by Gina Conkle
“I’m about to send him packing, but let’s save that news for later.” North looked to the establishments lining the other side of the road. “How about a coffee in one of those fine shops? You own most of them, the buildings anyway. And you can tell me again why you insist on this odd pursuit of yours.”
Those words hit him like a jab to a fresh bruise. Cyrus stepped onto the wide Cornhill road, dodging a steaming pile. “You mean my hunt for a certain woman.”
“Yes. Why look for a woman who doesn’t want to be found?” North spoke over the road’s clamor. “When others like the lovely Lady Isabella Foster move conveniently in your path?”
“My connection with her ended.”
“You could pursue Lady Churchill,” North suggested. “A young woman who by all appearances would shed her lofty position to be joined with you.”
“You mean stoop low enough to marry the likes of me?” Cyrus growled.
“You know what I mean.”
Yet North couldn’t look him in the eye.
Cyrus shrugged off the unintended insult, looking to the shops ahead. “I’m not stirred to move beyond the surface I’ve already scratched with Lady Churchill or Lady Foster. And I’m not on the hunt for a wife.”
“But you are on the hunt for a certain mystery woman.”
He was sure his friend wanted to pick at the fresh wound that was Miss Tottenham. He couldn’t answer what he didn’t fully understand.
There was wanting her, yes, but what would he do if he found her?
Lascivious ideas aside, did he plan to give the lady her shoe back? Chastise her for sneaking into his house and stealing a dance? For that, so far, was her gravest wrongdoing. In the bright light of day, evidence pointed at no true crime having been committed, save the damage to his pride.
No, he couldn’t stop his hunt.
Beside him, North hefted high his walking stick, pointing at a blue-lettered sign: The New Union Coffeehouse.
“Let’s try that one. Opened over a week ago. Heard some at the Exchange raving over the pastries. That is, of course, if you don’t mind the raucous crowd.”
His friend preferred the stately formality of expensive gentlemen’s clubs. Cyrus hardly frequented coffeehouses, but he wasn’t bothered by the prospect of the noisy, common crowd. Coffeehouses were London’s hubs of equality, a gathering place for men to share a mug and share their views, no matter their rank.
The Royal Exchange banned common traders for being too loud and disruptive, rabble-rousers in the ever-shifting world of high commerce. A chosen few commoners received special permission from the Crown to conduct business within the Exchange. Cyrus was one of them. The rest milled about the wharfs or hunkered down in midtown taverns and coffee shops to ply their trades through runners delivering messages.
On the other side of the shop’s mullioned window, merchants and traders gossiped and debated, the wavy panes distorting their animated faces. Every subject fell under their jurisdiction, from politics to the price of wool and cotton, all the while waiting for messengers to come with fresh news, news to be posted on the chalkboards found in London’s coffee shops.
Passing through the doorway, they were greeted with the hot, earthy aromas of strong coffee mingled with cinnamon apple. A smart proprietor ought to leave the door open, all the better to lure the casual pedestrian inside.
“Ahh, fresh-baked apple tarts.” North tipped his nose up, breathing deep. “You get a table, and I’ll ask about the pastries.”
Patrons occupied black lacquered tables and chairs scattered around the long room. High-backed benches, shining from a recent coat of onyx paint, lined both sides of the establishment’s brick walls. A tall lad of eighteen or nineteen years poured coffee into a pair of white mugs behind the counter.
Cyrus sought a table near the window, keeping his back to the bench for a better view of the place. He dropped his hat beside him, catching sight of a man slouched nearby. The man sat alone, his black tricorne pulled low over his eyes, but he recognized him.
Lord Marcus Bowles.
Black boots, scraped and muddied, sprawled before him. His stained shirt opened at the neck. The brown-and-green-striped waistcoat he wore gapped from missing buttons, the fabric moving up and down in the relaxed flow of a man fast asleep.
North came to the table, his hat and walking stick clamped under his arm while bearing two white mugs of steaming brew. A black stencil proclaimed The New Union Coffeehouse on the sturdy stoneware.
“Fresh tarts will be out of the oven soon,” he said, settling himself in a chair.
Cyrus motioned to Bowles. “Looks like he’s not at the Nagshead or the White Lyon.”
North glanced across the bench, his mouth a flat line. “At least I know he’s not smashing up taverns.” He shifted to rise, but Cyrus stopped him.
“Let him sleep. He’s not causing trouble…as long as the proprietor doesn’t mind.” He hooked his finger through the mug’s handle, looking around for the man in charge.
Right then, two lads ran panting into the shop, papers crushed in their fists. One gangly youth delivered his notes to a round, florid-faced trader wearing a gray yarn wig. The trader dug out a farthing for payment and read aloud the news to five men sitting with him. An energetic debate on the price of wheat ensued.
The other lad went to a chalkboard, pondering the note in his hand. Cyrus scanned more of the coffee shop, his study catching a slender woman emerging from a passageway near the counter. She balanced a wide tray of pastries. A larger than normal mobcap covered her hair, but something about her…the glimpse of her face made him look twice.
He craned his neck, but the shopgirl set the wide tray on the counter and turned her back to him. She stretched for a coffee grinder from a high shelf, her willow-slim body a pleasant sight.
“Nate…more coals on the fire…” She spoke over her shoulder to the tall youth at the counter.
She curled her hands in her apron, wiping them as she looked to the lad at the chalkboard. Her profile struck Cyrus oddly, but the mobcap’s frill obscured her face. Some women pinned a small scrap of cloth to their heads in the name of propriety, but this shopgirl covered every strand of hair.
He watched her while North relayed his brother’s latest exploits. Something about the shopgirl teased his memory like a pleasant taste he couldn’t recall. Was she from his home village of Stretford? Cyrus sipped his coffee, keeping vigil on the woman in his periphery.
She set a tender hand on the shoulder of the older boy standing at the chalkboard, whispering something to him. The lad passed paper and chalk to her and disappeared into a doorway leading to what must be the kitchen. One slim arm covered in plain gray broadcloth cuffed past her elbow moved over the blackboard. She wrote neat lines, her skirts swaying with her movement.
Light gray fabric draped her slender bottom. The white bow of her apron cinched her small waist, the ties fluttering down her gentle curves. No large hip roll masked her shape.
He grinned at a simple truth: working women tolerated no taxing fashion. They wore simpler hip rolls. Practical demands of their everyday world required maneuverability such as the woman at the chalkboard carrying on with grace.
And he was worse than a stripling lad the way he ogled her.
But something about her reminded him of…home?
She finished listing ships and goods docked off Tower Wharf and dusted her hands of chalk. Men clustered behind her to read the news, beginning lively discussions on The Grosvenor’s cargo of indigo and saltpeter, but under the table, a shoe nudged his shin.
“Go to the counter. You’ll get a better look.” North folded his arms across his chest, bunching Greek-patterned embroidery on a fine waistcoat.
“It’s not what you think,” he said. “I recognize her…think she’s from Stretford.”
“Then while you’re figuring it
out, why not get us some tarts?”
A pair of macaronies entered the shop, mincing their way to the counter in high-heeled shoes painted garish shades of green and yellow to match equally revolting coats and breeches. At the counter, the young fops dawdled, discussing the merits of one pastry over another.
Rising from the table, his body loosened. The shopgirl could be exactly what he needed. He warmed to the idea of a pleasant diversion with a less-complicated woman.
Between the high-wigged macaronies and the woman’s oversized mobcap, he couldn’t get a good view of her face. The fops paid for their pastries and moved on, their heels clicking on plank floors. Right as Cyrus ambled to the counter, the lady dipped out of sight. The lad, Nate, plunked a bucket of coal on the floor and wiped his hands with his apron.
“Sir, can I get ye something?”
Cyrus tried to see over the block counter but earned little more than glimpses of her gray-skirted bottom. She crouched on the floor, appearing to lean into what must be shelves underneath.
Another time.
He glanced at the tall youth. “Two apple tarts.”
Nate set two plates on the counter, cocking his head. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
He had a pretty good idea the source of the lad’s recollection. The tall, gangly youth had the look of an East Ender about him, but what the shop boy likely knew was something Cyrus would rather not have bandied about in midtown.
“Don’t think so.” Cyrus averted his eyes to the chalkboard, rubbing the sore spot on his neck.
The shopgirl made lots of noise rummaging through goods. He drew out coins for payment. Nate scooped the tarts onto two plates, all the while studying Cyrus behind a black forelock hanging over his eyes. Young though he was, the lad wore cleverness about him the way others wore wealth and position.
On the other side of the counter, the woman spoke up from the floor, louder this time.
“Nate, have you seen a cherrywood box with a heart carved on the lid? It’s long and narrow”—there was more rustling—“about this big.”
That voice.
The small hairs on his neck bristled.
Images of a laughing, blond coquette in a low-cut gown teased him. The voice went with the lithe body dancing through his memory these past weeks. He set a claiming hand on the countertop, staring at the gray-skirted bottom coming in and out of view.
The lad picked up the plates, his green eyes hard slits on Cyrus. “No, Miss Mayhew, haven’t see it.”
The youth idled, puffing out his chest. Protective of the woman, was he?
“To the table by the window, if you please.” Cyrus kept his voice firm and the lad moved with sullen steps.
Stoneware clanked. The shopgirl set a steadying hand on the counter—a hand good at untying things, a hand with a pink, star-shaped scar.
A hefty brawler could’ve knocked him in the gut for the way his stomach muscles clenched. Behind him, the shop burst with male laughter and boisterous boasts. Life went on as usual for everyone else, but where he stood, stormy silence swirled.
“Excuse me. I might have what you’re looking for…Miss Tottenham.”
The gray skirt ceased moving.
Cyrus wasn’t a hunter, not in the conventional sense. But he recognized the moment when prey froze, clinging to a split second of freedom while deciding: fight or flight. And he waited, his pulse quickening. She hadn’t seen him standing there, but she heard him.
The vixen remembered his voice.
A thrill coursed through him, sharpening his wits. What would she do when she faced him?
His quarry set her other hand, dusted with flour, on the plank counter. She rose to full height and pretty blue-green eyes met his with cool challenge.
“Thank you, but you have no idea what I want.”
Her chin tipped high and a long tendril fluttered against her cheek.
That show of bravado roused him, stoking his fire for her. He liked that she looked him in the eye. A lot of men wouldn’t do as much.
There was probably some deeper meaning in her words, but satisfaction at having snared her settled in bone deep. The weight of power was his. One corner of his brain counseled caution: an oversized, angry man could never be easy for a woman to face.
No matter. The flirt would get no quarter from him.
“How nice to see you again, Miss Tottenham.” He smiled, lacking all warmth. “Are you looking for your shoe?”
Four
There is in true beauty, as in courage, something which narrow souls cannot dare to admire.
William Congreve, The Old Bachelor
Claire acknowledged an undeniable truth: a man always, always, always played a part in a woman’s downfall. Though, not to put too fine a point on it, her own disastrous decisions created the shaky ground on which she currently stood. She couldn’t avoid the painful truth of her circumstances any more than she could avoid Mr. Cyrus Ryland standing in front of her.
Nor was the matter helped by childhood biblical lessons booming in her head, all meant to rain down fresh guilt. If those storied reminders didn’t keep a woman in line, she faced a sizable man ready to pour his brand of fire and brimstone inside her humble shop.
At least that’s what she assumed by the sparks shooting from Mr. Ryland’s hard, gray eyes. Unsteady nerves tied her legs in knots, but she’d defend her small slice of independence.
“How nice to see you again, Mr. Ryland,” she said, lobbing a brazen volley. “And thank you, but you can keep the shoe.”
The cold, masculine smile stayed in place, but his eyebrows moved a fraction higher.
Did he expect her to grovel?
She kept both hands on the counter. The way they stood, both could be squaring off over the same hotly contested territory. A spurt of pride bolstered her, despite the awful squeeze to her chest. Provoking the angry brute was not a good idea, but neither would she show fear.
Her brain ticked with the best solution to rid her shop of his presence: demonstrate proper success. Didn’t the New Union Coffeehouse reflect midtown prosperity? England’s King of Commerce understood one thing well: money. She was about to impress him with her freshly minted business skills when Mr. Ryland furnished his own announcement.
“That’s good about your shoe, because it’s with the magistrate.” His arms crossed, straining a fine black coat over broad shoulders.
“The magistrate?” Her voice thinned. “Why?”
“Let’s see…an unknown woman sneaks into my home, hides in my study, only to flee suddenly at midnight.” He paused, and his voice turned brusque. “Of course I went to the magistrate. I was certain you stole something.”
She leaned against the counter, needing support. The sharp corner dug into her midsection with welcome pressure. Running off the way she did must’ve caused more of a stir than she had imagined. She had truly believed he would brush off their chance encounter.
“There’s no need to involve Bow Street. I didn’t steal anything. I assure you, I meant no harm.”
“Something in your practiced flirtation made me think otherwise.”
“Practiced flirtation?” A shrill laugh escaped her. “I’m nothing of the sort. What you see is an honest woman, an honest woman of business…just as I told you.”
“Then who was that woman rubbing against me while we danced?”
He asked the startling question with nonchalance, but her cheeks singed from the crude reminder. Mr. Ryland perused her pale gray workaday dress cinched with black ties from her waist to the modest, square neckline, where a neckerchief covered her skin. She didn’t dress the part of a temptress.
Behind her, a commotion inserted a welcome break in her crisis. Jocular voices, laughter, and the footsteps of young men sounded from her kitchen. Ryland cocked his head at the disturbance.
“It’s th
e messengers finishing up their stew,” she explained.
“Busy place.”
“Good for business, don’t you think?” She managed a small smile, glad for the distraction.
Half a dozen young men, all on the verge of manhood, filed out of the kitchen, setting their Dutch caps on their heads. A few swiped their coat sleeves across their mouths, laughing and talking. But the roughly dressed youths chorused their appreciation for the meal. One of them, Sharp Eddie as he was called, snapped to attention on seeing Mr. Ryland, his hawk-like eyes taking special interest in her patron.
“Thanks, Miss Mayhew, we’ll be off.” Sharp Eddie veered close to the counter, staring at Ryland.
The odd attention bordered on rude, but she had other things to attend than to puzzle over the lad’s lack of manners. Two more men entered the shop, footmen enjoying their half day in search of coffee and macaroons. She obliged them, relieved to see to business rather than appeasement of an angry male. Mr. Ryland moved out of the way so she could tend her counter.
But he didn’t leave.
That would make things too easy. Instead, arms still crossed, he leaned a hip against the counter and kept close vigil on her every move. Her jittery hands managed to pour two steaming cups for the men and scoop up the pence they left on the counter. With impish mischief, she noted Mr. Ryland wore less complicated neckwear today, but to comment on such would not be wise. She dropped the coins into her till box, her lips clamping shut.
Beneath the till, on the bottom shelf, a basket of clean linens cried for attention. Keeping busy offered an antidote to her upset. She reached for a newly laundered cleaning rag, glad for something to occupy her hands.
Mr. Ryland looked at the open archway leading to the kitchen. “The messengers, are they any relation to you?”
“I have no brothers and sisters or cousins for that matter.” She started folding the cloth, unsure how to adroitly remove his presence from her counter.
“A father?”
“Alive and well,” she said, making a tidy crease. “A land steward on the Greenwich Estate.”