Page 8 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

“Categorically.” That he could say with certainty. “She is more like a daughter. She is the reason for my reform.”

Morgan’s interest rose again. “Might I ask?”

“Let’s just say that when it came time to choose between my goals and Lucy’s safety, I chose the latter without a second thought.”

“And this disappoints you?”

“Never. I am true to those I love, of whom there have been precious few.”

Morgan’s demeanor shifted toward approval. “And your decision led you to working for the Bow Street magistrate?”

Steadman chuckled over the na?ve question.

“Not exactly. It was this or dangle from the end of a rope. Fortunately, the Crown frowns on hanging gentlemen and presented me the option. I took it, of course. Though it galls me that those in power will throw away a hundred poor men without a care but move heaven and earth to preserve one of their own. Despite my many crimes, I still breathe because of an accident of birth while the man born in poverty dies for stealing a crust of bread. How is that justice?”

“It is not.” The sorrow on Morgan’s features revealed how deeply the boy meant what he said. “So, do you regret your position at Bow Street?”

Steadman felt his frown deepen. No one had asked him that question before.

His instinctual answer surprised him. “No, I do not regret it. I admire the integrity of the organization, of how the Fielding brothers founded it to help those who could seek justice by no other means. It serves my purposes and aligns with my aims.”

He withheld the rest—the deeper reasons for his association with Bow Street.

How it allowed him to continue his war of vengeance against those who wielded heartless authority, but with the law now on his side.

Silence fell as he pondered the conversation.

Only then did he realize how much he had divulged to Morgan, a virtual stranger.

He’d not even admitted some of these things to Lucy, and she was family.

Rather than regretting his admissions, he surrendered to a wave of contentment.

He felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted.

Thanks to the young man across the table.

An absurd notion seized him—to do something kind for Morgan.

He lifted his blank stare to lock gazes with the lad.

“Mr. Brady.”

“Sir?”

“Is this your first trip to Wiltshire?”

“Yes. I have not traveled even a mile west of London before. Why?”

“Perfect. I want to show you something.”

“What?”

Steadman shook his finger. “And ruin the surprise? Indeed not.”

As they rode away from the Broken Cauldron toward the west, Steadman could not stop marveling over how Morgan drew him into friendship despite his best efforts to shun it.

***

Morgan stared with reverence as the sun settled behind the massive stones, casting shadows that consumed the landscape behind her acre by acre.

In the growing dusk, the great monoliths of Stonehenge could be gateways to forgotten faerie kingdoms, silent sentinels of magical worlds long crumbled to dust. Her sense of time and space collapsed into a pinprick of a moment while whispering promises of eternity.

“Magnificent, is it not?”

She nodded in agreement. “Who built it? And how?”

“No one knows. Older than history, it is.” He smiled. “I am pleased that it impresses you. I thought it might.”

“It does.” She began to smile at him, only just remembering restraint. “Thank you for sharing this. I hate to leave it behind.”

“Then we should take it with us.”

“Perhaps. I look forward to learning how the great Sir Steadman packs Stonehenge onto a horse.”

A grin stretched his cheeks, kicking up a flutter in Morgan’s chest. “The task would prove more of an undertaking than packing personal baggage. Although one time I managed to secure ten thousand gold guineas onto a packhorse in less than three minutes. This might require, say, half an hour. With your help, of course.”

“No, sir. I would rather stand idly by and watch while mocking your efforts.”

“How would that be different to now?”

She raised an eyebrow. “For one, it would dirty your hands and soil your fine suit.”

He made a great show of flicking a speck of dust from one shoulder. “Can’t have that, now. Who is the Beau Monde Highwayman if not a man of clean suits and spotless hands? Besides, I don’t think the Duke of Queensbury would appreciate us absconding with his ancient relic.”

With that, he began untying his baggage and bedroll from his horse. Morgan frowned.

“We are sleeping here?”

“Why not? Are you afraid of ancient relics?”

“No. I like you, after all.” She began removing her baggage as well. “But the Duke of Queensbury gives me cause for concern.”

“Fear not. He’s a decent sort for a nobleman and rarely comes this way. You have more to fear from the druid behind you.”

She flinched and glanced furtively over her shoulder to find nothing but grassland. Steadman laughed.

“Too gullible by half, Mr. Brady. You must cultivate a healthier measure of skepticism.”

She snorted in a manner universal to men and women. “Perfect. I will begin discounting every word you say.”

“Again, how would that be different to now?”

I don’t know.” She raised a finger to point at the stones. “Perhaps you should ask him.”

Steadman turned his head to find nothing and let loose a slow laugh. “Well played. I shall retire from the field to prepare for nightfall, having been bested by a beardless boy.”

“And well you should. You know what they say about a woman scorned.”

When he cut his eyes at her, she inhaled a sharp breath. Why did I say that? For an instant, she had become lost in the glorious verbal battle and had forgotten that she was no longer a woman. Steadman continued to watch her.

“No. What do they say about a woman scorned?”

Morgan turned away to hide her alarm. “They… they say that if you can be bested by a beardless boy, then a woman scorned might destroy you.”

“Hmm. I have not heard that one. But, alas, I avoid scorning women, so I have nothing to fear.”

She pulled her baggage free of her horse and faced him again. “Rumors speak otherwise.”

He kneeled to lay out his bedroll. “All false, I assure you.”

“All?”

He peered up at her beneath a hooded brow as she placed her bag and bedroll in the soft grass several strides from his.

“Just as I said. Why people invent such stories, I do not know. But I find that most folks would rather believe a salacious lie than a bland truth. We yearn for compelling stories, the more titillating the better, and fiction often fills that void in a way that truth cannot.”

Morgan considered her situation and nearly laughed. Her present fiction was as bland as milk, while the truth boggled her mind. “Wise words, Steadman. I shall remember them.”

He finished laying out his bed and motioned to her. “Put yours next to mine.”

“Why?” she said too sharply.

“I sense more rain and have a lean-to large enough to cover us both. As long as you are no farther away than here.” He patted the grass next to his bedroll. She inhaled a deep breath to quell mounting anxiety and moved her bed next to his.

“See.” He began assembling the covering. “You can be taught. Potential, as I claimed.”

She said nothing but fed him a forced smile. Whatever potential Steadman saw in her was reserved for young Mr. Brady, Bow Street protégé. If he knew the truth, he would likely ride away immediately and never look back.

By the time they tethered their horses and shared a cold meal, the sun had become a memory.

Sweeps of stars burst through patchy rolling clouds to reveal the vault of the heavens far beyond.

Morgan settled onto her back in the lush grass near their beds to watch the celestial array claim the skies.

Though she had been in smoke-filled London for only a brief time, she had forgotten how brightly the stars glittered in the country.

She tore her gaze away to find Steadman reclining nearby, apparently engaged in the same activity.

Fear and longing welled up inside her. She was seized by the sudden urge to confess everything, to challenge Steadman not to dismiss her as she feared he would.

For a fleeting moment, she wanted more than anything to be Miss Brady and not a smooth-faced boy.

She began rising to her elbow, but logic stopped her.

Even if Steadman knew of her gender, what would he do?

She was plain. He was a Nordic god come from Valhalla.

Imagined visions of his cordial revulsion swept through her mind.

She lowered herself back to the grass, now a little sadder.

To shake away the visions, she broke the silence.

“Steadman?”

“Yes?”

“What do you see?”

She could sense his frown in the darkness. “What do I see?”

“In the stars. What do you see when you gaze upon them?”

He hummed softly. “Wonder. Mystery. The impossible.”

“Those things are good?”

“Of course.” He paused. “What is life devoid of wonder, mystery, and the impossible? Without them, we might as well be worms born in the dirt and dying in the dirt. Only aspiration lifts us above the muck.”

He rose up on his elbow to face her. “What do you see when gazing at the night sky?”

She shrugged. Nobody had ever asked about her aspirations.

About what she wanted. “My father taught me that heaven is in the stars. But his constant critique and iron hand made heaven seem unattainable for the likes of me.” She hesitated to consider discretion but cast it aside.

“When I view the stars, I see disappointment, falling short, a reminder of what I cannot be.”

Silence stretched between them for beat upon beat of her heart.

“Morgan Brady.” Steadman’s voice was low and gentle. “Listen to me.”

“Yes sir.”

He exhaled an audible breath. “You can be anything you aspire to be. You are not a prisoner of the dirt. You are not doomed to the path your father set for you.”

Morgan contemplated the irony of his claim. She was a woman. By virtue of her birth, most paths were denied to her through convention, custom, and law. “I… I think you overestimate me.”

“I think not. There is much more to you than meets the eye, of that I am certain.”

If only he knew how much more. “I could say the same of you.”

He laughed softly. “I doubt it, but fair enough.”

She continued staring at the stars, trying to envision what Steadman claimed.

Trying to aspire to become more than what the world had constructed her to be.

However, the voice of her dead father dogged her thoughts with his repetitive epitaph.

“You have fallen short again, Morgan Brady. You have fallen short.”