by Shana Galen
“Cove said I was to make sure ye got in safely,” the jarvey said. “So I’ll wait until yer in.”
Phaedra steered Modesty to the shop door. “I’ll go in around the back. You wait here, and I’ll come through the shop and let you in.”
Modesty nodded and stood in the doorway, shivering with cold. It seemed hours passed as she stood in the dark with the gaze of the jarvey upon her, and then finally the door opened, and a woman who was not Phaedra, but who was dressed just as elegantly, opened the door. “Come in, chérie.” She waved to the jarvey then closed and locked the door behind Modesty.
“Come to the back with me. I want no light seen in the windows.”
Modesty followed the woman through a shop like those she had passed many times. She’d always stared at the windows and the expensive hats and lace and fabrics. She’d never been inside. The place smelled of lavender and floor polish. Several tables were spaced about the shop floor, each with a dizzying assortment of beautiful things—ribbons and velvets and dress forms adorned with lovely gowns. Modesty couldn’t see very well in the dim light, and she had to force herself to keep walking instead of stopping to touch the silks and satins and hold them to her nose.
Finally, she was led through a corridor and into a back room, which was much more austere with white walls and no embellishment. Tables lined the walls, and each was a neat workstation. Modesty understood at once this was where the seamstresses worked. She sewed her own clothing and recognized the tools arranged neatly about the room.
A boy of about twelve had made a bed in the corner of the room and was sitting, rubbing his eyes. Modesty smiled at him, but he looked annoyed to have been roused from his sleep. Phaedra had taken a seat in one of the chairs at a worktable. The elegantly dressed woman turned and studied Modesty as she entered. “You are Payne’s woman, oui?”
“We?”
“It’s French for yes,” Phaedra told her. “This is Madame Renauld. She’s a modiste.”
Modesty nodded politely at the modiste. She had dark hair piled elegantly on top of her head with a section trailing over her shoulder in glossy black curls. This was similar to the style Lady Lorraine’s maid had wanted to create for Modesty. She almost wished she’d consented because it was an attractive style. But even if her hair had been sleep-tangled, this woman would have been beautiful. She had luminous skin burnished the color of copper in the lamplight and large brown eyes with arched brows that seemed to hint at amusement.
“I’m not Mr. Payne’s woman,” Modesty said. “He is...” She didn’t know how to finish. What was he to her, exactly?
“That ees a pity,” the modiste said. “He ees a handsome man.” She looked at Phaedra. “But sometimes looks can be deceiving, oui?” She knelt before Phaedra. “You look worse than you did yesterday, ma fille.”
“I tried to leave him,” Phaedra said. “I tried, but...” Her voice broke, and she began to sob again.
Madame Renauld did not embrace the other woman or pat her back as Modesty had. Instead, she stood and straightened her shoulders. “He will not touch you again. If Payne and Okoro do not stop him, then I have my own methods.”
Modesty could only wonder what those might be as the woman said nothing more. She went into another room and returned a moment later with a folded paper. “Boy,” she said, and the child on the pallet rose and walked sleepily to her.
“Name is Twig,” he muttered.
“Twig ees not a name. I told you to give me a real name or I will call you boy. Do you have a real name?” She looked down at the child, hands on her hips.
“Name is Twig,” the child said.
Madame Renauld sighed. “A man or two will come late tonight. They may be together or come separately. Show them thees paper when they knock.”
The boy took the paper. “How am I supposed to know it’s the man you want and not a ruffian?”
“Ruffians do not knock,” Madame Renauld said. “You can do thees, oui?”
“Alright.”
“Come with me then,” Madame Renauld said, gesturing to Modesty and Phaedra. “You are safe here, but we will be safer in my apartments. They are not far.”
Before Modesty could consider whether she should stay here or go with the modiste, the woman was already shooing her out the door and leading the other two through a wide alley lined by doors to other shops. Once on the street, she led them over one block and then into a building and up a flight of stairs. Producing a key from her reticule, she opened the door to a small entryway where she hung her coat and Modesty’s cloak. The entryway opened into another room, a parlor of sorts that Modesty saw more clearly when Madame Renauld lit a lamp. Modesty’s eyes must have widened because the modiste laughed. “Have you never seen a sitting room, chérie?”
“Not like this.”
The room was painted a sapphire blue with couches and one of those chaise longues placed in a cozy arrangement on a gold rug. The furnishings were in jewel tones of ruby and amethyst and the fabrics were sumptuous velvets and satins. It looked a room that belonged in the palace of King David.
“But what are you wearing?” the modiste asked, coming closer to inspect Modesty’s dress. “Thees is not a gown for the evening. I do not think it was made for you either. The fit ees not quite right.”
“A friend allowed me to borrow it,” Modesty said. “My own dress is more...” Funereal? “Subdued.”
“More subdued than thees?” Madame Renauld asked. “If I were to dress you, I would put you in greens or purples. You have the coloring for it. I think you could even do red. Yes, a bold, deep red. Not scarlet but the red of currants or wine.”
Modesty shook her head. “I could never wear red.”
The modiste lifted a shoulder. “We shall see. Now, you must make yourself comfortable. I will put Phaedra to bed.”
“Madame, no. That’s not necessary,” Phaedra said, though she was practically asleep on her feet.
“No arguments,” the modiste said. “To bed with you. And you will stay there until I tell you to rise. Do not even think of coming to the shop tomorrow. I have half a mind to close for the day.”
“But Madame, the Countess of Blinn has an appointment.”
“Ah, of course. We cannot disappoint the countess.”
Their voices tapered off as they moved into another room and then behind a closed door. Modesty looked about and tried to decide where to sit. She finally decided on a plush chair upholstered in emerald velvet. It was close to the fire, and she took the poker and stirred it until it came back to life. She would have added coal as there was a full bin nearby, but she did not know if the modiste rationed her coal and had used her supply for the day.
She closed her eyes and thought back over the events of the past few days. Lady Lorraine had been so kind. Her husband was terrifying as usual. And Mr. Payne. It was hard not to see Mr. Payne every time she closed her eyes. His eyes were the green of the chair she occupied. She hadn’t seen him fight, but he’d been in only a coat and linen shirt at the Cock and Bull, and she had seen the strong lines of his neck and width of his shoulders. She’d watched his mouth as he spoke and wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth.
She would never know. She had hurt him with the mention of his wife. She’d done so inadvertently. She hadn’t known the woman was dead. And she certainly shouldn’t feel about it as she did—relieved? Almost...happy?
But there was no point in fantasizing. If she was fortunate, she would find her aunt. If she were not, she had years of a workhouse to look forward to.
Or worse.
EWAN PATTED ROWDEN on the back and smiled. Since one of Ewan’s pats was akin to a blow from a racing stallion, Rowden had to struggle not to fall flat on his face. “Just like old times, eh?” Rowden said, smiling back at his friend.
Rowden surveyed the three men crawling away on the dirty ground. The Black Plague had started the fight strong, but he’d been tired from his mill in the tavern and hadn’t lasted long against Rowd
en. His two friends had been easily knocked down by Ewan, and they’d wisely decided to stay down.
Rowden went to the Plague and crouched beside him. “As I told you earlier, I think you need a holiday. Do you prefer Scotland or the Continent?”
The man turned his bruised face—most of the bruising due to his earlier fight—to glare at Rowden. “The Continent.”
“My friend here will put you on a ship tonight.” He leaned closer so no one else would hear. “And if you ever come back and so much as pass within a mile of Miss Phaedra, I’ll kill you myself.”
He stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. “He’d like a sea voyage,” he told Ewan. “Can you escort him to the docks and put him on a ship?”
“Can I hit him again?”
“Not unless he provokes you.”
Ewan slammed a fist into his palm. “Too easy.”
“Not as much challenge without the snipers shooting at us.”
Ewan laughed, and Rowden shook his head. He would have never thought one day they would be laughing over the times they’d almost been killed in the war. At the time, he hadn’t minded being labeled expendable. He was the disinherited younger son of a duke with three older brothers and little chance of ever inheriting the title. Most men still wouldn’t have wanted to die, but Rowden had just lost his wife—the woman for whom he’d relinquished his name, his family, and his position. He’d loved her more than life itself, and death seemed easier than living in those days.
Now he was thankful for the times Ewan had protected his back while Nash covered them with his rifle. He was thankful for all the times Stratford had devised a strategy that saved their lives or Phineas negotiated for more provisions or Rafe collected information that helped them avoid ambush. It was a cold, dark night in February, and he stood in a filthy alley with stinging knuckles, but he was glad to be alive.
The tavern door opened and Chibale stepped out. “Warmed up?” he asked, surveying the men on the ground.
Rowden nodded. He’d almost forgotten he still had a mill. “Mostyn will take our friend to the docks. He’s opted for a trip abroad.”
“I’ll take him,” Chibale said.
“But he might provoke me,” Ewan protested, sounding disappointed.
“If he provokes me, I’ll hit him for you,” Chibale promised. “Can you coach Rowden in the mill against Strong?”
“I’ll be fine,” Rowden said.
“I’m not leaving you with only Trogdon for support.”
“I’ll stay,” Ewan told Chibale. He gave the man on the ground a last look before opening the door. Ewan followed Rowden back through the kitchens and into the tavern, now so full of people they must be spilling out into the streets. The roped off area wasn’t raised, and Rowden couldn’t see the progress of the mill, but he could hear the groans, which usually signified the beginning of the end.
Ewan started through the crowd, and Rowden followed, but he’d gone no more than three or four steps when a man stepped in front of him. “Mr. Notley. I think you’ll find your man outside, lying in the gutter where he belongs.”
Notley’s perpetually red face turned redder still. He was a short man with a bulbous nose, unruly black hair, and bushy side whiskers. When Rowden had begun to catch the notice of the Fancy in the boxing world, Notley had approached him with an offer to manage his career. It had been more of an order, really—I’ll be managing you from now on.
Rowden had declined the offer in less than polite terms. A few months later, he had asked Chibale to manage him, and Notley had taken it personally. They’d been on rocky footing ever since. Now Notley had lost all his prizefighters to injury, cheating scandals, or drink, and he had only the Black Plague left. Or at least he had before now.
“If you and that blockhead damaged his right hand—” Notley began.
“His hand should be fine, but he won’t be fighting for you anytime soon. He’s taking an unexpected trip abroad.”
Notley stared at Rowden, his mouth dropping open and his face turning such a dark shade of crimson it verged on purple. “Why, you—”
“Stop right there,” Rowden said. “No need to say anything you’ll regret. Your man had a heavy hand with the ladies. Since you did nothing to curb those bad tendencies, someone else had to step in.”
“Is this about that whore he’s been seeing?”
“I’ll have to ask you to watch your language. The lady is employed by Madame Renauld, and Mr. Okoro will not take kindly to any disparagement of her name or that of her employees.”
Rowden was still feeling exhilarated from the fight, and he’d known he was preening just a bit too much. But right then he realized he’d said too much. Notley’s eyes narrowed, and Rowden wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He shouldn’t have brought the modiste into this.
“Payne,” Ewan said from behind him. He’d obviously realized Rowden wasn’t right behind him and had come back. “Let’s go.”
“Right.” Rowden gave Notley one last look and followed Ewan back to the table where Trogdon was looking about. Trogdon stood, looked at his chair then under the table then lifted a glass and checked under it. “What are you about Trogdon?” Rowden asked, pulling his coat off and sitting to remove his boots. He would fight bare-knuckled and barefoot, wearing only breeches and a growl.
“I can’t find the oranges, sir,” Trogdon answered, his face long and his expression regretful. “I suppose you will have to let me go.”
Rowden could have let him go a dozen times over for more cause than losing oranges at a mill. But he eyed the bulging pockets of Trogdon’s coat. “Have you checked your coat, Trogdon?”
“Yes, sir. I put them in the pockets, but somehow they made their way out again.”
Rowden pulled off his stockings. “Check again, Trogdon.”
Trogdon patted his pockets, discovered the oranges and produced one from the left and one from the right. “I say, sir! You’ve found them.”
“So I have.”
The tavern owner came by then and leaned down. “Ready, sir?”
“I’m ready.” Rowden stood and pulled his shirt over his head. Abraham Strong was already at the ropes and Rowden looked at Ewan. “Are you coming?”
Ewan was staring at Trogdon as though he couldn’t quite believe the man was serious about the oranges, but he nodded and followed Ewan to the ropes. Trogdon plodded after him, holding an orange tightly in each hand. The tavern owner was introducing the final milling coves of the evening, though Rowden and Strong needed no introduction. Still it gave the patrons a last chance to place their wagers, and since the winner would receive not only the prizemoney but a portion of the stakes, Rowden was in no hurry to begin. He held out a hand to Trogdon, who placed an orange in it. After peeling it, Rowden ate it in three bites then took water from the cup Ewan offered.
He spotted Aidan in the crowd and nodded to the man. Aidan was a shrewd investor who rarely lost in speculation or wagering, so Rowden hoped his friend had bet on him. Being that Aidan was a man who put money above just about everything else, Rowden didn’t expect loyalty.
Ewan leaned close. “Hit him hard and end this quickly. I’m ready to go home.”
Rowden was ready too. He would have to fetch Miss Brown and take her to Mostyn’s before he could go home, but he found himself eager to see her again. She’d still be wearing the blue dress, and he wanted to see if she looked as good in it as he remembered. He was allowed to look, even if looking only made him wish he could touch.
Rowden climbed under the ropes and met Strong in the middle. The two men shook hands and went to their corners. Rowden had nothing against Strong. He was a fair fighter and a good one at that. They were evenly matched, but something told Rowden he would win the fight. Maybe it was the blood still thrumming through his veins after the sight of Miss Brown and the warmup tousle with the Black Plague. Maybe it was the confidence Ewan exuded behind him. Maybe it was the way Aidan sat back at a table beside the ropes and crossed his arms, looking at
Rowden smugly, as though he knew Rowden would make him a pretty penny tonight.
When the umpire rang the bell, Rowden was ready. He stepped forward shuffling a bit to keep his muscles warm. Strong looked eager too. That was the problem with fighting last. One was impatient to finally have a crack at the other fellow.
Strong threw a test punch, missing Rowden. But that hadn’t been the point. The point was to see how Rowden reacted. He leaned back just enough to avoid the blow but didn’t overreact or shuffle backward. He didn’t intend to give Strong a warning shot. He intended to do as Ewan said and hit hard and fast. The two went around the ring, Strong throwing increasingly more serious punches and Rowden easily evading. The crowd began to protest. They wanted to see blood. Rowden didn’t intend to disappoint. He made to shuffle left then shifted right and threw a quick jab to Strong’s midsection. When Strong reared back in surprise, Rowden caught him in the chin when his head arced forward.
Strong went down and the umpire separated the men and sent them to their corners. The crowd cheered, and Rowden took a seat on Trogdon’s offered knee. Ewan handed him a cup of water, and he drank. He looked up. “Well?” he said.
Ewan looked at him.
“Don’t you have any praise?”
“No.”
“Censure?” Rowden asked.
“No.”
“Advice?”
“Keep hitting him.”
“Remind me to tell Chibale to never again allow you to take his place.”
“Another orange, sir?” Trogdon asked, sounding pained at Rowden’s weight on his knee.
“Not yet,” Rowden said, rising as the bell sounded again. He was once again face-to-face with Strong, but this time the man had blood in his eyes. Good. Anger made it difficult to focus, and that worked to Rowden’s benefit. He let Strong tire himself by throwing more punches, which Rowden avoided. Not all of them were easy to avoid, but he was quick on his feet.
The crowd booed again, but Rowden didn’t fancy a split lip to give them a good show. Strong threw another punch. Rowden ducked and went under it then came up behind Strong, wrapped an arm about his neck, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him down. There were very few rules in a fight like this, but Rowden wouldn’t stoop to kicking a man when he was down. He waited to punch Strong when he crawled to his feet, but the umpire shoved him into his corner.