Her Royal Payne Read online

  Modesty had to keep her brows from rising. Since when had her father been concerned with worldly affairs? But she kept her thoughts to herself and dutifully drank her tea and ate her porridge. After the meal, she washed and dried the plates while her father continued to read and sip his tea. Finally, she sat beside him, opened the Bible, and pretended to read. Her mind was too busy to concentrate on the words.

  “I have a task for you today,” her father said.

  Modesty looked up, surprised. Her father believed idle hands were sinful hands, and everyday had its set tasks. Yesterday, she and several of the women of the church had cleaned the room they used to gather for worship on Sundays. They had polished the benches and mopped the floors and dusted everything to a dull gleam. Today was the day she would mend socks and shirts and the few other items in her mending basket. She usually began the mending closer to noon, when the most light shone through the small window in this room.

  “I have the mending,” she said, feebly.

  “This should not take long. I would like you to deliver a basket of bread and cheese to Mrs. Kydd on Pall Mall.”

  “You want me to go to Pall Mall?” Modesty asked in surprise. “Alone?”

  “I would go with you,” her father said, “but I must work on my sermon for Sunday.”

  Today was one of the days he devoted to sermon-writing. But he had never before asked her to go alone to deliver a gift of charity, and he had never sent her so far as Pall Mall. It was a thirty-minute walk, at least, across London. She was rarely allowed to go anywhere by herself, and she felt a thrill of excitement at the possibility of an adventure. Normally, when she was out with her father or one of the church elders, she had to keep her eyes downcast. But if she were alone, she could study the ladies in their fine dresses or pause at the windows of shops and study the goods for purchase.

  “When should I leave?” Modesty asked, now eager to be on her way.

  “Within the hour,” her father said. “Use the provisions in the storage room at the church to make up the basket.”

  “Of course. Is Mrs. Kydd ill? Should I make her soup?”

  Reverend Brown waved his hand. “Nothing like that. She made a donation to our cause, and this is a small gesture of our thanks. I have her information written on this paper.” He slid a slip of paper she had not noticed on the table toward her. It had the woman’s name and the number of her residence on Pall Mall. “Bring her the gift. If she will see you, speak with her a little to express our thanks and tell her of our mission. Then come straight home.” He looked at Modesty, his brown eyes meeting hers as he peered at her above his spectacles. “No dawdling.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Her mother would not have dawdled. Her mother would have gone straight to Mrs. Kydd and come straight back again. And that’s what Modesty would do. It took no additional time to catch glimpses of the world about her. She would walk quickly and still peer at shop windows. “Shall I go now, sir?”

  “Yes, go now. Do not forget your coat and scarf, child.”

  “No, sir.” She put on her threadbare coat and the scarf she had knitted the year before and tucked her hands in her pockets. She wished she had gloves or mittens, but she had only the one pair of gloves that she wore for church and those must be kept clean and tidy for Sundays.

  She put her black bonnet over the cap she wore and tied the ribbons under her chin. A quarter hour later she set out from the church, a basket tucked into the crook of her arm. The sun was shining dully in the sky. Outside of London, the day was probably crisp, cool, and bright. Inside the city, with its endless coal fires darkening the sky, it was cold and less gray than usual. Modesty decided to walk briskly to keep warm and return quickly as her father had bade her. She kept her eyes down until she was out of sight of her home and the church and then she lifted her head and took everything in.

  She passed a group of boys kicking a ball in the street and cheering wildly when one boy crossed a line invisible to her. She passed a fishmonger and a costermonger and a young girl on a stoop, a dirty dog beside her with his head in her lap. She lowered her eyes again when she passed a group of men outside a gin shop. In her shapeless black dress and bonnet, she was unlikely to draw their interest, but she did not want to chance it.

  As she drew closer to the Kydd residence on Pall Mall, there were fewer gin shops and groups of boys playing in the street and more carts and horses, clerks in black carrying heavy ledgers, and ladies in fur-lined pelisses. She gave two men unloading a cart a wide berth. They looked to be carrying a table into a building while a well-dressed man stood with his arms crossed and watched. Modesty continued walking, slowing slightly when she reached a row of shops. Her arm ached from the weight of the basket, and she took the opportunity to switch arms. She might have paused slightly longer than she intended to study an array of bright bonnets in one window. They were bedecked with plumes in colors she had never seen on a bird in the wild. A few also had sprigs of what appeared to be grapes embellishing them. She did not fancy fruit on her bonnet, but she would not have minded flowers. One hat in pink was decorated with a cluster of white silk flowers, and Modesty thought it was lovely.

  Of course, she would never be allowed to wear a bonnet that color, even if it didn’t clash with her awful red hair. She had never worn anything but dark, sober colors. She had never owned a hat that was not either dark blue or black. Her undergarments were plain white as was the cap she wore over her hair to keep it in place. The bonnet had a wide brim to hide much of her face and all of her hair. She had once heard her father tell her mother that witches were known to have red hair, and her mother had remarked, very softly, that her own mother had red hair and was not a witch.

  That was the beauty of her mother, Modesty thought. She was peaceful and never argued, but she had quiet authority. She’d never heard her father mention her hair again, although she knew he did not like it. Modesty kept it covered all the time, even at home in his presence. The only time she uncovered it was when she took it down before bed or to wash it. She made sure to keep her chamber dark so even she did not see her hair. She rarely looked in a mirror. Vanity was a sin. But when Modesty moved to the next window—she was dawdling now, but she could not seem to help it—and peered at the boots displayed, she also caught her own reflection in the wavy window glass. She was a pale face draped in black. She knew the glass distorted her image, but she looked so small and scared in the reflection that she turned away.

  Time to be on her way. She hurried along the street, only slowing when she reached the bustling corner of Haymarket and Pall Mall. Then she took a deep breath and waded into the swarms of people. The streets were filled with private carriages and hackneys as well as coaches and heavily laden carts. The sidewalks were just as busy with men hurrying this way and that, ladies using their parasols to move anyone in their path aside, and mothers pulling recalcitrant children in their wake. It was a mass of people moving in every direction, and it was the epitome of London. Modesty would have paused to smile and take it in if she had not feared being jostled to the ground by those in a hurry behind her. She was not certain if people hurried to stay warm or because they were late.

  She removed the slip of paper with the number she wanted on it and began to scan the numbers of the buildings she passed. The first section of the street was full of shops and offices, but there were residences interspersed. Finally, as the numbers neared the one she wanted, she slowed and, after being pushed aside by people hurrying past, paused in front of Mrs. Kydd’s residence.

  Modesty shifted the basket to the other arm again. It had felt so light when she’d left and now it seemed full of bricks. She climbed the steps to the residence and clutched the brass knocker, rapping repeatedly. A moment later a maid opened the door and smiled.

  Mrs. Kydd had not wanted to see Modesty, so she left the basket and stepped back into the commotion of Pall Mall. On the return trip, she avoided looking in the shop windows and gazed at the street and a
t the people on the other side of Pall Mall. In front of her, a young child began to cry and threw himself on the ground. Modesty paused while his mother tried to coax him up and out of the way. She gave Modesty an apologetic look, and Modesty smiled at her reassuringly. While she waited for the mother to either calm the child or pick him up kicking and screaming, her gaze strayed across the street again. She narrowed her eyes as a man she recognized exited a gray building almost directly across from her.

  He was a dark-skinned man of medium height, dressed very well in fawn breeches and a dark blue coat. His waistcoat was a deep burgundy color, and as she watched he adjusted his beaver hat on his head. She did not know his name and did not think he was among the parishioners of her father’s congregation. Why should he look so familiar to her?

  Her gaze strayed to the sign above the building he’d exited. It read Mostyn’s. That told her nothing. Mostyn was most likely the surname of the owner of the establishment. But she had no idea what sort of establishment it was. The dark-skinned man began to walk along Pall Mall. It was just as crowded on the other side, and he had to jog to the side at one point to avoid plowing into another man. The way he moved released the trap on her memory. He was from the tavern the night before. She had seen him on the side of the boxing ring, yelling encouragement to the man the German had hit.

  The pamphlets she had seen to promote the boxing match called the man The Royal Payne. She wondered if The Royal Payne was inside Mostyn’s. Before she could think about what she was doing, she was taking her life into her hands and crossing Pall Mall. She let out a little scream as she was almost trampled by a horse and gave the coachman of a carriage traveling far too quickly a few choice—but still Christian—words. And then she was on the other side of the street and breathing heavily with relief. She looked up and saw the sign for Mostyn’s. A large wooden door faced the street and there were no windows. She went to the door, pulled on the heavy latch and peered inside.

  The interior was cool and dark with paneled wood walls and marble floors. The smell of oranges permeated the air, and she stepped inside and looked up at the high ceiling and the heavy but sturdy chandelier hanging from it.

  “Help you?” came a low masculine voice.

  Modesty turned and took a step back. The voice had been low and pleasant, but the man who greeted her was large and bald and had several bruises on his face. His nose had obviously been broken at one time as it was unnaturally crooked.

  “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have come inside,” Modesty said. Really, what had possessed her to enter this place? Sometimes she was far too curious for her own good. Her mother would have gone straight home. She would never have crossed the street, much less opened the door to an unfamiliar establishment.

  “No harm done,” the man said with a smile that revealed several missing teeth. Modesty turned to go then heard a shout and a grunt and what sounded like several thumps. Then a loud cheer went up and Modesty couldn’t help but look past the man who’d greeted her at the cracked door behind him.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “Mostyn’s,” he replied, seemingly happy to converse. “It’s a pugilism studio for gentlemen wanting to learn to box. Most of the men who come here just want the activity. Boxing is quite energetic. Good for the lungs.”

  “I see,” she said. “Is...” She should leave now. She should not say anything further. “Is The Royal Payne here?”

  The man’s brows shot up. “What does a woman like you know about The Royal Payne?” he asked. His eyes swept down her dour black dress.

  “I should take my leave.” She really should be on her way now. Determined now to do as she ought, she turned and walked to the door.

  “Wait,” the bruised man said. Modesty halted. “I’ll fetch him for you.”

  She spun around. “He’s here?”

  “You’re a strange one. I thought your sort didn’t approve of blood sports, but I can see you’re no different than every other chit in London.”

  “What do you mean?” Modesty asked.

  “You’re all in love with Rowden Payne. Stay right there. Don’t move.” He went through the door where the noise had emanated. Modesty didn’t dare move, though she was half-afraid the man would return with Rowden Payne.

  That was his name. Rowden. It was an odd name, probably a family name or a name he’d given himself. What would she say if Mr. Payne came through that door? What would she do?

  She didn’t have to wonder long because Mr. Payne himself stepped into the doorway a moment later. He was dressed only in shirt sleeves, and Modesty was grateful he wasn’t bare-chested as he’d been the night before. He wiped his face with a cloth, and when he lowered it his green eyes fastened on her.

  “You,” he said. “You owe me fifty quid.”

  ROWDEN WAS IMMEDIATELY sorry he had said it. The woman paled visibly, and she was already quite pale beneath that large black hat. She was on the shorter side of medium height, and she seemed to shrink when he spoke, and he stepped forward to reassure her.

  Which was exactly the wrong thing to do because she took a step back, clearly not reassured. “I’m teasing you,” he said, though in truth, he wasn’t quite ready to forgive her the fifty quid she’d cost him. But he’d also caught another flash of those amazing hazel eyes, and he didn’t want her to run away quite yet.

  “Teasing me?” she asked. “Like na-na boo boo?” Her voice was not weak or quiet, as he’d imagined it would be. It was strong and unwavering.

  Rowden bit his cheek to keep from smiling. “I meant that I spoke in jest.”

  “But I did cost you a win last night. The German fighter knocked you down.”

  “Thanks for that reminder.” He put his hands on his hips. “Did you come to offer to compensate me?” He hadn’t meant it in a suggestive way. God knew she was primmer than a nun. Still, his tone had a suggestive hint to it he hadn’t meant to put there.

  “I don’t have anything to offer,” she said, seeming not to notice his tone. “I do not really know why I came. I suppose I wanted to apologize.”

  Rowden cocked his head to the side. “You wanted to apologize.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I didn’t intend for you to be hurt.”

  He touched his temple gingerly as the bruise there was still tender. The blow had been glancing, but he still had a blooming black rose of a mark for it. “But you wanted to stop the fight.”

  “Of course.” She nodded, and her eyes darted about the entryway as though it were a museum of curiosities. Rowden couldn’t think why it should capture her attention. There was nothing of interest. Ewan Mostyn was not one for many words or embellishments. The walls were bare and the only items in the entry were a brass receptacle for umbrellas and walking sticks and a coat tree laden with several greatcoats.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Her gaze focused on him again, puzzled. He liked having her gaze on him and decided to ask more questions when it strayed. Of course, Rowden had an idea of why she objected, but he wanted to hear it from her.

  “We don’t believe in violence. We believe in peace and compassion.” Her gaze strayed again, and she spoke almost as if by rote. “Jesus said, ‘Love ye your enemies, and do good.’”

  “The German wasn’t my enemy. Our managers arranged the fight, and I did plan to do good with my winnings. I’d promised to donate them to an orphanage.”

  Her gaze locked on his face, eyes wide. “Really?”

  “No.” He smiled. “I would have done nothing so noble, only paid my landlord and bought food so I don’t starve.”

  Her eyes lowered and then she seemed to realize she should not be looking at his body, and her gaze shot up again. “Is there not some honest way you can make a living?”

  “I can’t think what would be more honest than a fair fist fight. Do you want to have a look around the studio?” he asked, gesturing behind him to the door leading into the practice room.

  “Inside? No!”

  Rowden jamm
ed a shoulder against one wall and made himself comfortable. “You don’t want to risk your soul in a den of iniquity? I promise you it’s not nearly as seedy as the tavern last night. I’ll introduce you to the owner, Ewan Mostyn. He and I fought in the war together.”

  “You were a soldier?” she asked, clearly interested despite herself.

  He laughed wryly. “I was a lot of things once upon a time. Come on.” He waved for her to follow him and then, not checking to see if she did, opened the door to the studio and held it for her.

  For a long moment she stood rooted in the entryway. Rowden could almost see her mind working, and he did see the play of emotions on her face. She was clearly torn between curiosity and morality. In the end, curiosity won, as it always did. She moved forward and stepped through the door and into the studio.

  Rowden tried to see it through her eyes. It was a large, cavernous room, painted white. The ceilings were high and a row of rectangular windows along the top of the outer wall shed quite a bit of light into the room. Several crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling as well, a nod to fifty or so years ago when this had been a ballroom. Two large rectangular areas had been raised and roped off in the center of the room. On the sides were sacks of flour and other weighted items designed for building strength.

  Mostyn’s was not crowded at this time of the day. It catered to gentlemen—not necessarily peers, who preferred Gentleman Jackson’s, but gentlemen nonetheless. And those gentlemen tended to sleep until noon, just like their brethren with the title of Lord before their name.

  Today there were just five of them in the room, not counting...

  Rowden couldn’t believe his bad manners. He hadn’t asked her name.

  Well, there were five men in the room. Ewan Mostyn was in the center rectangle. Ewan was a giant of a man with cropped white-blond hair and pale eyes. With his strong features and fierce expression, he resembled a Norse warrior. In the ring with Ewan was a young man of perhaps twenty. The man also had blond hair, but it was dark with sweat and pushed off his brow. He was proceeding through a series of quick steps and jabs, punctuated by Ewan’s grunts of approval or censure. The lad was bare-chested, showing a scrawny chest with no hair yet to boast of. Ewan wore buff breeches, boots, and a shirt open at the throat. His coat had been discarded almost as soon as he’d arrived, and he rarely wore a neckcloth of any sort.