Her Royal Payne Read online

  The letters spanned years, and the later letters were less passionate and more of a practical nature. Fanny talked of her children—their children. Modesty had not known her father had another family and other children. She had not known there was another woman in his life, a woman who was like a wife to him. He sent this woman money and he visited her on occasion. Modesty had never known. She had never even suspected that every Sunday, while her father preached truth and light and against the evils of fornication, all along he was lying to everyone he knew and fornicating for years.

  But perhaps he was not lying to everyone he knew. Perhaps he was only lying to her? Perhaps everyone but her knew.

  Her mother had known.

  That was the most shocking letter of all. One of the letters mentioned Catherine Brown. Fanny wrote that she was relieved Samuel’s wife had forgiven him. Did that mean Modesty’s mother knew the relationship continued? Had she condoned her husband’s infidelity? Had she too pretended to be good and pure and, in reality, led a life of lies and duplicity?

  A tap sounded on the door, and Lady Lorraine entered. “I have sent the first batch of letters,” she said entering the room. “Did the letters give you any clues as to the whereabouts of your aunt? It would help to know if she lives in London or...” She wrinkled her brow and looked down at Modesty, sitting on the floor with the letters strewn about her. “Are you well?”

  Modesty wanted to say, Yes, I am quite well. Thank you for asking. But she couldn’t pretend. She would not pretend. She would not lie.

  “No,” she said. “No, I’m not well at all.”

  The lady moved forward, her eyes wide. “What’s happened? Has something in the letters upset you?”

  “You could say that.” Modesty jumped up and kicked at the letters. “He is a liar, my lady. My father. He lied to me for years.” She began to pace, feeling the need to move. She was so angry, angry like she’d never been before in her life, and she could not contain her feelings. She had to do something with that emotion. And she would not cry. No. No more tears for her lying father. Where was he now? With his mistress? With his other family? And did he care that Modesty was scared and alone? Had he even sent so much as a note to assure her he was alive?

  She wasn’t sure how much of her thoughts she said aloud, but it must have been enough that Lady Lorraine began to understand the nature of things. “I am certain he cares. Something must have happened to prevent him from sending word. I still think we should seek out your aunt—”

  “Do you know what I think, my lady? I think I am tired of wearing this black, itchy dress. I am tired of standing on street corners half the night and telling loose women they are bound for hell. I am tired of having beer and curses thrown on me—and much worse, I assure you. I have tried to follow my mother’s example for years. I have tried to be good.” Up and down the carpet, back and forth she walked.

  “Of course, you have.”

  “But my mother looked the other way while my father sired children with another woman. We lived in poverty so he could send any spare money he had to this other woman. I thought my mother was so good and pure. But she was weak and pathetic. I hate her. I hate them both.”

  “My dear, you don’t mean that.” Lady Lorraine sat on a chair. “You’re angry right now. You’ve realized that parents are human, like the rest of us. They make mistakes.”

  “They never allowed me to make mistakes,” Modesty said. “They expected me to be perfect. I don’t want to be perfect any longer. I want...” She looked around the chamber, not certain what she wanted. And then her gaze landed on Lady Lorraine. The lady looked so lovely in a green dress with sheer sleeves and that gauze at her throat. She even had a green ribbon woven through her light brown hair.

  “I want ribbons,” Modesty had said. “I want a pink dress.”

  Lady Lorraine’s eyes widened. “Not pink with your coloring. What about yellow?”

  “Yes. Yellow. I want a yellow dress with ribbons. I want to let my hair down.” She ripped off the black hat and unpinned the cap she wore, then shook out her hair so it fell down around her in long, auburn waves.

  Lady Lorraine nodded with excitement. “I’ll send word to a modiste, and my lady’s maid is a wonder with hair.”

  “I need somewhere to go. An assembly?” She’d dance all night, even though she knew no dances. Mr. Payne would teach her. She didn’t know why she should think of him. He’d pawned her off on Mostyn’s wife. But she wanted to see him again. She wanted him to look at her as he had that morning in his bedchamber. She wanted to steal a kiss and see what it felt like.

  Lady Lorraine was shaking her head. “There aren’t any assemblies this time of year.”

  “The fight then. What are they called? Mills? I want to attend the mill tomorrow night.”

  Lady Lorraine clapped her hands. “That would be most exciting. Leave everything to me. Why don’t I have a bath sent up? You bathe and refresh yourself while I see to the modiste and the prizefight.”

  “And the ribbons. Don’t forget the ribbons.”

  “Lorrie!” came a male voice that made Modesty jump.

  “It’s just Mostyn,” Lady Lorraine said. “I’ll send up the water.” She left and Modesty heard her call. “Ewan, I need ribbons!”

  As soon as Lady Lorraine departed, Modesty had second thoughts. She had spent years doing everything she had been told. She had dressed and behaved soberly and humbly. She had been frugal, buying only the necessities and eating very simply. She dared not even allow herself to look at a display of pretty hats or imagine what it would be like to eat one of the sugary confections she sometimes saw when passing by tea rooms. She never drank anything stronger than tea, never swore, never went anywhere but church and to rail against sin. She’d never danced, never read anything beyond the Bible and books of sermons, and never even played a card game.

  And what had been the point of all the deprivation? To be as perfect as her mother? Well, her mother’s life had been a lie. To please God above? Modesty rather doubted God cared if she wore a pretty dress or danced. After all, even the Bible said there was a time to dance. She wanted to dance.

  A tap sounded on the door, and Modesty turned, wondering if Lady Lorraine had found some ribbons already. But it was two footmen with a large hip bath, followed by a maid with a towel and a wooden box. The footmen set the tub down, and the maid opened the box. “Would you like me to scent the bath water, Miss?” the maid asked. “I have scents of rose, lavender, or lemon.”

  Modesty looked down at the box and saw vials of scents as well as soap for the body and the hair. “I don’t know which to choose,” she said. “You choose.”

  “Yes, miss.” She went to the tub and soon the scent of lavender filled the room. “Would you like me to help with your bath?”

  Modesty shook her head. “I can manage.”

  “Then I’ll stoke the fire and return with a robe for you to wear after you bathe. Shall I have your garments cleaned for you, miss?”

  Modesty wanted to tell her to burn them, but she had learned never to be hasty or impulsive. “Yes, please.”

  The maid bobbed and hurried away. Modesty undressed and sank into the fragrant water. She felt as though she was washing her old self away and revealing the new.

  Eight

  That night Aidan tossed a paper on the table in front of Rowden and sat in the chair on the other side. Rowden was at the Draven Club where the men who had served in the war with Colonel Draven often gathered. There had been thirty in the troop at the start, and a dozen had returned. Only a few were in attendance at the club that afternoon.

  Rowden drank coffee, rather than his preferred brandy and soda, in preparation for the fight the next night. His muscles were sore from the practice session today, but a good session in the morning—lighter and not too strenuous—would warm him up and leave him in good shape.

  “Looks like we’re traveling to Hungerford,” Aidan said.

  Rowden lifted the paper and sm
iled. A mill had been arranged at a racecourse in Hungerford for the week following. Details were scant and would not be made known to the public until a day or so before the actual match. This way the magistrates were not alerted to the bout too early, although many of them would probably attend as spectators anyway. The pamphlet did say the German would be there as well as Tom Cribb, serving as an umpire.

  “I’ll have to tell Chibale.”

  “I’m sure he already knows. You beat Abraham Strong tomorrow and the German will have to fight you. Do it at this venue and the winnings will be...” He whistled.

  “I could make enough to retire.”

  “You could retire anyway. You have enough from selling your commission. But fighting has never been about the blunt for you.”

  Rowden drank his coffee and wished it were brandy. Aidan wasn’t wrong. At first, he’d fought for the money. He needed it after his father cut him off. But when he’d heard how angry his success made the duke, Rowden had wanted to fight all the more. He wanted to stick a thumb in his father’s eye and dig it around.

  “Not everything is about blunt to me, no,” Rowden agreed. “Difficult as that is for you to imagine.”

  Aidan smiled. He was rumored to be the bastard son of the Marquess of Cranbourne by a chambermaid. The marquess had provided for Aidan and his mother, but he hadn’t codified the arrangement. Aidan had been twelve when his father had suddenly died, and he and his mother had become destitute. He’d had to resort to stealing to survive. Colonel Draven liked to say the army had reformed Aidan, but Aidan had just learned more socially acceptable ways to steal. He’d used the money from the sale of his commission to buy shares in various companies and schemes and made a hundred times what he’d invested.

  Aidan was now one of the richest men in England, and certainly the wealthiest of the Survivors. Even the Duke of Mayne’s wealth couldn’t hold a candle to Aidan’s.

  “Don’t you have a house in Hungerford?” Rowden asked. The inns would be full, and even this far in advance, all the rooms would be taken. He didn’t relish sleeping in a stable or out in the cold.

  “No. How many houses do you think I have?”

  Rowden considered. “Eight.”

  “Only six.”

  “My mistake.”

  “Nicholas’s breeding farm is near Hungerford,” Aidan offered after a moment.

  “Do you think he’ll have us?”

  “He won’t shoot at us like Nash, though he’s probably equally as surly. I’ll write to him.” Aidan rose and left the reading room just as Ewan stalked in. Rowden shrank back involuntarily. The look in Ewan’s eyes was deadly.

  “What’s wrong?” Rowden asked as Ewan towered over him.

  “Miss Brown,” Ewan said.

  Miss Brown? How could she be any trouble? In fact, since Rowden had handed her over to Lady Lorraine this noon, he’d hardly given her another thought. Hardly, of course, being the operative word because every once in a while, when he wasn’t making an effort to control his thoughts, they wandered back to the sight of her auburn hair falling over her shoulders as she lay in his bed.

  Ridiculous. Rowden would have about as much chance to bed a nun as Miss Brown. And that was fine. Women were a distraction. He’d been in love once, and it had all but destroyed him. Sleeping alone was a choice and a lonely one at that. But that was his choice, and he preferred it that way.

  Ewan sat and gestured to one of the footmen to bring him a drink. “What’s that?” he gestured to the pamphlet Rowden held.

  “There’s an exhibition in Hungerford sometime next week. The German is fighting.”

  “Then so are you.”

  “Yes.”

  The footman delivered the brandy—straight, no soda—and after Ewan had consumed about half of it, Rowden broached the subject of Miss Brown again. “What is the matter with Miss Brown? Can’t find her aunt?”

  Ewan lifted a shoulder and finished the brandy. Rowden raised his brows and waited. Ewan lowered his glass. “Don’t know anything about an aunt, but she has my wife running around with ribbons.”

  This made absolutely no sense. Miss Brown had only been with Lady Lorraine for a half day. Rowden gave Ewan a moment to say more, but the man was taciturn as usual. “Well,” he finally said, “I am sure Miss Brown will be on her way to her aunt’s soon enough.”

  Ewan signaled for another drink. This was serious then. “She wants to come tomorrow.”

  “To the mill?”

  Ewan inclined his head. “I said no.”

  “That’s reasonable. It’s not safe for a lady in her condition.”

  Ewan grunted. Rowden hated to ask. He could see Ewan was in a state and might haul off and punch him if the mood struck, but Rowden was curious now. He so rarely witnessed Ewan this riled up.

  Rowden pushed his chair back an inch. “Who wants to come to the mill, exactly? Lady Lorraine?”

  “Both.”

  Rowden shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Miss Brown is against prizefighting.”

  Ewan muttered something else about ribbons.

  “Are you certain Miss Brown wants to come to the mill?”

  Ewan growled, and Rowden shut up. A half hour later he was on his way back to his flat in St. James’s. Ewan’s foul mood had emptied most of the club, and Rowden thought it prudent to remove himself as he was responsible for Ewan’s trouble, at least in part. He still couldn’t figure out how Miss Brown could be any trouble at all. He’d imagined she would read the letters and then seek out her aunt. If the letters didn’t hold a clue to her aunt’s whereabouts, Lady Lorraine would find out. She knew everyone in Town and had a way of making people talk to her.

  She’d found a way to make Mostyn talk to her, and he never talked to anyone more than was necessary.

  Rowden reached his door, opened it, and was greeted immediately by Trogdon. Rowden was impressed as his manservant usually had to be summoned to take Rowden’s coat and hat. He was about to praise the man when Trogdon stepped close. “You have a guest, sir,” he said quietly.

  “How can I have a guest?” He turned so Trogdon could remove his coat. “I just arrived.”

  “He is waiting for you in the drawing room, sir.”

  Rowden was tired and wanted to eat and rest his tired muscles. He did not want to make inane small talk with someone who hoped to profit off his prizefighting and had a grand moneymaking scheme. “Why is he waiting for me? Why didn’t you tell him I was not at home?”

  Trogdon’s brow creased. “But you are at home, sir.”

  The door to the drawing room opened, and Chibale poked his head out. “It’s just me.”

  Rowden was not reassured. “If you want me to go back to Mostyn’s tonight, you can forget it.”

  “I didn’t come about that,” Chibale said, moving backward as Rowden entered the drawing room and closed the door. “I came about her.”

  “Miss Brown?” Had she done something to anger Chibale too?

  Chibale cocked his head. “Who? That little Methodist?” He waved a hand. “No. Madame Renauld.”

  Rowden sat. “Really? What about her?”

  “She sent for me.”

  “Then why aren’t you in her drawing room?” He settled in a chair, putting one leg over the arm. He signaled for Trogdon to bring him a drink.

  “Just water, Trogdon,” Chibale said. He reached in his coat and produced two oranges. “For before the fight,” he said. “They’ll give you energy.”

  Trogdon took the oranges and left. Rowden hoped it was to fetch him something stronger than water.

  “She said to come when her shop closes and her seamstresses have gone,” Chibale said. “I thought I’d wait another hour.” He sat then stood then sat again. Rowden watched him, feeling a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. Chibale was always so confident, so sure of himself. When he’d first approached Rowden about becoming his manager, Rowden had brushed him off. He’d brushed off every other man who approached him, offering to tak
e fifty percent of his winnings for acting as a glorified bottle man. But Chibale had been so self-assured. He’d had a plan to make Rowden’s name famous throughout the country. Rowden had been using Rowdy Rowden, but Chibale said The Royal Payne had more class and would highlight his lineage. People would pay to see the son of a duke fight or be knocked out. And Chibale offered to only take thirty percent of his winnings. He said Rowden would make so much, thirty percent would end up more than the fifty percent any of the other men who’d offered to manage him would make.

  Rowden couldn’t refuse. Even though he’d still been skeptical, he wanted to give Chibale a chance. Chibale had not disappointed. He was a tireless promoter, an ardent supporter, and a relentless trainer. He had negotiated fights and prizemoney with some of the most notorious criminals in London in some of the seediest venues in Town. He moved equally well among the upper classes at puffed-up exhibitions held at garden parties. Never had Rowden seen Chibale ill-at-ease—not when speaking with a countess, not when arguing with an arch rogue and his fellow coves, not when things went wrong and they were running for their lives.

  But clearly this modiste was different.

  “She probably has a question about the ball.”

  Chibale paced. “I sent her the information. The time I would collect her, a copy of the invitation with the date, and so on. She must want to cry off.”

  “It’s not a wedding.”

  “And it never will be at this rate.”

  Rowden sat. “Are you thinking of marrying her?”

  “Who wouldn’t want to marry her? She’s a brilliant businesswoman and beautiful besides. And that accent. Can you imagine her whispering in French in bed?” He looked at Rowden. “Don’t imagine that.”

  Rowden scowled. “I have no desire to imagine you in bed with Madame Renauld or any other woman. But if that’s what you want, why not be bold?”