by Gina Conkle
Cyrus unlocked the door with his key and let the runner inside.
Emerson looked him up and down, lowering the collar he’d flipped high. “Well, well, Mr. Ryland, what a surprise to find you slumbering in midtown.”
“I’m sure you’re not here to discuss the whereabouts of my sleep.”
“’Course not.” Emerson slid onto a bench by the front window, crossing worn boots at the ankle. He dropped his hat beside him and looked across the silent shop. “Don’t suppose you have coffee to offer me? Been a long night.”
“None made.” Cyrus crossed his arms, taking measure of Emerson.
The runner’s queue was a windblown mess and the skin under his eyes was dark and pinched. Had he been up all night?
Emerson shrugged out of a heavy black cloak and reached inside his coat pocket, metal glinting from his sleeves. Cyrus took the facing chair, noting leather peeking from the black coat sleeve as well.
He let curiosity get the best of him and tipped his chin at the runner’s wrists. “Leather arm braces? Pretty medieval of you.”
Long fingers dusted with freckles pulled back the black wool sleeve. Scarred brown leather wrapped around the runner’s forearm, and a pair of knives were strapped into the arm braces.
“I prefer knives to pistols. Gets the job done quiet and clean like. No messy ball and powder.” Emerson eyed the swelling on Cyrus’s cheek. “Not any more medieval than bare knuckling. What you do for sport, I do to survive.”
Cyrus folded his arms across his chest. He shouldn’t have been surprised Emerson knew about the bare-knuckle bouts. The runner unfolded the paper, studying words scratched across the page.
“You found something,” he prompted Emerson.
“Just doing my best to earn the fat reward Mr. Pentree assures me you’ll pay.”
The words came as though they were meant to be a jibe, but the glint in Emerson’s eyes told Cyrus something different. The man was like a hound on a scent. He liked the hunt.
Why else stay up all night, searching for clues to damaged sugar vats?
“Whatever you earn will be money well spent.” Cyrus relaxed his arms, linking his hands in his lap. “I can’t imagine the other Bow Street men hunting down information in the dead of night. They’d sleep first, investigate later.”
The runner’s eyes flared at the compliment. “They’re all good men at Bow Street. And I stayed up since most who’d know anything move in the dark. Best to meet them in their natural state.” The smirk was back but friendlier.
Cyrus eyed the messy paper. “And what have you found?”
“Not many places in London sell spirits of salt, especially in quantities to destroy your refinery business. Chemicals speak their own language, spilling truth better than most women.”
Cyrus would never have connected chemistry and Emerson, but the runner’s tired eyes sparked alive and awake when he mentioned the topic.
“I started there and found interesting information.”
“Such as?”
“Done much to anger any dukes, Mr. Ryland?”
“I know two and am in good stead with both,” he said carefully. “Marlborough and Bridgewater.”
“Bridgewater, Bridgewater,” Emerson repeated the name, his fingers drumming the table “He’s your partner on the canals.”
“More like His Grace owns the lion’s share of his namesake, Bridgewater Canals.”
The runner folded the paper in half, revealing more scratches one could take for letters and numbers. “But if something happened to you, who’d benefit?”
Cyrus sat up taller, not liking the tenor of the conversation. “My family. An even distribution.”
Emerson tapped the paper, his brows knitting together. “Kills that theory.”
“Why the fascination with dukes?”
“Bear with me.” The thief taker examined his notes again, one finger rubbing his nasty scar. “What about Marlborough? Any business connection with him?”
“None whatsoever. In fact, he’s doing much to benefit me, helping my nephews land in some fine places. His Grace gets nothing in return for his generosity.”
The runner tipped his head back. “It’s a rare day when someone acts without expecting something in return,” he scoffed. “And you’ve no other connection with Marlborough?”
“There’s been encouragement to court His Grace’s daughter, the Lady Elizabeth Churchill.” Cyrus paused, the chair creaking beneath him. “As lovely as she is, I’ve no interest.”
“And Marlborough knows this? You’re not stringing the young lady along, are you? Giving her a merry ride?”
Cyrus exhaled long and patient. “I don’t string women along, Mr. Emerson.”
Emerson frowned, his lids dropping to half-mast. “Hmmm…” he hummed a thoughtful sound and folded his wrinkled paper again.
“Care to explain?”
“I have two things,” the thief taker said, holding up two fingers. “One, a friend of mine received an order to deliver spirits of salt to a wharf near Billingsgate. Two, he was paid by a duke.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“The first, yes, a hard fact. The second…call it soft information.” The thief taker tucked away the messy note in his inside pocket. “My man never saw the nob who placed the order. One of his attendants did, and he wore plain clothes. He rode in an unmarked carriage with another person. My man overheard someone say ‘Your Grace’ from inside the carriage.”
“But I have no problems with Bridgewater or Marlborough…any duke for that matter.”
“I’d say you do now. Big problems. A duke is nigh to impossible for the likes of us to reach.”
He knew the runner meant impossible for commoners to take to justice, even a commoner such as Cyrus. Money was its own kind of fortress, but lofty standing in Society made the best security of all.
Isn’t that why he craved marrying into nobility someday?
Not anymore. He glanced to the stairs. Not as long as Claire Mayhew walked the earth.
“A duke’d have to murder someone at noon in Piccadilly with a dozen witnesses before the Crown’d do anything.” Emerson unfolded his body from the seat, his limp coat flopping open. “They’re almost untouchable.”
Cyrus stood up with Emerson, waiting while his morning caller slipped back into his cloak. He appreciated the man delivering this news, but he itched to be upstairs with Claire. All day. This was the one day the New Union was closed, and he had plans for more enticing laundry lessons.
“Thank you for what you’ve reported. Keep digging.”
“I will.” Emerson paused in front of the door, gray light shadowing his features. “And what’ll you do in the meantime?”
“Do some digging of my own.”
The light patter of footsteps sounded overhead. Claire had to be up. Emerson put his hand on the knob, hesitating.
“May I give you some advice?”
Cyrus wrapped his fingers around the shop’s key in his coat pocket. He yearned to lock out the outside world.
“Go on.”
“Consider staying away from your sleeping companion for a while. Whoever wants your attention may go for a bigger prize than your sugar refinery.” The runner’s stare drifted a lazy trail to the back stairs. “The likes of her could get crushed. Remember what happened to the Billingsgate watchman.”
“What makes you so sure whoever’s behind this would harm Miss Mayhew?” The key’s sharp bits dug into his thumb. “A shopgirl?”
“I’m not. But do you want to risk it?” Emerson set his tricorne on his head, his voice somber. “Any man can see she’s more than a lightskirt to you. You’re in deep, Ryland.”
In deep. The words bounced around his head right as his gut turned to lead at the thought of Claire being harmed. He needed to protect her.
; “Make the nob think she’s not of value to you. That’s my advice. You can always pick up with her again when this blows over.” The runner delivered the words with a shrug.
Then he opened the door and stepped outside, his cloak stirring around worn boots.
“Wait.” Cyrus moved beyond the door, flipping his collar high. “How can I see to her safety if I’m not with her every minute?”
Emerson swung into his saddle. “You’ll do more to protect her by making it look like you lost interest.” He tugged up his collar. “But if you like, I can set a man to watch over her.”
Fog remnants stretched across Cornhill like thin bits of wool. Cyrus stared at the Exchange’s arcade, the space behind the arches a dark shadow. Anyone could lurk here. Claire was wide open to harm with nothing but a flimsy lock for protection.
She won’t leave her shop.
The New Union Coffeehouse meant everything to her.
His stare shot back to the runner. “Send only the best.”
“I’ll send Tremaine. He favors red waistcoats. Despite that, you’ll never know he’s around.” Emerson wheeled the roan around, chuckling. “Like a ghost that one.”
Cyrus pointed at the empty arches across the way. “Tell him to be there at noon. But if I don’t see him, I’m not leaving her side.”
Emerson tipped his hat and nudged his giant horse eastward. Cyrus stood in the cold, watching horse and rider gallop into the last threads of fog.
Behind him, light stretched into the chill. The sun was rising, but he was colder for it. His hand dug in his pocket, fingers pinching the key’s shank. He wanted sorely to lock and bar the New Union door and never let another soul enter.
For years, he’d labored hard, scratching his way from insignificant farmer to the grand place he inhabited now. Yet, after last night, he’d trade it all to stay here. With Claire. When he was with her, there was no place he’d rather be.
And now?
Time raced against him. He had until noon.
* * *
Her footsteps banged the wooden stairs behind him. He heated water—or tried to. She walked closer, tugging her shawl around her shoulders.
“You astound me, Cyrus Ryland. First your skills with laundry”—she peered into the pot, her voice light—“and now with water. You’re quite the domestic, aren’t you?”
He tucked one hand behind his back. “I’m not sure what all a domestic does, but if it includes working with tepid water that refuses to heat, then I’m your man.”
“It’s my stove,” she said, laughing. “You don’t know how to work it.”
Claire repositioned the pot over a perforated iron plate.
She pulled his black silk ribbon from her pocket and motioned to a chair. “Please sit there and I’ll tie you up. After we get you properly done, there’s something I want to show you.”
He took a seat at the table, yielding to her ministration. “Want to tie me up? You’re full of surprises this morning.”
Her fingers combed his hair, his scalp tingling from her attention. His eyes shuttered at the shiver snaking his spine, waking more skin in want of her touch. Claire inflamed him with the slightest provocation. They needed to get above stairs soon.
“Your queue won’t be its usual perfection,” she said, the silk skimming his nape from her officious effort.
His mouth curled with a private smile. She missed entirely his reference to being tied up and that pleased him. He’d be the one to introduce her to those sensual pleasures.
And she didn’t ask about his morning visitor. Did she miss Emerson’s visit?
He cleared his throat and chose a more innocent topic. “My mother and sisters cooked with an open hearth. Stoves, I thought, were for heating purposes.”
“They are,” she said, finishing the loop behind him. “But you need to see this.”
She strode to the square stove set in the fireplace and knelt before the iron box. Wheat bundle designs cast in relief embellished every panel. Claire opened the metal door, her bright gaze fixed on the iron box. She scooped new coals on top of ashy embers, spreading the lumps strategically in the middle.
“Look at this,” she marveled.
He crouched low and peered inside the iron box. Someone had fashioned a shelf inside, a shelf high above the newly smoldering coals.
“This is why I had to have this shop. Your Castrol stove. Straight from Belgium.” Her fingertips grazed a unique metal rack inside the box. “Someone—Mr. Tottenham, perhaps?—had the idea to fashion a shelf here for cooking inside the stove instead of on top. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
They hunkered close together in front of the iron, the walls inside sooty from use. Twin smoke ribbons curled from the coal-catching fire. Once a little flame sprung from the pile she had erected, Claire shut the door.
“This small transformation makes cooking much easier than using an open hearth or faggot oven.”
She folded her coal-smudged hand inside her apron, her jeweled gaze meeting his as though she’d just bared her soul. Strands of hair fell about her cheeks. Claire had dressed hastily, and her hair was pinned loosely at her nape.
A pink crease still marked her cheek from her pillow, and he was struck by how small things could mean so much to her. His heart swelled inside his chest at her simple admission.
He rested an arm over his knee, grinning. “I’ve been waiting a long time for a woman to appreciate me for my stove.”
“I think you have many parts women can appreciate.” Her tender lips parted, flirtatious and kissable.
“But there’s only one woman who interests me, a certain woman who left her shoe on my doorstep.”
She hugged her skirt-covered knees. They crouched close on the kitchen floor, a place as intimate as it was humble. He lived in one of London’s grandest homes, yet there was no place he’d rather be than in this modest kitchen with Claire.
His pretty shopgirl reached for him. “You scare me, Cyrus Ryland.” She stroked his morning whiskers, the bristles scraping in the quiet. “I could get lost in you.”
“Enough to come with me and leave your shop?”
Her fingers touching his face slowed. “Are you jealous of my coffee shop?”
Her lips quirked in a smile. Claire tolerated him, he could see as much by the breezy light in her eyes when she called him, correctly, on his motive. But she didn’t have the complete picture.
Of course she didn’t. He hadn’t told her everything.
He bowed his head. “Guilty as charged.”
“Besides, we both live in London. Where do you imagine we would go?”
More daylight crept into the kitchen. Noon and the watchful runner would be here all too soon.
“I’d rather we explore other topics, such as your special request last night.”
Laughter bubbled up from her. “Why is it I’m not afraid to ask for what I want when I’m with you?” Her voice poured a liquid smooth balm on him. “Something about you, Cyrus Ryland, emboldens me, makes me feel safe and free.”
His fist pressed into his knee. Now would be a good time to tell her the truth, reveal Emerson’s findings in the night, and the suggestion that he stay away from her. His mouth opened, well intended words formed, but nothing came.
More soft, white tendrils fell loose about her face, and she was the tender maid in the fairy-tale book all over again. Crouched in her kitchen in worker-woman garb, a glow of affection painted Claire’s features.
“We have all day,” she pointed out.
He was her protector, the fierceness of that truth ingrained in him. Emerson would go about his hunt; Cyrus had plans for his. He captured Claire’s hand and kissed her palm.
How could he burden her with troubles he was meant to solve?
With the clock ticking toward noon, explanations drifted away like
smoke.
Sixteen
A hungry wolf at all the herd will run,
In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.
Ovid, The Art of Love, translated by William Congreve
The Royal Exchange crowned the man willing to play the odds wisely. But few ever did. Cyrus had always thought wealth and position were the greatest rewards. Yet tucked away on the other side of Cornhill’s busy thoroughfare in a modest, narrow shop was the greatest prize.
Claire Mayhew.
Cyrus’s lips curved. She’d chafe at being thought a prize, but the truth was men won the hand of their lady fair. Some rhythms never changed.
Around him, early evening stretched its cloak. A few souls exited establishments to hang radiant lamps outside their doors. Candlelight shined through the New Union’s mullioned front window, gleaming prettier than diamonds on a woman’s neck. Or was this his bad need to be with Claire?
Figures moved inside the near-empty shop. Claire’s crown of flaxen hair was visible beyond the wavy panes. She’d taken her mobcap off. She’d expect him soon.
His smile faded.
Cyrus pressed the heel of his hand on his breastbone. The ache wouldn’t leave him alone.
His polished shoes stood on midtown soil, but the ground was not so solid underfoot anymore. A few things he’d long believed as truths were falsehoods: men didn’t control their worlds, and chaos came in many forms.
The Duke of Marlborough had come to the Exchange today, looking for Cyrus.
His Grace had never darkened the doors of commerce before. Now, footsteps struck stone behind Cyrus, slow in their gait but all the more powerful.
The duke stopped beside Cyrus and surveyed Cornhill’s bustle, his silver-topped cane held as a king might grip a scepter. The elegant walking stick made an ornament of authority for a man who didn’t need it. The old man’s eyes shut and ducal nostrils flared, breathing deeply of the midtown air.
“Do you smell that, Ryland?”