‘Force you?’ Psyché realised it was not only cold that made Kit’s voice shake and rage flooded her own throat as understanding sleeted through her. ‘Force his attentions on you? Lord Martin was—’
‘No! Not him!’ Kit’s voice broke. ‘He—Martin would never, never—anyway, that’s over. Done. Martin will never marry me now. He can’t. Carshalton made another choice for me—Lucius Winthrop. He’s—’
‘I know who Lucius Winthrop is.’ Psyché heard her own voice from a distance, each word like an icicle breaking. ‘And your—’ She broke off.
I will never be Miss Carshalton again.
Carshalton had forfeited all right to be called a father. ‘Carshalton agreed to this?’
‘He suggested it.’
Psyché’s gorge rose. ‘No wonder you ran. How did you throw the bastard off your trail?’
For the first time a tear slid down Kit’s cheek. ‘I had a handkerchief Martin lent me. I left that along with a forged note telling me where to meet him tonight.’ Another tear followed the first.
Psyché stared. ‘Does Carshalton really think you’re that stupid?’
Kit nodded. ‘I’m a girl. We’re not supposed to think.’
Chapter Two
Soho, London—January 1804
Will Barclay considered himself among the luckiest of men. Some of the fellows he’d known at Oxford wouldn’t see it that way, of course. He was a mere second son, and with two younger brothers to boot, so relatively speaking his patrimony was negligible. Naturally their father’s estate had passed to his eldest brother, Robert. Rob was married now with two sons and a little girl in the nursery. Will thought his nephews jolly little rascals and considered it his duty to teach them the finer elements of cricket, but he secretly doted on his niece and goddaughter, Lily. He wished he saw more of them.
He and Rob disagreed on political matters, but everyone disagreed over something from time to time. Politics should not be allowed to destroy family ties.
They were all scattered now, of course. His mother lived with Rob and Margaret, enjoying her grandchildren and writing affectionate weekly letters to her other sons; himself, James in the navy, and Reg—of all of them!—ensconced as a curate in Northumberland.
And, even though his family disapproved, Will considered himself blessed in his employment. While the church had not appealed as a career, he’d been giving it consideration in preference to the very advantageous position his mother’s second cousin—his own godfather, Edward Long—had arranged for him.
Then, a chance remark made by Reg to the much older half-brother of a school friend had dropped Will straight into the sort of position he’d never even dared to dream about.
The Marquess of Huntercombe had taken Reg’s cheeky suggestion that his sobersides older brother William would make his lordship a capital secretary perfectly seriously and made the time to meet him. To Will’s disbelief, Huntercombe had offered him the position. It was beyond anything he could have hoped for. He had accepted on the spot, then dashed off a diplomatic letter to his godfather, declining the other position. The letter to his mother had been far more difficult, because he had felt obliged to be honest. Reading the letter she sent in response had been worse.
But here he was at thirty-two, very well paid—some of his peers were not half so lucky—with board and lodging thrown in and the kindest, most sympathetic of employers. An employer, moreover, who had discerned his young secretary’s growing interest in politics and government, and encouraged it. In fact, before Christmas, the Marquess had said that when Will was ready and opportunity arose, he would use his influence on Will’s behalf to find him a position at Whitehall.
He hadn’t mentioned that while he was at home over Christmas. Not wishing to throw a very unwelcome cat among the family pigeons, he’d thought to mention it immediately before his planned departure to rejoin Huntercombe’s household at the end of January. But Mama and Rob, for reasons best known to themselves, had reopened the argument about his political leanings on New Year’s Day.
Their reaction to his weary refusal to consider his godfather’s latest offer had been predictable and cataclysmic. He’d held out a couple of days before making an excuse to leave for London, wondering how the hell he could patch things up this time. And if he should even make the attempt.
Huntercombe House was closed up, but there was a skeleton staff there and he’d taken the opportunity to check his lordship’s correspondence. Most of the letters were easily dealt with, sent on to the Marquess, or requiring a quick response from himself. But one had puzzled him.
So here he was, that odd letter from Ignatius Selbourne in his pocket, riding into Soho to find out what it was all about. That Selbourne indicated he’d written to all three of Huntercombe’s primary residences suggested that something was very wrong.
There was the reference in Selbourne’s letter to burnt feathers. And his lordship already possessed a copy of the 1633 edition of John Donne’s poetry Selbourne was offering for sale—an edition the fellow had actually sold to Huntercombe ten years ago, which was even more puzzling. Ordering the catalogue of Huntercombe’s considerable collection of antiquarian books and manuscripts was part of Will’s brief and that catalogue included sources.
The book was code for something else and Will, who was more than happy to listen to servants’ gossip over his breakfast, had a fair suspicion of what that something else might be. But with Huntercombe in Cornwall it would take days for a letter to reach him and even longer for him to get back to London.
Will stabled his mare, Circe, at the Red Lion Inn and strolled back towards Selbourne’s. A chill wind hunted along the street, whipping around corners and snapping at his heels. He hadn’t been here for several years. Until Huntercombe’s remarriage late last year, the Marquess had preferred to use his Isleworth house when he had to be in London, rather than the Grosvenor Square mansion. Most of his interaction with Selbourne had been in writing during that period.
Little had changed. The street was still busy, crowded and noisy with people, stray dogs, cats, delivery wagons and smells. The smells could be especially noisome...but on a bright winter’s day with that brisk wind it wasn’t very bad.
One thing had changed. The coffee house he remembered diagonally across from Selbourne’s had a new name. A brilliantly painted crimson bird, tail feathers and wings aflame, announced it as The Phoenix Rising. Will frowned. ‘Burnt feathers are quite a useful commodity should your lady wife require a restorative.’
The name itself was familiar. Huntercombe owned a number of London properties—this was one of them. He frowned. Huntercombe’s agent, Foxworthy, dealt directly with the London tenants, but he was familiar with the listings—P. W.-Abeni, that was it. Sure enough, writ small in the bottom right of the sign was the confirmation: P. W.-Abeni, Proprietor.
He let out a breath. A cup of coffee would not go astray before he called on Selbourne. He noted the small sign in the bay window assuring patrons that only non-slave-produced sugar and coffee from the Dutch East Indies was served. In his heart he wondered if the Dutch use of indentured labour was very much better than chattel slavery, but one did what one could.
A bell jangled above Will’s head as he pushed open the door of The Phoenix. Warmth greeted him and he stepped into a masculine world of chatter, redolent of roasting coffee, damp wool and leather and laced with the spicy hint of chocolate. Staff, male and female, scurried about with trays bearing cups and pots wafting fragrant steam. Will drew the fragrances deep, more than coffee and chocolate—vanilla, cinnamon, ginger, cardamom and other scents he could not identify hummed in the air. An open fire simmered on one side of the room with several dogs snoozing beside it.
Men crowded at small tables sipping their coffee, tea or chocolate. A mixture of languages wove a babel tapestry. Several Frenchmen chatted in the corner, worn, tired-looking men in once grand, now
outmoded clothes—Will knew a number of men like them, friends of Huntercombe’s, who had fled the turmoil in France, lucky to escape with their lives, let alone a change of clothes.
A group of Africans sat in the bay window, all wearing the little medallions Mr Wedgwood had created to promote the Abolition cause—a white porcelain plaque on which a chained Black man knelt, pleading his cause as a man and a brother. They spoke in Portuguese, Will was reasonably certain, although he didn’t speak it himself. Probably members of the Sons of Africa.
He noted that a number of other customers wore the medallion, so presumably The Phoenix with its Dutch sugar and coffee aligned with the Abolition cause. Talk of politics, books, horses and sex—four young idiots loudly discussed the previous evening’s adventures in lurid and unlikely detail—filled the shop.
Possibly the mysterious P. W.-Abeni, owner of The Phoenix Rising, could explain the burning feathers...
He glanced about. A couple of men younger than himself, a curvaceous blonde woman and a Black lad wove paths through the shop, balancing trays and clearing tables. The proprietor would be older, probably middle-aged, and...his gaze fell on the young Black woman at the counter and simply stopped, along with his breath and his heart.
She measured beans from an earthenware jar, scooping them out and depositing them in the scales with an easy rhythm while chatting with the liveried Black servant standing at the counter. Her high-necked gown was plain, a soft grey-blue wool, the sleeves well clear of her wrists, and only the smallest of ruffles to adorn them. Her only jewellery was the anti-slavery medallion suspended on a crimson ribbon around her neck. Her black hair was arranged in an elegant complication of braids woven with crimson ribbons.
A gentleman strolled up to settle his bill and she broke off to deal with that swiftly, a friendly smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. A quick note in a ledger and she turned back to the beans and footman.
‘There.’ She secured the bag as Will approached the counter. ‘I’ll be interested to know what Sir Peter thinks of this roast. Please tender my regards to him.’
‘Aye. I’ll be sure to tell him.’ The servant touched his hat. ‘Good day to you, Miss Psyché.’
‘Good day, Lucas.’
Will stepped back to give the footman room, and the woman inclined her head politely.
‘Good day, sir. How may I help you?’
Her low, musical voice slid into him, somehow mingling with the exotic spiciness of the shop, and those dark, liquid eyes that held a faint, questioning smile.
Psyché—the beloved of Eros. If any mortal woman could enchant the god of love it would be this one...
His brain scrambled for coherent thought, let alone words. ‘Ah, a pot of coffee, please. For myself, that is.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ She smiled and his lungs wondered where all the air had gone. ‘Would you like to pay now or when you leave?’
‘Oh, I think now.’ His mind was so dazed he would not have cared to wager a groat on remembering to pay later. He scrabbled about for a mental foothold...there’d been something else... ‘Ah... I’m looking for Mr Abeni.’
Arched brows rose. ‘Are you, sir? Is there some problem?’ Cool suspicion crystallised in that honeyed voice now.
Will flushed. ‘No. Er... I’m his landlord’s secretary.’
The wariness in the dark eyes deepened. ‘Are you now? And how does his lordship go on, Mr Barker?’
‘Barclay,’ he said automatically. ‘Very well to the best of my knowledge.’ It was done so smoothly he didn’t even feel the hook. But then—‘You did that deliberately. You knew my name.’
‘Huntercombe has mentioned you, Mr Barclay.’
Will floundered. Why would Huntercombe have mentioned his secretary to a girl—woman, really—working in a Soho coffee house? Huntercombe was unfailingly courteous. No doubt if this woman had waited on him at some time he would have spoken to her politely, perhaps even remembered her, but—
‘I am Psyché Winthrop-Abeni, Mr Barclay.’
Shock, Will knew, came in packages of varying size. This one dropped on him like a hundredweight. This was P. W.-Abeni? How in Hades—?
‘But you’re—’ He broke off, uncomfortably aware that he teetered on the edge of rudeness, or at the very least, indiscretion.
‘Black?’ She finished his sentence anyway.
He gazed dumbfounded at her. The slightly tilted dark eyes, the full, sensuous mouth, just now with a cynical twist, and the dark bronze silken complexion. Her eyes were narrowed now, the slender figure braced with her chin up.
He let out a breath, fully aware that his cheeks were burning. ‘I could deny that I was going to say anything of the sort—say instead that you are very young to be the proprietor. And that women do not commonly run coffee houses.’
Cool amusement edged the lush mouth now. ‘That’s true enough. I am both of those things, too.’
‘But it would be a lie,’ he said. ‘And worse, it would suggest that I thought you stupid enough to be fooled.’
Her gaze softened. ‘Which I’m not. But I would have pretended had you chosen that path. Why didn’t you?’
Good question. ‘God knows.’ He held out his hand across the counter. ‘Will Barclay at your service, ma’am. Selbourne wrote to his lordship and I believe he mentioned your shop.’
She stared at him in surprise, then gave him her hand briefly. A warm, firm grip, with surprising strength in the slender fingers. ‘You believe?’
Will hesitated. ‘A passing reference to the convenience of burnt feathers.’
He could have sworn that amusement danced in those dark, deep eyes.
‘How very cryptic, sir.’
‘Does that mean anything to you?’
She didn’t answer immediately, but he couldn’t have said she hesitated. Rather, he had the impression he was being summed up. In stages. And that she was withholding final judgement.
‘Take a table, Mr Barclay, and I’ll have your coffee brought over. Would you like a second pot to take over to Mr Selbourne when you go? I can put it on his account.’
He blinked. ‘If you think he would like it, certainly, but I’ll pay for it.’ He could hardly show up unannounced on Selbourne’s doorstep with a pot of coffee and tell the man he was paying.
‘Very well, sir.’
‘And will you forgive me?’
She looked coolly amused. ‘For informing me that I’m Black? My looking glass tells me the same every morning. You’ve hardly insulted me, sir.’
The deuce he hadn’t. ‘Implying, even accidentally, that the colour of your skin somehow makes you less competent is definitely an insult. My apologies.’
Some of the fire banked. ‘Many think precisely that, Mr Barclay. I am glad that you do not.’
* * *
Psyché watched as Will Barclay threaded his way through the hum of chatter and outright gossip to a small table in the corner.
So that was Huntercombe’s secretary. Or was it? It seemed odd that the Marquess would send his secretary to deal with something like this... But when she’d asked how his lordship went on...
Very well to the best of my knowledge.
Ignatius had written to Huntercombe in Cornwall, as well as Isleworth and Mayfair because he didn’t know where Huntercombe might be. If Barclay had received the letter sent to Grosvenor Square, then as his lordship’s secretary he might have thought it his duty to investigate. But could he be trusted?
And what on earth had possessed her to challenge him like that? It wasn’t as though she didn’t meet that attitude regularly. He was hardly the first to express surprise that a Black woman could run a successful anything, let alone a coffee house. And when he’d caught himself—pulled back from actually saying it—she’d had to go and rub his nose in it!
It was a nice nose, although it looked as though
it had been broken at some point, set in a quiet, kind face. Oh, for heaven’s sake! How could a face be kind? It was a collection of features, wasn’t it? Only, she’d known Uncle Theo was kind from the moment she’d met him in that inn by the docks, even before he spoke to her. Just as she’d known that her father’s brother, Lucius, was not. She’d learned young to judge people accurately and most people were kind enough in their way. But most people didn’t really see her, not as a person in her own right, a human being who could be insulted or hurt. But Will Barclay...
She wiped the counter, rubbing fiercely at a spot of dried milk. An impression. She’d had the impression he was kind. Very well. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he wasn’t. Kind people could still make your teeth grate with well-meant insensitivity. Nor did kind mean a man was willing to break the law and she had still to make his coffee. What did it matter if he were one of the few who possessed the ability to see her, acknowledge that she was Black and still see her humanity? More important to notice that Mr Wilkes and Mr Barnes were nearly ready for their second pot. She pulled forward a grinder, poured the roasted beans into the top with broken-up sugar, and turned the handle.
But Will Barclay, sitting peaceably in the corner by the window, refused to be dismissed from her mind. He’d spoken politely, requesting his coffee, not giving an order. He’d neither leered at her nor ogled her breasts. Old Mr Wilkes always stared at her breasts when she brought their coffee over and as she walked away told Mr Barnes that she was ‘a pretty little thing, and clever enough, for a darkie’. He leered at the other girls working here, too, of course, even pinched the occasional bottom. The girls took it in their stride, especially Sally who had a very pretty bottom and generally got a penny out of it. Psyché doubted Mr Wilkes had the least idea he was known as the Penny Pincher. And he was rather deaf and probably had no idea that half the shop could hear his remarks.
A Marriage of Equals Page 2