Lady Meets Her Match (11 page)

“Your carriage,” she said, looking past him to the front window. “It's here.”

He put on his hat. “Yes, there's a cistern that apparently needs the full weight of my opinion this morning.”

A hiccup of laughter escaped her, and Mr. Ryland's mouth twitched with restrained humor. Claire's hand dropped to her side, tautness setting in as she looked from her empty chalkboard to the kitchen.

“And the morning news will have to wait, since there's a dilemma in my kitchen.”

Ever the gentleman, Mr. Ryland bowed his leave.

“Until we meet again, Miss Mayhew.” He glanced at the gift she held. “Please. Don't wait long to open the box.”

They are at the end of the gallery, retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom…

William Congreve,
The Double Dealer

Turbulence had arrived at the New Union Coffeehouse in the form of man and nature. Outside, a quilt of clouds covered midtown skies. Seated at her humble table, Claire witnessed these changes through a small window in her room above the shop where she sat with the unopened gift.

Throughout the day, Mr. Ryland's broad-shouldered presence had taunted her every time she glanced at the box. Now the workday was done, and her excuses for not opening his gift dwindled to none. She wanted a quiet evening free of the tumult of men and mistakes, but the glossy red ribbon incited a tempest.

She liked storms, welcomed the thrilling feel of them. Her father had instilled a love for seasonal rhythms; rain quenched nature's thirst and washed the land clean. Their shared connection, a love for the beauty of the outdoors, was something she missed.

Her fall from grace had disappointed her exacting father, as did her recent bid for independence. Some women grew up with spirited backbones from birth. Claire, however, was late to blossom, developing her strong spine after tripping over the consequences of a poor choice. In time, she learned standing up for oneself, while freeing, came at a cost.

She wiped the cloudy mist off her small window as Juliette came through the doorway. Her friend dropped her pattens, the outer shoes worn to protect her leather shoes from Cornhill's mud and mire. The Frenchwoman came bearing gifts of fresh baked bread, the floury sweet aroma filling the garret.

“Elise will not join us this night. She wishes again to read about ancient dead men.” She adjusted her black-and-gold shawl. “The
belle
lettres
,
non
? All very refined and intelligent, I'm sure.”

The twist of Juliette's lips showed her distaste for an evening alone with fine, intelligent literature.

Claire wrapped her hands around her mug. “And you cannot wait to sink your teeth into talk about live men.”

“Such as your Mr. Ryland,” Juliette said, sauntering across the room, a basket dangling from her fingers. “I'd heard he was big, but I did not know he was an
appealing
man to behold.”

Claire frowned, not liking the twinge of discomfort at her friend's interest in Mr. Ryland. “I thought you only entertained thoughts of titled gentlemen?”

Juliette shrugged off the question, her dark eyes lighting with pleasure on the cup of chocolate awaiting her on the table. She stood beside Claire and pulled back the cloth cover on the basket, revealing a loaf of gold-brown bread and a variety of cheeses.

“My sister and her fascination with men of intellect…be they dead or not. Why waste time on a man who can do nothing for a woman?” She set the basket on the floor and folded herself into the opposite chair, shivering like a child tasting a bad lemon. “Nor do I understand how you like these storms as you do. London is so cold and damp.”

Juliette curled one leg beneath her, revealing a neat ankle under the hems of plush silk underskirts. Black and gold rosettes scattered across the shimmering fabric, connected by twisting green vines.

“Scarlet underskirts today?” Claire sipped her chocolate, her gaze skimming Juliette's demure outer charcoal gown. “I'm sure you could wear something brighter than your current mode, something to match your underskirts.”

As a nod to her old life, the Frenchwoman wore fine petticoats and the latest cuts in fashion, but she dressed in drab colors when women came for fittings.

“And expect to keep my midtown clientele?
Humph
. These midtown Englishwomen. They are…” Her tapered fingers fluttered. “What is the word I seek?
Boring
?”

Claire grinned. “
Somber
or
of
sober
character
would be better.”

The stylish Miss Sauveterre had not mastered the King's English with quite the same talent as her well-read older sister.

Juliette rolled her eyes. “I
know
boring. That is the right word, but as you say the
somber
matrons of midtown would not like their mantua-maker dressed so provocatively.” Her brows rose with suggestion. “Such as the blue-and-silver creation I restored for you…would gain too much male attention,
non
?”

“That was a courtesan's gown that you altered for me,” she said, biting back laughter. “My breasts almost fell out.”

“Of course they would.” Juliette slapped the table, laughing. “That is the idea. All the better to lure a man. A certain man, in fact, who dresses well for a rustic.”

Obsidian eyes sparkled at Claire. Juliette embraced life with passion despite her darker circumstances of recent years. Her quick expanse of emotions could be startling at times, which made her skill with needle and thread all the more stunning. The work she did exhibited patient, detailed talent few possessed.

Juliette tapped the box pushed against the window. “And the fact of a gift appearing from a certain man tells me my gown worked some kind of magic.” Lush, Gallic lips pressed together before she added with less enthusiasm, “And you are very lovely too. There is that.”

Claire stifled a smile at the grudging compliment. Juliette Sauveterre preferred to be the most desired woman in any room, but her unexpected friendship was supportive and true, sometimes even zealous the way she prodded Claire to be daring.

She had conspired with Claire about sneaking into the masked ball and forging Mr. Ryland's signature. The Frenchwoman went as far as to orchestrate certain details, waiting patiently at midnight for Claire in a hack off Piccadilly that fated night.

“If I had known the nature of Mr. Ryland's appeal, I would have volunteered to seek his signature myself.” Juliette's accent curled around each word. “And we would not have emerged from his study for days.”

“He could still evict me, and here you are concerned with matters of a sensual nature.”

“
Exactement
.” Juliette sighed, putting the cup's rim to her bottom lip, hiding half her wicked smile. “Makes me wish my shop sat on Cornhill instead of Birchin Lane. But he is taken with you. This much is true.”

Taken
with
me?

She wanted to dig into that idea, but Juliette set her stoneware on the table with a decisive knock on wood.

“And his gift would've been opened long ago if I were you.”

Juliette slid the box to the center of the table, her eyes glinting with curiosity when a clamor sounded from below. Claire's narrow door was wide open. She rose from her chair, her shoe heels tapping bare plank floors. Standing in the doorway, she looked downstairs where soft light glowed from the kitchen.

“Nate? Is anything wrong?” she called.

There was a quiet pause, a scrape of wood against wood, footsteps.

“Knocked over a chair's all. 'Bout done with the mopping, then I'll take my leave.” Nate's voice carried across the shop. “Miss Mayhew, be sure to lock up after me.”

He didn't poke his head around the corner from the kitchen. He had to be near the shop's front door, ready to toss out the old mop water. Nate wouldn't want to walk across wet floors he'd just cleaned.

“Very well. See you in the morning.” She grinned at his admonishing tone.

Threatening rain clouds drove most souls indoors. The door's lock would be attended to later. Besides, damp air meant the floors would dry slowly, and Juliette's inviting bread and cheese—fine fare for the unmarried women of midtown—needed some attention first.

An icy draft wrapped around her ankles, all the more reason to shut the door and put coals on the grate to warm her small abode. Juliette chattered on about one of the ladies she had fitted today, and Claire tried to focus but only half listened. She scooped out the porous black chunks from a bucket with a small shovel, careful to seek the smallest pieces, saving the larger ones for cooking and heating the shop tomorrow.

“Are you digging for gold?” Juliette's fingers drummed the table.

Claire lifted her dark blue shawl from a wall peg and wrapped the wool around her shoulders. As tempting as the box was, other, weightier issues played in her mind.

Money. Or the lack of it.

“There's something I need to tell you.” She sat across from Juliette again, leaning her elbows on the table. “I have to sell my necklace—tomorrow—if I'm going to make Friday's rent
and
pay all the notes due. I don't think I have enough with what I've made each day.”

“Already?” Juliette gasped. “It's the cabinetmaker,
non
? The thief charged you twice what he should for tables and benches. You should never have given him a rush request.”

“It's not that.” Claire pulled her shawl tighter. “I haven't kept close attention to my spending. The bad coffee beans…the cost of spices has gone up, Annie's taking longer to master the recipes, burning too many baked goods…” Her voice trailed off. “Everything has added up to be more than I expected.”

“These troubles are why you were so”—Juliette's face clouded a brief second—“ah…
distracted
today?” Her lips pursed. “Then it is good you have the necklace.”

“Yes, except I thought I wouldn't need to sell it this soon. Mr. Ryland was right on one score,” she said archly. “I do need to track my funds better.”

Juliette nudged the box closer to Claire. “Or perhaps he has something for you, something that will solve all your problems.”

Claire examined the wood grain of the simple box, his gift to her. “I don't want a man to solve my problems.”

“But a dalliance would do you good. Put color in your cheeks.”

“I find it amusing, Miss Sauveterre, how you have no problem mastering English words alluding to sexual congress,” she teased. “And a man putting color in my cheeks got me into considerable trouble in the past, remember?”

That earned her a disapproving moue. Juliette waved her hand dramatically.

“So, your Mr. Ryland wants to get under your skirts. Getting lost in mindless sensual pleasure?
Humph.
What a hardship.” Dark eyes flashed at Claire. “Just open it.”

“I'm guessing he gave me an account book.” Claire pulled on the red silk. “Or could be he's returning my shoe in some grand gesture.”

She unwound the ribbon and let the silk drop to the table. Her fingers caressed the box's smooth wood—walnut, by the grain and soft brown color. Someone had lovingly crafted the small chest. Was this a jewelry box? Juliette's dark head bent close, but Claire turned the hinged side toward her friend. She wished suddenly to open the box in private. Too late for that now.

The last gift she opened from a man was the necklace from Jonathan, then heir to the Greenwich earldom. His gift was a form of penance…payment, for taking her virginity with the false promise of marriage.

And then deserting her to attend ladies who made better candidates to be his wife.

Yet, for all the pain of her past, she couldn't imagine Cyrus Ryland giving a woman false promises. He was too blunt for that.

And then she raised the lid.

She gasped. One hand touched her lips. “Strawberries,” she said, her voice featherlight.

Bright red, the tempting flesh, shiny and plump with tiny, vivid green leaves. Inside, a folded missive rested atop the pile of luscious fruit.

“Strawberries?” Juliette angled her head for a better view.

Juliette studied her and the red berries likely trying to gauge Claire's reaction to the unusual gift. Her friend must have expected something hard and glittering, stones of the expensive variety, not something soft and temporal, or unique and personal as a favored fruit.

Claire lifted a single, plump strawberry to her nose, smelling the sweet fragrance; satisfaction filled her, as desirable as the delicious aroma. Taking a slow bite, she savored the crunch of what had to be the product of Mr. Ryland's hothouse, since strawberry season was over for the rest of England.

Juice squished, and she licked her lips. Most of the berries were intact, with a few slightly damaged from their sojourn to her table.

What this meant went far beyond a box of fruit.

The ball. Her delight at the bowl of strawberries.

He
remembered.

For a man to carry with him a small, personal detail of a woman's happiness and then act on it?

One hand touched the exposed skin below her collarbone. Those storm-gray eyes of his saw too much. She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, but no amount of cloth could cover her from being bared to him. What other intimate details did Cyrus Ryland store away about her?

Her spirits lightened with this startling revelation, but Juliette flopped back in her chair, bemused.

“There is a note. A billet-doux, perhaps,” Juliette suggested, pointing at the small folded paper. “Aren't you going to read it?”

Claire set down the half-eaten berry and unfolded the note. Outside, light rain dropped from the heavens, tapping her window. The words on paper were few and personal and as devastating as the surprise of the strawberries.

“Oh my,” she murmured, holding the paper close for privacy.

She didn't expect flowery, poetic language, but his words reached out, brushing tender, feminine places with shocking, seductive intent. She read and reread the brief missive to make sure she hadn't missed his meaning. But with Cyrus Ryland, blunt was best.

“Aren't you going to let me see?” Juliette's voice pitched higher.

Claire set the sheet on the table so both could view the note's single line. Juliette's lips moved while she read the message under her breath.