by Gina Conkle
The hack sped through London, pressing full force against the storm. Last night’s friendly clouds had turned angry, dousing those brave souls who dared to march against the watery tumult. Claire was mutinous enough to set her face against the gray wind and wet. She would save her shop, her independence, and if she could, she’d rescue one errant, green-eyed lad who’d won a soft spot in her heart.
How these tasks would be accomplished was the murky dilemma she hadn’t quite worked out yet.
The ride to the West End was perilous through near-empty streets, but less so than what would happen once she arrived at her destination. Number Four Bow Street was conveniently situated for her needs, but that wasn’t her first stop.
A certain residence in Piccadilly was first on her order of business.
The hack’s wheels had barely rolled to a stop in the horseshoe drive when she sprung from the seat and paid the driver. In front of her, the ashlar edifice of Ryland House matched its stone-hearted owner: each limestone piece had been cut and stacked into rigid, unbending lines, creating an unshakable structure.
Time someone changed that.
Her upset had failed to cool on the long wet ride; rather, the journey from midtown to Ryland House firmed her resolve all the more to hold fast to what was hers. Claire charged up the steps, stomping through puddles.
She pounded the brass lion’s head knocker three times, wind and rain whipping her skirts. Impatient, she curled her fist and banged thrice on the heavy wooden door for good measure. Pain bit her knuckles. The sting could be a slap on the hand, reminding her what happens to women who put their trust in the wrong man, a man who promised to give her a fair chance.
How many times would she repeat this lesson?
Today, she’d fight back.
Fist poised to smite the portal again, the indigo-lacquered door opened. The butler’s staid eyes narrowed at the sight of sodden, furious female on his master’s doorstep. Belker. She knew of him from her days in service.
“Yes?” The implacable butler’s mouth drooped.
“I’m here to see Mr. Ryland. Now,” she said, cool rain dripping down her cheeks.
“Mr. Ryland’s indisposed to unannounced guests at the moment, I’m afraid…” His sonorous voice trailed off when she pushed past him.
“Then he ought to dispose himself rather quickly, or I shall have his friends from Bow Street on his heels.”
At the mention of the thief takers, Belker’s lax eyes rounded. Aside from impudence and interruptions, the only thing a man in his position despised more in life was a whiff of scandal settling its odorous cloud over the house he served. His status put him squarely as the first line of defense.
Claire’s heels struck the marble floor with determined snaps. She raced to the far end of the entry hall, her head turning from one set of double doors to another. The well-lit Ryland house wasted too many candles in her opinion: light underscored each door. She cocked her ear, catching the hum of Mr. Ryland’s voice layered among others somewhere in the vicinity.
“Where is he?” She whipped around, her hood falling back. “Are you going to tell me, Belker, or do I have to open every door to find him?”
“Miss Mayhew,” the butler’s stern voice rose. “As someone once in service, you know very well this impudence of yours is poorly done.”
Belker stared at her as though she’d lost her mind, his polished shoes rooted to the floor.
So he knew of her.
There’d been gossip from other servants who patronized the New Union Coffeehouse. Some admired her, but others viewed her as an upstart, a female leaving the secure world of servitude not for stabilizing matrimony but for an independent life in business. The butler’s appeal to the common bond upper household servants shared wouldn’t work.
She shot off toward one set of double doors and flung them wide open to find a team of footmen setting a long table with the utmost care. Each man was a study in pristine, blue-and-white livery topped with blinding-white periwigs. A few of them patronized her coffee shop on their half days.
“Thomas, would you be so kind as to tell me where Mr. Ryland is?”
He blinked at her, straightening from the waist. “He’s entertaining guests in the royal drawing room.” His white-gloved hand pointed the direction. “Let me take you, miss.”
“You will do no such thing, Thomas.” Belker spoke in her periphery. “See Miss Mayhew to the door before she causes further disruption.”
But the butler’s nervous glance at a certain pair of gilt-edged doors flanked by effusive ferns gave the secret away. Before the ever polite Thomas got any closer, she sped to those doors and yanked them wide open.
A beautiful assemblage filled the well-appointed drawing room, sitting in clustered tableaus of color and perfection. One by one, their faces turned her way, all conversation fading. Her labored breaths made a conspicuous sound in the cavernous room.
She was an earthly rebel invading a gathering at Mount Olympus.
A dark-haired, violet-eyed goddess held court in the middle, her plum skirts spread wide. The lady spied Claire, her eyes turning to feline slits, but the Marquis of Northampton, who sat beside her, gaped.
A small, older man spoke to two young men of university age. His eyes were cold and colorless under the bob wig framing a thin face. The two younger men he spoke with bore the stamp of Ryland lineage. One of them smiled at Claire, his mouth curling in the same arrogant way as Mr. Ryland’s.
Apparently not all of Olympus resented her intrusion.
Lucinda Ryland held a dish of tea aloft, her mouth a perfect O. Miss Ryland briefly gawked at Claire, and then turned to look at the opposite end of the room. Claire followed the young woman’s line of vision to the commanding form standing with another broad-shouldered young man by the windows.
Cyrus.
Heaven help her, she didn’t need anyone to alert her to him. She’d find that man the way desperate sailors seek a lighthouse. Despite the storm, afternoon light haloed him like some sort of Greek god come down to trifle with mere mortals. With those infernal broad shoulders and glowing, slate-gray eyes, Cyrus Ryland dominated her senses, touching her most feminine places.
His nostrils flared. Was he scenting her? The notion was ridiculous, given their distance and the circumstances, but Claire settled a hand on her stomach, quashing the flutter.
He could very well have said aloud to the silent room: She belongs with me.
And his dangerous draw turned her legs, her resolve to jelly. She was woefully out of her depth, swimming in waters she had no business being in.
Mr. Ryland strode toward the open doors, confident as ever, greeting her like a tardy guest, not some rain-drenched, midtown proprietress with flour dusting her skirt.
“Miss Mayhew, a pleasure to see you.” He came an inch closer than courtesy dictated, blocking out the others behind him. “You will join us.”
He spoke in an authoritative tone, his close-lipped smile as smooth as you please. Standing this close, she took her fill of his tantalizing, clean smell. Plain soap must’ve earlier lathered his freshly shaved jaw, where a new thumbprint-sized bruise marked him.
She pushed wet hair off her face. “I will not, unless you care to include your friends from Bow Street.” Her trembling voice dropped lower. “I’m sure they’d like to know about your thievery.”
Belker and a pair of footmen hovered outside the doorway. “I’m very sorry, sir—”
Mr. Ryland raised a halting hand to the butler, his eyes narrowing on her. “What are you talking about?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but the quick-thinking host clamped her elbow, steering her firmly from the doorway into the entry hall. Mr. Ryland looked to the butler and tipped his head toward the drawing room.
“Luncheon. Take care of it.”
Those words were sufficient. The
servants flew into action, which made Claire wonder: Did Ryland House receive distraught females on a regular basis?
There’d be no time to delve into that question. He guided her across the entry hall and down the royal-blue hallway, toward his familiar study. When they entered, she got a daytime eyeful of his study.
Few books lined the shelves of the plain blue-and-gray room. Worn-out folios, the spines cracked and losing color, lined shelves built into the wall. The room thankfully was well lit and warm, with enticing charcoal embers glowing from the hearth.
He led her straight to the familiar chintz-covered settee, but his gaze swept her from head to toe.
“You’re drenched.”
“A very astute observation since I traveled here in a storm.”
His brows slammed together at her sarcasm, causing a small, vertical line above his nose, but he bent his powerful frame, pulling one side of the settee close to the grate. Mr. Ryland adjusted the heavy furniture as easily as one might move a small chair. Then he pointed to the seat.
“You’ll want to sit here, closest to the heat.”
She looked from the inviting spot back to him. Oh, no, the greater heat frothed between them.
“I shall stand, thank you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The lines around his mouth tightened. “And give me your cloak. We’ll hang it here to dry.”
She was about to tell Mr. Ryland the purpose of her unannounced visit when a chill snaked up her skirts, reminding her not to be a fool. With a rain-splattered cloak and her soaked hems plastered to her ankles, practical wisdom won. The cloak came off.
“I’m not staying long.” She stretched out her arm, keeping their proximity to a minimum.
Male lips curved, suppressing a smile at her staunch effort to maintain some distance. Mr. Ryland accepted the cloak, his warm, dry hands covering her icy fingers in the exchange.
His gray stare fixed on her. “Now, what’s this thievery you’re talking about?”
He hooked the cloak’s hood on a stone carving sitting atop the mantel. The comfortable seat beckoned her to sit by the orange and amber coals. What needed saying could be done as much in comfort as discomfort. Why be miserable in the process?
Claire sidled over to the proffered accommodation, and waves of cozy warmth touched her frigid ankles, going bone deep. A sigh of satisfaction slipped.
“I speak of my necklace. Stolen.” She inched her puddle-soaked shoes closer to the hearth. “By you.”
“Steal your necklace?” He set one hand at his waist and chuckled, a rasping, ill-humored noise. “You forget. Between the two of us, you’re the criminal here.”
She winced at the undeniable fact but pressed on, meeting his hard examination. The man would not run roughshod over her today. She scooted to the edge of the seat, her chin tipping higher.
“What you did was, was the lowest…the vilest thing.”
“I repeat: I did not steal your necklace.” His arms spread wide. “I don’t need it.”
Ryland spoke in even, practical tones. His calmness and straightforward demeanor chipped away at her certainty.
“Of course you don’t need a necklace,” she retorted. “But you’d take it. Just to prove your point. To make sure a woman alone doesn’t succeed in business.”
“I’m not hard-pressed to prove my point.” His voice was dry as sand. “Nor do I spend my days pondering the activities of proprietors who rent from me. Either they succeed or they don’t. You have the same opportunity as everyone else.”
She smarted from his words. Was everything so decided with him? The way he studied her, she guessed her landlord worked the facts in his head, calculating fluidly from one scenario to another.
“Let’s take this one step at a time, shall we?” He hefted around a wide leather chair and sat down, facing her. “I don’t want your necklace, Miss Mayhew. I want you.”
Pleasure skittered over her, the sensation like tiny pebbles skipping softly down her body.
Those simple three words—I want you—suspended clear thinking. A drop of water trickled down the side of her cheek. She swiped her hand over her face if for no other reason than a reprieve from an intent male.
“If I can’t sell the necklace, paying my notes, the rent…” Her voice trailed off.
“Do you understand? If I wanted to coerce you into my bed, I would’ve pushed the matter of the forgery.” He leaned his forearms on his thighs, meeting her at her eye level. “But I didn’t.”
Her courage burst, sinking underfoot from his honest words. And of all things, another flare of attraction sparked, seesawing with her present dilemma. Mr. Ryland spoke in the confident way of a man used to being taken at his word. Clear, gray eyes opened wide to her. Nor did he wax long, attempting to convince her of his innocence.
Why should he?
He told her the truth. She knew it in her bones.
Her chin dropped to her chest. The devil she knew seemed manageable, but the alternative carried starker, more dismal consequences. Uncertainty shifted the earth. She braced her hands on the cushion on both sides of her hips.
“I didn’t want to believe Nate would steal from me. I thought you paid him to take the necklace for your own purposes.” She looked up at him again, small-voiced worry sucking the air out of her lungs. “Yesterday…the gold coin you gave him…”
Ryland’s eyes flickered at the mention of the gold coin, but he said nothing. She rushed on, explaining Nate’s odd absence, his hints of past thievery, but Mr. Ryland listened, emotionless as one gathering information. He didn’t react at all when she mentioned Nate’s scurrilous youth in St. Giles.
And he listened, truly listened, to everything she had to say.
“Circumstances may point to Mr. Fincher as the culprit, but I don’t believe he stole from you. There has to be some other explanation.” Large, warm hands reached for hers. Mr. Ryland cosseted her frigid fingers, rubbing away the cold. “But the more important issue, you aren’t safe there. A woman alone above a shop. You can’t stay—”
“I’ll be fine.” Her hands pulled free, and she started rocking on her seat.
There was no time to debate with him what a woman should or shouldn’t do. Her problems were bigger than that. She looked around the room, blinking hard.
“But the shop…I have to pay the cabinetmakers seven pounds by Friday, the potter two pounds for the cups and plates, Annie still needs her wages…” She tugged the bothersome mobcap off her head. “And the rent…”
Hairpins dropped to the cushion, and more blond strands fell loose around her face. Her hair had become a bedraggled mess, its damp weight hanging on her neck. Quick fingers worked the flimsy mobcap into a ball while outside a rumble of thunder sounded.
Mr. Ryland plucked the cap from her. “I’ll waive this quarter’s rent and give you a loan for the rest.”
Her gaze shot up to meet his. The light played stronger on one side of his face, casting a shadow on the other.
“And you expect nothing in return?”
Mr. Ryland’s bluntness must’ve rubbed off on her.
His head tipped with minute acknowledgment. “There are many things I want, but when you come to me, it will be of your own free will. Money will not be something between us.”
She couldn’t help the sharp burst of laughter. “A bit sure of yourself, Mr. Ryland. What makes you think I’ll come to you?”
His modulated tone told her one thing: the notion of holding something over her head to get what he wanted had crossed his mind, at least with her forgery.
“In here, it’s Cyrus, remember?” His deep voice was smooth and assured. “And I’m confident because you’re the one fighting our obvious attraction.”
Small tremors of pleasure shook her. Her body, it would seem, had already turned mutinous, ready to set sail for the deep, gray waters
of the unwavering Cyrus Ryland.
“Then you have a long time to wait.” But her words held no bite.
She hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. This spot by the fire would be a perfect place to curl into a tight ball and block out the day’s troubles.
Cyrus removed his fine blue coat, the slide of cloth on cloth an inviting sound to her benumbed senses.
“You’re not warming up sufficiently.” He leaned in and wrapped his coat over her shoulders, his deep voice like an intimate connection. “Someone needs to take care of you.”
She shuddered when his breath tickled her ear. His warmth and nearness was just as heavenly as what he draped around her. She could tell he found her refusal more amusing than deterring. Cyrus closed the coat in front of her, his body heat palpable inside. The collar’s woven broadcloth brushed her rain-misted cheeks, his pleasant scent on the cloth. The coat was part of an expensive, well-tailored ditto suit: identical blue fabric with spare gold trim on the coat, waistcoat, and breeches.
“I’ll ruin part of a perfectly good suit.” But she pulled the coat tighter, greedy for the snug feel.
He added more coal to the blaze. The inferno’s orange light danced across white cotton stretched over his shoulders. Muscles moved under the fabric, mesmerizing her while he built a hotter fire. And then there was his offer to waive her rent and give her a loan, an offer apparently free of unique requirements. His act of generosity pinched her conscience.
How dare he be so…nice.
“About the rent, the loan, I cannot accept your kind offer.” She cleared her throat, trying to sound competent. “I’ll find a way.”
Ryland glanced at her but said nothing to counter her refusal. Instead, he dropped to the floor, kneeling before her. Without asking her leave, he removed one shoe and then the other, and set the soaked footwear against the hearth’s ash pan.
“What are you doing?” Her words, like her body, went slack, all of her too worn down.
His head bent close to her knee. One hand, large and warm, curled around her ankle, rubbing life back into her foot. A big, masculine palm moved under the arch, creating delightful friction. She pressed her lips together, holding back a moan of pleasure.