Lady Meets Her Match

by Gina Conkle

  I find your forbidden fruit most desirable of all.

  And her mind-rattling, cheek-burning favorite…

  I know how I want to touch you.

  Her hand paused mid-swirl. Parts of her fluttered mutinously on that last echo of Cyrus in her head. The man wouldn’t leave her in peace.

  Annie cradled her coffee pitcher, having filled mugs around the shop. Claire rubbed a stubborn corner of the slate, aware of the weight of Annie’s stare on her.

  She turned around.

  “Is something wrong?” Claire asked.

  The cook set her pitcher on an empty table and wiped her hands on her apron. “Miss Mayhew, have you given any thought that there may be more going on? With Mr. Ryland, I mean.”

  “No.”

  She wanted to stay busy and stay numb. Being numb didn’t hurt. The sensation wrapped her in a blanket of blessed emptiness where no man could invade.

  She removed the new cargo list from her apron and proceeded to write: Corn. Saltpeter. Lumber, Swedish Spruce variety. Rum…

  The chalk clacked letters on the board, the sound as reassuring as the voices of her regular patrons.

  “I saw my sister, Abigail, again last night.” Annie wedged herself into Claire’s side vision.

  With chalk in hand, she kept up a rapid succession of words…an Irish schooner, The Selkie, docked on Billingsgate Wharf.

  “Remember that maid who’d been at Ryland House around the time of your lunch meeting?” A white mobcap and carrot-red hair pressed against the chalkboard. “One of the men from Bow Street found her yesterday. Abigail says that was all the news around Ryland House. That and whispers about the Duke of Marlborough being behind the troubles.”

  The chalk slowed over that piece of news.

  Annie must’ve been heartened to go on. “And you know what else? Mr. Ryland told the man to let her go.”

  Claire’s shoes scraped the floor when she moved away from the board. “That might absolve me of oversalting the pastries, but it does nothing to explain why Mr. Ryland drove off the way he did…like I was some—”

  Laughter burst from a pair of tables pushed together. She clamped her lips together but opened them again.

  “If not for that man in the red waistcoat coming to my rescue, I might’ve been crushed.”

  “Because you were distracted,” Annie said. “Upset and you didn’t think right from the shock.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Abigail says the same thing of Mr. Ryland. She says he sleeps in his study and has messages and such comin’ and goin’ at all hours of the day and night.”

  “I don’t know how that matters to me.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, her voice shaky and bitter. “I don’t know about Mr. Ryland’s poor sleep, but I do know he got what he wanted from me.”

  “Are you sure of that?” Annie smiled, wisdom beyond her years glimmering from patient eyes. “Could be he misses you the way you miss him.”

  She stared out the shop’s window, lost in thought. Did he miss her?

  “And there’s one more thing, miss. Abigail says they’re closing down Ryland House for good.”

  She flinched, that piece of news like an ice-cold dousing.

  Cyrus leaving…

  That hurt most of all.

  But why another package?

  “Very well, Annie. You win. Please get the package and I’ll open it.”

  Claire took a seat at the empty table closest to the counter. Annie set the plain leather before Claire, and folded herself into the opposite chair.

  “I know this isn’t my concern, Miss Mayhew, but I’d like to see.” The young cook folded her arms on the tabletop. “The shoes and all were so pretty.”

  “This is too flat to be anything like a shoe.” Claire’s shoulders moved, listless and sore. “But, stay. If it weren’t for you, I’d feed this to my stove.”

  A flap folded over the open end of the folio, the weight light in her hands. She turned the folio upside down, shaking free a piece of paper and a key tied with red silk ribbon. Claire pulled her key from her pocket to compare the two.

  “This is a deed to the shop,” Annie cried. “The New Union Coffeehouse belongs to you.”

  “Let me see that.” Claire read the deed, a simple contract giving the shop over to her, sealed by a signature she remembered well.

  Her jaw dropped. She read and reread the words Quit Claim Deed boldly scrawled on top. The contract’s date was Monday, the day Cyrus gave her the cut.

  Why would he pass this property to her free and clear?

  “But I didn’t earn this,” she murmured.

  And there was no note to explain the sudden generosity.

  “Well, you did something.” Annie grinned from ear to ear.

  Did something? Her mind came up with some painful ideas as to what that meant. She read and read the documents, trying to decipher meaning but finding none.

  “Imagine not having to pay rent, miss. You’ll be a rich woman before you know it.”

  Lady Foster came to mind, with her fine gown and fine words about independence and sleeping alone. Claire shook her head. She pushed back her mobcap, and a pin sprang free, dropping to her lap.

  Annie stood up. “I’ve got to tell Nate. He’ll be so happy for you.”

  She picked up the key, letting the iron roll across her palm. The last person to use the key was Cyrus.

  This key. Hot sparks tingled over her skin. Her eyes closed, and she rested her head on the bench behind her. With the key in hand, Cyrus’s whispered words about a key unlocking a woman’s door flooded her mind. She squirmed on her seat, plain cambric drawers reminding where silk once was.

  And there was laughter too. His hands folding her laundry, kneeling with her on the kitchen floor to look inside her stove, and all that morning talking and kissing. Why would he play the romantic and then…nothing?

  Beside her, men jested, talking about the broadsheet’s gossip pages—Mr. Cogsworth and another trader, Mr. Branham, and the merchant, Mr. Bolks.

  “Wouldn’t’ve thought he’d be leg shackled,” said Mr. Branham.

  “Ah, most men want a steady hand at home. Mrs. Cogsworth needed some convincing…”

  She opened her eyes, the key still in her grip and the deed on the table. Best she put this document in a safe place.

  “But Cyrus Ryland?” Mr. Bolks asked.

  What was that about Cyrus? She stalled in her seat, her lashes dropping low.

  “To the Duke of Marlborough’s daughter.” Mr. Cogsworth laid the broadsheet over the table, pointing to a section. “Says ‘…talk in Piccadilly is the joining of one Mr. Cyrus Ryland with Lady Elizabeth Churchill’ and then it says here ‘Their Graces expect the banns to be read soon.’”

  She shot to her feet. The key banged the tabletop. Claire set a protective hand over her heart, the organ beating twice as fast. This had to be a mistake. Had she heard the names wrong?

  “Mr. Cogsworth, would you be so kind as to read again the last announcement?” she asked.

  He was going to leave Town and marry a woman of fine position. The flat of her other hand rested on the tabletop, holding her up.

  “Certainly,” Mr. Cogsworth said, offering quick, emphatic agreement. His finger pointed to the section. “Says here ‘The talk in Piccadilly is the joining of one Mr. Cyrus Ryland and Lady Elizabeth Churchill. No official announcement has been made, nor has a date been set, but Their Graces expect the banns to be read soon.’”

  She looked away, a dizzy spell threatening. She hadn’t eaten much lately. The key. The deed. Like a mosaic, the parts alone made no sense, but together they formed a fair image.

  Her shoulders drooped. This was worse than having her name dragged through the mud in her home village. Everyone gossiped about what happened in Greenwich Village, but i
n midtown, few knew about her foolish choices. The shame of feeling used was no less stinging.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cogsworth.” She smiled sweetly and the trader’s ears turned red.

  Claire collected the key and the deed. She knew exactly what she’d do with them.

  * * *

  The butler swung the indigo door wide open. “Miss Mayhew, you’re here.”

  “Belker?”

  “We’ve been expecting you.”

  “We?” she repeated, not moving from the stone step.

  “The upper staff and I to be precise.” He motioned to her cloak. “May I?”

  Her free hand clamped the open folds of her cloak. “No, I won’t be long.”

  Belker clasped his hands behind his back, his posture erect. “Of course, miss. That seems to be the mode of the day.”

  She shifted the folio, clutching it like a shield to her chest under her cloak. “You’re inviting me in?”

  He bowed, extending a hand in the general direction of the study. “I’m confident you know where to find him, Miss Mayhew.”

  “Of course,” she said, gripping her folio closer.

  Had Ryland House gone mad? The entire house was off.

  Her heels clicked on polished stone. She turned down the familiar hallway, taking in the splendid murals overhead. The study’s carved alcove looked dim, the study dimmer.

  The door was open. No one was inside.

  “Here’s to traveling crosstown to give the King of Commerce his comeuppance,” she uttered. “Only to find he’s not here.”

  She shut the door behind her.

  This time, however, messy piles of papers covered the desk. His chair would make a fine depository for the key and the document of ownership she wasn’t going to keep. Standing by the windows, she yanked open the curtains.

  “That’s better.”

  “Claire?”

  “Cyrus?” She whipped around in time to see him rise from the settee.

  Shirt open at the neck and waistcoat gapping, Cyrus Ryland was a mess. The pristine queue, his standard, was in disarray. Hair stuck out everywhere, but his face, strong and familiar, was…endearing.

  Heaven help her, but she wanted to cosset him.

  He smiled in the shadows. “You came.”

  “I did. To return this.” She held up the folio and peered at the settee, a once-elegant piece, now lumpy and awkward. “What are you doing?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  Her knees wobbled on his unexpected words. The way his gaze drank her in, he could be a man adrift on the sea. Now it was agony not to touch him.

  “You can’t do that.”

  He ran a hand through unruly hair. “Do what?”

  “Say something like that…that you’re waiting for me.” She rubbed the folio’s leather—she needed to or else she would rub Cyrus.

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  Her heart lurched—then painful reminders of the broadsheet’s announcement and news of him leaving. She clamped her arms across her chest, hugging the folio.

  “That could be a little difficult if you’re not here anymore…especially with your new wife.”

  He grimaced, holding a hand out to her. “I can explain.”

  “Truly?” She swallowed hard, holding the folio tighter. “You can explain how you’ve wanted me with you despite your driving away from the Exchange, leaving me like a fool in the middle of the road?” Emotion warped her voice. The corners of her eyes stung. Tears wanted shedding, the first one trickling out.

  Cyrus rushed to her side, his arms wrapping around her. Warmth and hardness enveloped her, the smell of skin like sun on stone. He plucked the folio from her and dropped it onto his desk. Then he swept her into his arms and made his way to the settee. They reclined there, entwined in silence. His strong heartbeat was the only thing she wanted to hear until…

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” he murmured while kissing her hair. “I should’ve told you everything.”

  She nodded, intent on pushing open the rest of his shirt. “The Duke of Marlborough, he’s somehow behind this.”

  Explanations would be required, but his skin, his chest…she needed to touch him. Above her, Cyrus swallowed hard, nodding.

  “Yes. I thought I’d lost you.” His voice was thick and uneven. “It hurt to ignore you, but I hope you’ll forgive me someday. I promise to make it up to you.”

  Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder, the place where his arm and chest met. Her fingers grazed his chest, tracing the furrow between his chest muscles.

  “You don’t have to make anything up to me. I choose to love you, Cyrus. All of you.”

  His breath stalled and Cyrus’s whole body relaxed. He needed her tender touch. She’d been determined to vent her spleen upon finding him; now she wanted to heal him.

  “I love you, Claire Mayhew.” He squeezed her, his arms big and enveloping. “It is my most unpleasant flaw that I want to do right by those I love. I take charge. Too much. I’ve always worked better solving problems on my own.”

  She tipped her head back, all the better to see his face. “Why did you leave me standing in the middle of Cornhill? Was it something to do with the salting?”

  He told her everything—from Emerson’s advice, to North’s confession, to Marlborough’s greed and threats. He held nothing back, even confessing his dislike of London. He wanted to go home to Stretford.

  Cyrus talked, pulling the pins from her hair, and she listened. One by one, the pins came free, and her hair fell free.

  “But why deed the shop to me?”

  He played softly with a long, flaxen lock, sending shivers down her spine.

  “Because I wanted you to have what you wanted most.” Tense lines framed his mouth, and he admitted, “The duke may still win. He has access to people and places I never will.”

  “You can’t mean to marry his daughter?” she cried.

  “No.”

  She gripped his shirt. “And you think I want the shop more than you?”

  He chuckled and kissed her forehead, a soft chiding kind of kiss. “It was in this very room you told me there were women in England who didn’t want marriage to me or any other man. You convinced me about your wish to be an independent proprietress.”

  A pang settled in her chest, as she recalled her staunch words. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You don’t have to be.” He kissed her forehead, and she felt his smile against her skin. “There’s only one woman I’ll marry. You, if you’ll have me…someday.”

  She scrutinized him, as if seeing another facet of the man. She studied his eyes and strong nose, the square jaw that had been struck by too many hard forces, and the cleft that drove her mad.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “But what will you do about the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough? They practically announced that you’re engaged.”

  He pulled her close. “I’ve bought most of the duke’s debt. That should give us enough leverage to move on with our lives.”

  A sweet tremor brushed her skin. Sunshine could’ve burst when he said those words. She burrowed in closer to him, listening to his steady heartbeat. “Keep saying that.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Words like us and our lives.” Her voice quavered and another tear trickled down her cheek.

  He set her on the familiar cushion and wiped the streak of wetness. “Miss Mayhew, you are incredibly easy to seduce if a man can use simple words like us and our lives to sway you.”

  “You have me nearly flat on my back, sir.” A lazy hand unloosed his waistcoat buttons.

  She opened his shirt and spread her fingers wide over his chest. She found his heartbeat, the rhythm beneath her hand beating strong and true. Like the man. Another tear sprang free and another after that. He leaned close, an achin
g expression on his face.

  “Shhhh…” he soothed her, wiping away her tears. “I don’t want you to cry.”

  “I’m happy, Cyrus.”

  She sat up, sniffling, and his eyes widened when she pushed him back against the settee. “These are good tears,” she said quietly, straddling his lap. “You make me very happy. But you must make me a promise.”

  She pushed her skirts high up her thighs, the wool making little snicking sounds. At the juncture of her thighs, she found what she wanted. His placket. Her hands freed four brass buttons.

  Cyrus was entranced, his head dipped low to follow her progress. “Anything in my power to give…I will.”

  Their heads bent close and she unloosed one more button. Late fall sunlight flooded the other half of the study, leaving them in soft shadows. They had a small paradise here in this corner of the room.

  “We will share our burdens.” She eyed his bruised cheek, her hand caressing the skin beneath the healing cut. “No secrets.”

  His pewter stare bored into her. “No secrets.”

  Cyrus pulled on the bow that tied her into her dress, working the lacing free one X at a time.

  He reached for her hand, the scarred one and kissed the pink mark. “Did I ever tell you about the fairy tale that fascinated me as a boy?”

  “I think you’ll like it. There are lots of us’s and our lives in this one…”

  And he regaled her with the finest tale of shoes and keys and forbidden fruit, a tale that lasted long past midnight.

  Epilogue

  Late Spring, 1769

  “Of course I had to marry you. Someone needs to take care of you. You keep leaving your clothing everywhere.” His eyes glinted hot and tender.

  “I like to think of those items as bread crumbs, leading you to me.”

  They walked through the grassy field, their fingers linked together.

  “I need no leading to find you,” he said.

  Holding hands was a favorite part of being married to Cyrus Ryland, one of the pleasant surprises she had discovered. He welcomed daily garden walks, tucking her close to his side. Nor was he ever bothered to sneak away for a time and simply hold hands. Most interesting of all, Cyrus understood her need to keep the New Union Coffeehouse running well.