled. “Beverly. How long has it been?”

“Too long.” She stepped into his welcoming embrace.

“You look as lovely as ever.”

She laughed and pushed him away. “Not lovely enough to entice a certain highwayman to settle down, it seems.”

“Nonsense. You know well my devotion to remaining free of romantic entanglements. If that ever changes, I will be sure to let you know.”

She slapped his shoulder and giggled. “Still a dog, I see.” Her eyes flitted over his shoulder, reminding Steadman of his young partner. He swept an arm toward Morgan.

“Madam Beverly, may I present Mr. Brady. Mr. Brady, Madam Beverly, proprietor of the Broken Cauldron and longtime acquaintance.”

Beverly curtsied to Morgan. He stood awkwardly for a moment before bowing stiffly. “Madam.”

Steadman frowned. Morgan had become unexpectedly shy, as if he was trying to disappear. Oh, well. Beverly was a beautiful woman who had that effect on many a young man.

“So,” said Beverly, “Is your young friend a pickpocket, a housebreaker, or a cheat?”

“None. He is a fellow Bow Street officer and quite above such meaner professions.”

Her eyes grew wide. “So, the rumors are true, then? I did not believe them.”

“Yes. I am mildly reformed. Mr. Brady is my protégé, at least for the duration of this investigation.”

“And what of your war against the finer class?”

The question drove uncomfortably close to truths he did not wish to discuss. “Suspended for the moment. For the duration of a meal, anyway.”

Beverly’s eyes narrowed. She studied his face before pondering an uncomfortable Morgan.

A wave of what he swore was recognition rippled across her features, piquing his curiosity.

How could she possibly know Morgan? However, Beverly turned away.

“Come, then, Sir Steadman. I have just the table for you and your… associate.”

She placed them at his favorite table deep in a corner far from the door. He put his back to the wall as was his habit. Morgan cut his eyes at him, clearly alarmed. Steadman patted Morgan’s hand, drawing a sharp flinch.

“Relax, boy. You seem prepared for a blade in the back.”

“I am relaxed.”

Steadman didn’t believe him and perhaps knew why. “Do you find Madam Beverly intimidating?”

Morgan stared as if expecting more before blinking. “No.”

“Then is it my checkered past that causes you concern? Do you judge me for it?”

His alarmed demeanor faded to caution. “Yes. A little.”

“Hah! Candor. Another superior quality in a man. But can you lower yourself to associate with the likes of me, a blackguard in deed and in reputation?”

Morgan frowned. “Yes.”

“So, you admit I am a blackguard.”

“I do not deny it. Although I might ask the same question of you. Can you lower yourself?”

He scratched his chin. “What do you mean?”

“You represent the pinnacle of your, uh, craft. You work alone by your own admittance. And yet you are forced to play nanny for a novice, a mewling cub.”

“Ah, yes. I see your point.” He drummed his fingertips on the oaken tabletop. “I admit I planned to devote myself to disliking you. However, something went terribly awry.”

Morgan’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? What happened?”

Steadman glanced away, abruptly uneasy with the conversation. Confession was a practice he found difficult, although Morgan had a way of loosening his tongue. Why was that? He waved his index finger at the boy. “You prove to be pleasant company. You have shown me… potential.”

“Potential? For… for what?”

Steadman began to answer but stopped himself. The conversation trended too perilously toward friendship. He waved a dismissive hand. “It matters not. Mostly I pity you. For your sake, I will stoop to mentoring you. And perhaps we should begin with that ridiculous suit.”

Morgan’s face clouded and he pulled his coat tighter across his chest.

“But not at this moment,” Steadman added. “A meal, and then miles to go after all.”

The conversation lapsed and remained sparse even after steaming bowls of shepherd’s pie appeared. Though the food was as good as he remembered, his stomach had turned mildly sour. He wondered why. It was Morgan who forged a path into the silence.

“The fare is excellent. You have come here often, it seems.”

Steadman nodded while dabbing the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Owing to the secluded location, it proved a good stophole abbey.”

“A what?”

“Stophole abbey. A rallying place. After a, er, job… my associates and I would separate and then gather later at a preassigned location. At a stophole abbey. Lucy loved this place the one time I brought her along.”

“Lucy,” Morgan repeated. He peered at Steadman through hooded eyes. “A… lover?”

Steadman emitted an uncharacteristic guffaw. “A lover? Oh, heavens no. Young Lucy was my ward for eleven years.”

Weirdly, a wave of relief swept over Morgan’s face before recognition dawned. “The rumor of a duke’s granddaughter?”

“True.”

“And is she still with you?”

“Thankfully not, for her sake. She turned one-and-twenty just a week ago and married an earl’s son.”

Morgan’s eyes remained wide with surprise. “You run in high company, then.”

“No. Low company, earls included. Although Lucy and her new husband are fine exceptions to the rule.”

Morgan pushed aside an empty bowl and leaned his elbows on the table, apparently captivated. “How did Lucy become your ward?”

He considered telling Morgan the tale but dismissed the notion. The lad had not yet earned sufficient trust for that. “A long story that must wait for another time.”

His partner leaned back with disappointment. “But you love her?”