Lady Meets Her Match (12 page)

I find your forbidden fruit most desirable of all.

Cyrus

Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.

William Congreve,
Love for Love

The necklace was gone.

Claire rubbed her forehead, pushing back her mobcap. This had to be a mistake. She missed the baubles somewhere amongst the roasted coffee beans.

Look
again.

She stood on tiptoe at her counter, digging deeper in the ceramic jar. Hard, roasted coffee beans trickled through her fingers, but the pale aquamarine stones failed to show. She looked wildly around the shop, not more than a dozen patrons sat within the brick walls, sipping their midday brew.

Did someone take them?

Frantic hands dumped the weighty, earthen vessel upside down. Brown beans clattered across the counter and some fell to the floor.

Inside the jar? Nothing.

Numb, she stared into the distance, grateful for the counter holding her up. Rain blew across Cornhill, squalls of wetness smearing the front window. Outside, a few brave souls traversed midtown, hunched blurs holding down their hats as they passed her shop.

The front window. Yesterday.

Nate and Mr. Ryland. The flash of a gold coin passed between them.

Did
Mr. Ryland pay Nate to steal her necklace?

She inhaled, a sharp hiss of breath. Last night…the noise below stairs. Was that when Nate searched for her modest jewels? Her pile of bad news kept growing. Everything turned bleaker without the necklace to pay her rent, the notes due. How would she secure her future?

A harsh laugh caught in her throat. Her future wouldn't matter if she ended up languishing in debtor's prison.

Her mind bounced between encroaching fear and mounting evidence. A tumble of facts buzzed around her head, working to lay themselves in a neat but unforgiving line.

Nate failed to show up today. Noon had come and gone. Where was he?

He'd mentioned a time or two a life of thievery in St. Giles, “small and insignificant thefts” he'd called them, the kind where no one ever got hurt. Recalling those words, she laughed darkly. A few patrons turned their heads her way before going back to their conversations.

Could such a thing be true? Crimes done, transgressions committed…and no one gets hurt?

But the dear lad had started
here
, working hard, making a new life for himself. Claire rubbed her forehead, her face crumpling when she looked to her rain-splattered window.

“Oh, Nate, how could you?” she whispered.

An aching throb started where her fingers made slow circles. Everything hit her, a spin of too much to absorb all at once. But she had to. And top among her problems? Nate's theft. His betrayal of her trust hurt just as much as the knowledge that he'd gone back to his old life.

And the cascade of thoughts kept pouring over her.

Her forgery.

Mr. Ryland's staunch belief an unmarried woman had no business being in business, putting out her own shingle.

Her mouth twisted. And there was his wish to get under her skirts.

Did Mr. Ryland use his money and influence with Nate? Did he think he'd back her into a corner? And in a desperate state she'd say yes to anything he asked of her?

If she put the parts together correctly, her landlord lured a young man scraping by, striving for a better life. Of course the temptation would be too much.

She didn't know what hurt worse: bitter disappointment in finding Mr. Ryland to be dishonorable or Nate breaking her heart by choosing to return to his old way of life.

Oh, the choice words she'd have for Mr. Ryland.

“I say, Miss Mayhew, are you well?” a male voice spoke, pulling her from the fog.

Claire blinked, refocusing on the space in front of her. A florid face framed by an outdated, gray yarn wig, the wig of her most steady patron.

“Mr. Cogsworth,” she said, brushing coffee beans away from the counter's edge.

“Having a fit of the vapors?” His hoary brows twitched. “Perhaps a rest would do you good.”

Dear Mr. Cogsworth, a good man and an energetic trader, married almost thirty years and raised five daughters. He'd likely seen the vapors a time or two, but this wasn't a fainting spell about to happen.

“Thank you, sir, but I'm fine.” She gave him a brittle smile.

Mr. Cogsworth's slack eyelids drooped all the more. The dear man didn't believe her one second, but he nodded briskly, allowing her false assurance.

“Then let me help clean this up.” He scooped beans back into the container, flashing wary looks at her now and then.

His smile, marked by a gap between front teeth, had become a welcome sight every day. Some men could be counted on in life, sturdy and dependable. Men like Mr. Cogsworth. Together, they had most of the counter cleaned when Annie appeared from the kitchen with a large plate of warm biscuits. Her shoes crunched beans on the floor.

“Gor, Miss Mayhew, what happened here?” Annie put the plate down and grabbed the broom leaning against the brick wall.

Claire poured a fresh cup of coffee for Mr. Cogsworth, her mind spinning with what to do next. The stack of notes was due at the end of the week…three days from now. What was she going to do about that? She had no clue, but one small act of kindness deserved another, thus she slipped biscuits on a plate for her most faithful patron.

“For your thoughtful assistance, Mr. Cogsworth.”

“If there's anything I can do for you, Miss Mayhew,” he said, balancing his plate and mug in both hands.

Mr. Cogsworth lingered, his heavy jowls clenching and unclenching as though he wanted to say more. She turned her attention to the road outside her shop, stone-like resolve forming a plan.

“There is one thing,” she said, her voice level. “I need a hack. Would you fetch one for me? I've an urgent errand.”

Mr. Cogsworth cast a hesitating glance at the storm beyond the front window. He mumbled something placating but did her bidding and set his mug and plate on his table. The trader girded himself against the storm, his stare beetling from her to the turbulence outside before he sought the door. Claire whipped her cloak off its peg and wrapped herself inside thin wool, insufficient armor against the tempest, but it would have to do.

Annie swept the coffee bean mess into a tidy pile. Her pale blue eyes bulged under her mobcap when Claire scooped a handful of coins from the till and dumped them in her apron pocket.

She nearly cleaned out her funds.

Then, she produced an iron key from her other pocket.

“Annie, I need you to mind the shop.” The key dangled by a makeshift cheesecloth ribbon. “I don't know how long I'll be.”

She fixed the hood on her head, preparing for the turmoil ahead.

* * *

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.