Page 9 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

As Steadman approached the village of Broad Chalke, memories clung to him like morning dew on fields of clover, accruing shimmering recollection of days long past. Every meadow whispered stories of adolescent misadventure.

Every house sighed of former friends, acquaintances, and rivals.

Every side road murmured of journeys both physical and aspirational.

In all, the area appeared little changed since his eighteenth birthday.

The day he had left for good.

“When your mind returns to your body, might you tell us where we are?”

Morgan’s good-natured taunt drew him from his relentless reverie. “I am simply awash in memory. What’s your excuse?”

“My mind is perfectly present. However, it does not require my lips to move as a result.”

“Are you saying I talk too much?”

“Like a cow chewing cud. Your observations fill the gaps that might otherwise offer sacred moments of silence.”

Steadman barked a sharp laugh. “You would not be the first to insinuate as much. But you are the first to say it so frankly and survive.”

Morgan frowned. “And here I thought you prized frankness.”

“I do. However, the rank and file of England have learned to withhold truth when speaking to men of a certain class, even if the man is considered a criminal.”

“Why is that?”

Steadman lifted his eyes to the sky. A good question that darkened the borders of his soul.

“Because to men of a certain class, hard truths range from inconvenient to indicting. How can one enjoy the summit knowing he sits atop a mountain of misery? A determined practice of ignoring suffering and a solid belief that misery is justified by virtue of birth dispels troublesome feelings – such as compassion and empathy. If anyone dares speak the truth, well, the man of a certain class must do everything to quash it regardless of the pain inflicted on the truthteller. As a result, the common class learns early to withhold frank opinions for fear of reprisal.”

He grimaced at his outpouring and glanced at Morgan. His partner appeared to mull over the explanation. “What you say sounds sensible, which surprises me.”

“Dare I ask?”

“Because you are a man of a certain class. Your opinion would appear to indict and otherwise inconvenience you.”

Steadman scowled. “I have not been that man for fifteen years.”

“Good, then.” Morgan’s smile bordered on impish. “Then may I be frank once more?”

“I suppose.”

“Are we lost, or can you tell me where the devil we are?”

A smile crawled across his face, lifting him from encroaching indignation. “I am never lost. We approach our intended destination of Broad Chalke.”

“Thank you, sir. Despite your origins from a certain class, you are sometimes helpful.”

“I am nothing if not helpful.”

As they entered the hamlet of Broad Chalke proper, Steadman mulled over his previous fifteen years, most of it outside the law.

Planning, scheming, striking, running, only to repeat the cycle.

All of it aimed at thwarting the very system he had once been destined to inhabit.

To manipulate. To control. Only the miracle of Lucy, a lost child, had prevented him from descending into an abyss long ago.

His father’s example had convinced Steadman to avoid fatherhood.

However, fate had drawn up other plans in the form of a ten-year-old granddaughter of a duke without a family and in need of a champion.

In his rumination, he glanced again at Morgan, who studied the village as if memorizing it.

The lad’s presence reminded him again of what he had lost along the way—true friendship of equal minds.

The fact that he had begun to find it in a rumpled, smooth-cheeked adolescent continued to surprise him.

Remarkable.

“Steadman?”

Morgan drew him again from the halls of introspection. “What now?”

“Will we continue riding west until encountering the sea, or do you have a more salient plan?”

He cast a cool but playful glare at the lad. “I always have a plan. Usually a brilliant one, though sometimes merely sublime.”

“So, you never rush into a situation with pistols cocked and just wait to see what happens?”

“Such actions result in pain and death. So, no.”

“Seldom wrong but never in doubt?”

“More or less.”

Morgan grinned. “Then might you share with me your surely sublime and possibly brilliant plan?”

“Of course. Anything to dispel your ignorance.” He pointed ahead.

“We ride to the far edge of Broad Chalke to the residence of one Mr. Jarvis, constable of the village and surrounding areas. Once there, we will gather information regarding his knowledge of the events we have come to investigate. If that is acceptable to you.”

Morgan waved a lofty hand. “Ride onward, then.”

Within minutes, they arrived at the sundry shop and otherwise home of Mr. Jarvis.

Steadman remembered him as a man whose self-aggrandizing talk always outstripped his courage.

He hoped the man had changed but feared the worst. After tethering the horses, he grabbed the arm of a startled Morgan to pull him close.

“Let me do the talking. Watch and learn.”

Steadman entered the shop with Morgan at his heels.

The shop was as he remembered—stuffed to the ceiling with virtually every item a household might need, from cookware to dry goods to second-hand clothing.

A pair of shoppers gave them the standard local stare that said, “Welcome, but leave quickly.” He dismissed the women and turned his attention to the man behind the counter, grayer but still eminently recognizable.

The man’s brow was drawn with suspicion.

Steadman stopped in the middle of the small shop, stood tall, and gripped his lapel.

“I seek a Mr. Jarvis, parish constable.”

Frozen in place, Jarvis cleared his throat. “That would be me.”

His suspicion had given way to mild alarm. Steadman approached him to loom over the cowering man. “Mr. Jarvis. I am here on behalf of the Bow Street magistrate with regard to recent criminal behavior in the area and wish to obtain from you a full report of the events.”

Jarvis seemed prepared to melt into the floor, wilting like an uprooted flower under the July sun.

Steadman shook his head. If anything, the man had become even more of a mouse.

Steadman raised his hand to make a very strenuous point but halted when Morgan tugged his sleeve and stepped up beside him.

“You are Constable Jarvis?” Morgan asked calmly.

“Yes?”

“Wonderful. I was told that you were a distinguished gentleman, dapper of looks, who commanded respect by his auspicious presence. I am pleased to find the report to be true.”

Steadman cocked an eyebrow as he watched Mr. Jarvis straighten and resume his normal height. The shopkeeper’s wide smile chased away his frown. “Why, yes. Of course.”

“Steadman and I wonder if you might be inclined to answer a simple question or two. Nothing more.”

Jarvis’s eyes slowly widened as his stare shifted from Morgan to – him. “Steadman? Mr. Drew?”

“Steadman only. Never Mr. Drew.” He eyed the now fascinated women. “We require privacy, ladies. Unless you prefer that we search your houses for contraband.”

The women lifted their skirts and fled the store. When the door slammed behind them, Steadman returned a steely gaze to Mr. Jarvis. “First question. Are you aware of the wheat extortion scheme occurring under your watch?”

The constable shook his head. As Steadman leaned closer, Jarvis began melting again.

“Second question. Are you certain you know nothing about a gang of armed men forcing local family farms to sell what little wheat they have salvaged from the poor harvest for half market price, under threat of violence?”

“No.”

Steadman placed both his hands on the countertop. “Third question. If I beat you to a senseless pulp, would the village even notice your absence?”

“No? I mean, yes?”

As he prepared to make good on his threat, fingers seized his elbow again. He glanced down to find Morgan’s imploring eyes. He leaned away from the countertop, oddly disconcerted by the look on Morgan’s face. By those large eyes. His partner flashed a bright smile at Mr. Jarvis.

“Sir. You appear to know nothing of importance whatsoever, and I believe your claim of absolute ignorance. Please pardon my associate. We will leave you to your duties. If you remember anything useful, will you be kind enough to notify us?”

Jarvis cast a frightened gaze between Steadman and Morgan. “Yes?”

“Is that a question?”

“Uh, no. Yes, I will notify you.”

“Very good, sir.” Morgan pulled Steadman away from the counter and out the door. He expelled a frustrated breath and glared at the lad.

“Did I not order you to let me do the talking?”

“You did.”

“And yet you did much of the talking.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Morgan eyed Steadman as if his brain had leaked through his ears. “Does Wiltshire lie within Bow Street’s jurisdiction?”

He frowned and shook his head. “No.”

“And as it lies outside our jurisdiction, if we must make an arrest, who has the authority to serve the warrant?”

His frown deepened. “The local constable.”

“And he is?”

“Mr. Jarvis.”

Morgan slapped his shoulder. “There you have it. We will require his help later. If you pummel him senseless, he might be disinclined to offer it.”

Steadman dipped his chin. “Of course, you are correct, but for one detail.”

“And what is that?”

“Jarvis is lying through his teeth. He knows exactly what is happening and who is behind it. And he is frightened.”

“How do you know?”

Steadman began walking and Morgan hurried after him. “I have spent my adult life in the company of cheats, liars, and con men. I have learned to spot a false tale a mile away.”

With that, Morgan lapsed into a silence that persisted most of the journey to the inn.

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