Lady Meets Her Match

by Gina Conkle

  “And what, pray tell, do you want?”

  “Very good.” Lady Foster’s eyes flared wider. “You’ll need that kind of backbone if you’re to survive in this rarefied air.” She glanced at the tapestry. “As for me, I wanted the man and his money. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “You and Cyrus.”

  “Don’t be dull. You had some idea about me.” She sighed. “I certainly knew the day you barged in here wet as a stray cat. But Cyrus and I had been over for some time. Let’s just say I keep my eyes open to all prospects.”

  “But you’re a widow, aren’t you? I would think your independence is something to enjoy.”

  An unseen mask could’ve slipped from Lady Foster’s cool, collected face right then.

  “Or it can be a lonely prospect, Miss Mayhew, believe me. Independence has two sides and one of them is an empty bed most nights, something I don’t savor.”

  Independence. More like isolation of late. Loneliness wrapped a cold blanket around Claire, the same as the night when she stood in her dark and vacant shop, an unmarried woman with an uncertain future. Did Lady Foster feel the same?

  Then she did the unthinkable. She touched the bright blue sleeve beside her, images of her own empty room coming to mind.

  “You sound very much like a woman of some experience,” Claire guessed.

  “Too many experiences.” The violet gaze rose to the tapestry, fixing on the battle of man and beast. “At this point, I wouldn’t mind some rescuing. After all, who wants to be the unmarried aunt everyone feels sorry for or the embarrassing widow chasing younger men?” Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I’ll take a good man over independence, thank you very much.”

  Claire folded a protective arm across her midsection and lost herself in the tapestry. She needed a few seconds to restore her carefully assembled courage. Lady Foster’s wish for a good man echoed in her mind, a want that grew inside her with each passing day.

  Behind them, footsteps approached and the small, soft hairs at Claire’s nape tickled from the welcome presence nearing her back. Both women turned around.

  Cyrus.

  His slow smile spread for her alone. He reached for her, giving a fleeting touch that slid along her lace draped elbow. Those seconds of brief contact were enough to warm her down to the toes of her red silk shoes.

  “Enjoying the battle?” he asked.

  “The one here on the tapestry? Or the skirmish for your attentions by the coffee?” Lady Foster’s eyebrows notched higher. “Lady Sheffield’s daughter looked ready to trip poor Miss Alcott when she dared converse with you.”

  “Colorful observations as always, Lady Foster.” Cyrus tucked one hand behind his back.

  The blue fan worked faster. “Only calling matters as I see them.”

  He faced Claire, tense lines bracketing his mouth. There were faint, dark circles underneath his eyes, a detail she had missed on their garden walk. Was that because she selfishly attended her hunger for him rather than thinking of him?

  “I have to step out for a meeting,” he said. “There’s been some trouble at one of the warehouses, but I hope you’ll stay awhile.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Thefts at Dark House Lane, some damage. I’m about to get the full report from Mr. Pentree and a man from Bow Street.”

  A twinge stung Claire at the mention of the thief takers. Not long ago, she was the subject of their search. How many people tried to take some part of Cyrus in one fashion or another? Many more than she had realized…and she had to count herself among them.

  “I’ve no doubt Lady Foster will turn your head with fine tales about me,” he began. “And she might even spin some mythological stories for you as well.”

  “Humph.” The disgruntled noise came from behind the fan. “Your male pride knows no bounds. You’d like to believe we’ll talk about you.”

  “That’s because we already have,” Claire admitted, grinning blithely.

  She didn’t mind confessing the truth, his warm attention her reward. The expression wiped some tiredness from his features, and the notion of wanting to take care of him poured over her. This foreign wish blended well with familiar, titillating thoughts.

  Her gaze dropped a long second to his strong hands, hands good at tracing things and stirring hot fires in unexpected ways. His blunt lashes dropped half over his eyes as though he read her mind.

  But Belker’s discreet cough in their vicinity cut those interesting threads, and Cyrus bowed his exit. Departing the room, she noticed the relaxed set his shoulders had morphed into a tense squaring of his frame. The transformation was subtle, and her heart ached, wanting to ease his burdens.

  And the diverting black silk-wrapped queue settled down the middle of his back, a thick coil she wanted to unravel. Beside her, blue silk rustled, the fan moving languidly.

  “You know you ought to consider playing a little hard to get.” Lady Foster’s voice hit droll notes.

  Claire’s cheeks flushed with warmth. She brushed her palms across her frothy red skirt and gave her attention to the tapestry, stifling a wicked smile. If the lady only knew…

  Lucinda raised her voice enough to be heard around the room. “Ladies, we shall convene our meeting in a few moments.”

  The women gathered in the circular array of chairs and settees while footmen began to place pastries on dishes. Silver forks glinted on fine china plates, and conversation sprinkled the room, part of the meeting’s preamble.

  Lady Foster took the seat beside Claire, whispering behind her fan. “Prepare yourself.”

  The frowning Duchess of Marlborough claimed the red settee angled close by, arranging dove-gray-and-yellow skirts with a harsh eye on Claire. Her Grace’s hip roll allowed only her plumpish friend, Lady Sheffield, to share the settee.

  Bad winds were stirring, turning the afternoon’s smooth sailing stormy.

  Claire tried to remember the proper comportment for drawing rooms, crossing her feet at the ankles, sitting tall, and linking her fingers in her lap. Lady Foster gave the barest nod of approval before shutting her fan to accept a coffee.

  “Miss Mayhew, how delightful to have you in our midst.” Pearl hairpins glowed like tiny moons in Her Grace’s graying ginger hair. “What you shared earlier about unfortunate women in need was most informative. Yet I can’t help but wonder about you.”

  “Me, Your Grace?”

  “Yes. In particular, why a woman would pursue the life of a shop proprietress over marriage. I daresay an appropriate marriage.”

  Did her marital status fall under the purview of the duchess?

  Claire waved off a footman’s offer of coffee, and said, “I may marry someday, Your Grace, but for now I like living by the labor of my hands. I always have. There’s satisfaction in it.”

  “You en-joy making coffee?” Lady Sheffield gasped.

  “Not only do I enjoy making it, but I enjoy making pastries and jams and jellies.”

  Did Lady Foster smirk in her cup when Claire emphasized enjoy?

  “Miss Mayhew was gracious to bring the pastries we’re about to enjoy,” Lucinda said, balancing her cup. “My brother has taken me to her wonderful coffee shop in Cornhill.”

  Lady Sheffield’s subtle hiss of censure couldn’t match the duchess’s silent condemnation.

  “Someone should counsel your brother about that,” Lady Sheffield advised. “But without a motherly influence, one can only guess what social misfortunes a young woman might fall into.”

  The sweetly daft Lady Millicent Seabright took the chair beside Lucinda, nodding her agreement. “A young, unmarried woman roaming London…it simply isn’t done, my dear.”

  At the mention of young ladies, Claire looked to Her Grace’s daughter, Lady Elizabeth Churchill, still chatting on the other end of the drawing room. She felt sorry for the cloud of rule
s and disapproval the young woman must live under.

  Lady Seabright peered at Claire over her coffee cup. “Did you say you make pastries and jams and jellies?”

  “Yes, my lady, I hope to sell my rose petal jellies to Fortnum and Mason’s grocery here in Piccadilly.”

  “Oh, I do love a good rose petal jelly.” Lady Seabright inched forward. “It is so hard to find a cook capable of mastering the delicate flavors.”

  “If you send a footman by my shop, I’ll be glad to return him to you with a small jar free of charge.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mayhew, I shall indeed.”

  “Millicent,” the duchess scolded. “You are ruled far too much by your appetites.”

  With that, the other ladies ducked into their coffee, if only to avoid Her Grace’s censure.

  The footmen began serving the plated pastries. Claire rubbed one of the flowered patterns on her skirt, a satisfied smile forming. Fine food ought to keep the waspish duchess silent; if not, glowing compliments from the other ladies would drown her out.

  The duchess opened her fan. “And where, pray tell, did you develop your jelly-making skills?”

  “I come from Greenwich, Your Grace.”

  “A Mayhew from Greenwich?” The yellow fan rested near thin lips. “I’ve heard tell of a certain Mayhew of Greenwich, an adventuress of sorts. A crass social climber who seduced the now-departed Lord Jonathan, heir to the earldom. Would you know of her?”

  A chill touched Claire’s scalp. Her Grace unloosed cannon shots with her words, and Claire was the target.

  “I don’t, Your Grace.” Her mouth turned dry on the half-truth.

  “I thought you might know her since you strike me as a woman of…relaxed morals.”

  Collective gasps filled their small circle. Her Grace sat at the pinnacle of Society, with undisputed power. Who would cross her in defense of a coffee shop proprietress? The duchess’s eyes narrowed on Claire, pale brown bayonets ready to eviscerate her from head to toe.

  Across the room, disaster of another kind landed.

  Dishes smashed to the floor. Four ladies gagged and choked. Finely coiffed heads bent low, bobbing and straining in an effort to expel something. Lucinda jumped out of her seat, spilling coffee.

  “Get buckets and linens quickly,” she ordered the footmen.

  The gentle luncheon took a sudden, violent turn. Remnants of dishes and mashed pastries littered the floor. Miss Alcott heaved, her hands at her throat. Another lady retched into her serviette.

  The pastries served for dessert…

  “Please!” someone cried. “Some water.”

  Claire and Lady Foster rushed to the aid of the women. Tepid tea was brought in from the kitchens. The women downed the tea like thirsty sailors, splattering their fine gowns. Footmen and a maid strove to clean around the stirring assembly. Shrill demands were made for carriages to be brought to the front.

  The Ryland House drawing room was pure mayhem.

  One woman wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. “The pastries,” she moaned, her mouth working as though she swallowed brine. “They’re horribly, horribly salted…not fit for man nor beast.”

  Lady Atherton gagged behind her serviette, grabbing another serviette a maid passed to her. She grimaced at Claire, her voice shaking. “Why ever would you serve these to us?”

  Claire passed a fresh cup of tea to Miss Alcott, the room a jumble of people, but the chaos slowed.

  One by one, heads turned her way—a maid wiping the floor, the footmen with fresh cloths, the ladies in attendance. Some eyes were curious, some rounded from shock, but several skewered her with accusation.

  Numb from head to toe, Claire couldn’t feel the floor. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  Thirteen

  A little scorn is alluring…

  William Congreve, The Way of the World

  Jack Emerson’s scarred cheek creased, but Cyrus couldn’t be sure if the runner smiled or smirked. The tall thief taker had already folded himself into a chair and crossed one dusty boot over his opposite knee.

  “I heard you found your flaxen-haired housebreaker.”

  Cyrus stood behind his desk, one hand on the back of his chair. At the mention of Claire, he softened, his gaze flicking to the closed study door. He wanted to be with her. Truth be told, he didn’t want to attend details of a petty theft at one of his warehouses; they were a fact of business, something attended by others. Pentree’s message, however, made the matter sound dire.

  “If you’re concerned about not getting the reward,” he said, “I’ll leave a portion with Sir John…compensation for your efforts.”

  “Keep your gold, Ryland. I didn’t solve anything,” Emerson said, a faint brogue in his words. “You’re not the first nob to show up at Bow Street asking us to hunt down a woman.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Emerson’s smirk spread. “I’m sure it isn’t.”

  Mr. Pentree hugged his folio to his chest, sitting in the chair beside the thief taker. His stare scuttled from Cyrus to Emerson. Cyrus could only guess his employee was trying to decipher what went on here.

  Bow Street’s best slouched in the chair. Emerson’s manner reduced everyone to level standing, Cyrus could see it in his assessing eyes. But he had to acknowledge his burgeoning respect for a man who refused to be paid for a job he didn’t finish.

  He gave Emerson a subtle nod. “Then may the recent events at Dark House Lane provide ample reward instead.” Cyrus took his seat, ready to listen. “What did you find?”

  Mr. Pentree dug into his folio. “While Mr. Emerson inspected the warehouse, I compiled a list of the stolen items, their value and origin, as well as replacement costs.”

  The agent passed a sheet of paper to Cyrus.

  The document listed neat columns of words and numbers, but a flurry of carriages clattering through his driveway drew his attention outside. The wind of fast-moving vehicles blasted the footmen hanging on to the back. The luncheon was already over? Good.

  Pentree cleared his throat. “Most of what was taken was minor and of little value. In fact, some of the crates taken were empty. Quite baffling.”

  Cyrus glanced from the page to his agent. “And you did a thorough inventory?”

  “Yes, sir. I combed the warehouse with Mr. Talbot, the Dark House Lane supervisor. What you see there is the extent of the thievery.”

  Emerson withdrew paper and a lead stick from inside his coat. “I’d like a copy of that list.”

  “I made one for you.” Pentree pushed up his spectacles and dug another paper from his folio.

  When Emerson reached for the sheet, something metallic glinted from his wrist. He read the paper and put it on his lap, another quick flash of metal visible on his forearm. Was the thief taker carrying knives in his sleeves?

  “The destruction to your sugar vats. There’s your trouble.” Emerson tapped the paper. “This isn’t about thievery. A business rival perhaps? Someone wants to get an edge on you.” His brows pressed together. “But there is another possibility…”

  But the thief taker let his thought trail into silence, all while squinting at the paper as though he could dig more information from a list of words and numbers.

  Cyrus looked over the list in front of him, finding nothing worthy of alarm. “What do you mean?”

  “If this isn’t the work of a business rival, then I’d say there’s a distinct possibility someone’s giving you a warning.”

  “A warning?” Pentree riffled through more papers.

  “Someone wants your attention.” The thief taker scanned the list again, his finger tapping one spot. “Taking low-value items, that’s nothing. But damaging your vats dents your business.”

  Pentree’s eyes rounded behind his spectacles. “Sir, the iron vats are completely ruined. They’ll
have to be replaced. But I’ve no idea how long that’ll be. They’re forged in Brussels.”

  “This isn’t simply about the end result. There’s how they went about damaging your vats. Acid was poured all over them. Something called spirits of salt,” Emerson explained. “Then whoever did this tossed salt everywhere. You won’t make or sell sugar for a long time.”

  “Months,” Pentree added. “Many months, in fact, before the refinery is fully functioning again.”

  “Less sugar for Londoners.” Emerson’s half smile returned. “There’s the slim chance this could be random destruction…angry foreign sailors leaving the Fox Tail…did their damage and left on the morning tides.” He shrugged then added, “Maybe East End lads out for a bit of fun.”

  Cyrus dropped his list on the desk. “But that’s not what you think.”

  “No. This has the feel of a calculated move.”

  “There’s something else,” Pentree said. “The night watchman was found bludgeoned on the wharf. He survived, sir, but remains unconscious.”

  Emerson’s eyes glittered like hard pieces of glass. “Given the ward he patrols, the attack might be related or might not. But he was found at the end of Dark House Lane.”

  Pentree adjusted his spectacles, scooting forward in his seat. “Now you see why I’m not treating this as minor thievery.”

  The thief taker began to fold his copy of the list. “I’d like to go back to the warehouse and—”

  The study door burst open.

  “Cyrus!”

  He stood up, as did Emerson and Pentree, the reflexive nature of well-mannered men, when Lucinda rushed into the room. Her face was pale.

  “Lucinda?” Cyrus hurried around his desk in time for her to collapse against him.

  “I know you’re in a meeting,” she cried, her voice muffled against his sleeve. “But I must talk to you.”

  He wrapped an arm over her shoulders and looked to Emerson and Pentree. “Gentlemen…”

  Cyrus didn’t have to finish his words. The men nodded silently.

  Pentree tucked his folio under his arm, speaking in hushed tones. “Sir, Mr. Emerson wants to visit the warehouse again. I’ll take him there now.”