Her Royal Payne Page 22

  She looked up at Chibale, and he looked down at her, and she saw the same love she felt reflected back at her. As though to punctuate it, he said, “I love you, Thérèse.”

  She stared at him, the image of him in shirtsleeves with a broom sweeping up broken glass foremost in her mind. “You really do, don’t you?”

  He kissed her forehead. “When did you realize it?”

  “That night you sent the Black Death away.”

  “I did that for Phaedra,” he teased.

  “And for me,” she said. She rose and took his hand. “Shall we have dessert?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” But instead of following her into the bedchamber, he reached down and swept her up into his arms.

  “Mon Dieu!” she cried. “What ees this?”

  “I will protect you, Thérèse.” He carried her to the bedchamber. “I will keep you safe. Tonight, tomorrow, for as long as you want me.”

  Thérèse wrapped her arms around him and when he lowered her to the bed, she closed her eyes and sank into the tender press of his lips, the stroke of his hands, the weight of his body on top of hers. She had watched Chibale all afternoon, and he was a man who took his work seriously. He paid attention to detail. He did a thorough job.

  He undressed her slowly, took his time arousing her, watching until she was breathing quickly and clutching him desperately. She was a woman of thirty and...well, one need not delve into specifics. She was an experienced woman, but with Chibale, she felt like this was all new again. She felt as though she’d never wanted a man so much.

  And when he finally, finally, slid inside her, joining their bodies as well as their hands and their lips, she was happier than she’d ever been. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, telling him silently that she loved him too.

  “I AM NOT LEAVING YOU,” Chibale said, setting his fork on the plate and giving Thérèse her own formidable stare right back at her. “Rowden can handle himself.”

  Thérèse, looking lovely with her hair in waves over her shoulder and the morning sunlight filtering through the curtain behind her, shook her head.

  “So can I, mon chéri.” She lifted a pastry and took a bite, not a dainty bite but a real bite. He liked that about her. She was not ashamed of her appetites.

  “After what happened the night before last, I’d like to stay close by.”

  She shook her head. “Your fighter needs you, and I won’t have you mees thees exhibition. I will ask my maid to stay, and the bully boys will watch the shop. Don’t shake your head. You will regret it if you do not go.”

  “There will be another fight.”

  “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “But not another like thees one. You will go, and when you return, it will be time for the ball. I have almost finished the dress. I think you will like it.” She winked.

  Chibale raised a brow. “Can I see it?”

  “Oh, no! I want to enjoy the surprise on your face when I show it to you that night. So you see that I will be fine. Go to Hungerford and win the fight.”

  “I don’t actually fight,” he said, folding his napkin and setting it aside. He rather liked watching her eat.

  “That does not mean the victory ees not also yours.”

  Chibale didn’t like it. He didn’t like leaving her alone after the vandalism at her shop, didn’t like being so far away if she needed him. At one time he would have said that this fight was the most important thing in his life. It was still important, but not nearly as important as Thérèse.

  “Win the fight,” the parrot said.

  “There you are,” Thérèse said, gesturing with her fork. “Even Bleuette agrees.”

  “How can I argue with Bleuette?”

  “Pretty bird,” Bleuette added. “Fine lace!”

  “That’s enough,” Thérèse said. She rose. “You should go now, or you will not arrive until late.”

  “I hadn’t actually made up my mind to leave yet,” he said.

  “I have. Come to me as soon as you return, oui?” She reached for the door handle, but he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. When he finally ended the kiss, she looked at him with a dreamy look. “As soon as you return,” she said. She fumbled with the door but finally managed to open it. He saw himself out and went directly to the modiste shop.

  Chibale knew Thérèse would be right behind him and did not want her to chastise him for not leaving yet. But he wanted to see how the night had gone. He rapped on the front door, scowling at the boards covering the broken window. One of the bully boys opened it and nodded at him. “Was hoping ye’d come by. Have something for ye.”

  Chibale refrained from asking what that might be and followed the man into the back room. There he found another man with dark skin, though lighter than his own, who was tied up and gagged. Chibale gave one of the men—the bully boys—a look.

  “Found him skulking about last night, we did.”

  “I spotted ‘im,” Twig said, stepping into the room, chest puffed out and hands on hips. “I saw ‘is shadow pass the door, I did.”

  “Good job,” Chibale said, tousling the boy’s hair. He crouched down and lowered the gag. “Who sent you?” he asked.

  “I didn’t do nothing!” the man said, the words coming out in a rush. “I were just walking by, minding my own business.”

  “No. ‘E was skulking, ‘e was,” the bully boy said.

  Chibale looked back at the bound man. “What business takes you near a dress shop in the middle of the night?”

  The man looked from the bully boy to Chibale, obviously frantic to think of a lie. “I...I...me ma lives nearby.”

  Chibale leaned back on his heels. “Really? Where? I’ll take you to her.” He stood the man up and gestured for Twig to open the back door. Twig gave him a pained expression.

  “Ye don’t believe ‘im, do ye?”

  “Open the door,” Chibale said. The lad obeyed, and Chibale ushered the man outside. Then he leaned close. “Now that there aren’t any witnesses, you’d better tell me the truth. Because if you don’t, even your ma won’t recognize your face.”

  “Ye’d better not touch me.”

  “Then start talking.”

  The man stared at him, lips compressed.

  Chibale released him and stepped back. “If that’s how you want it.” He raised an arm.

  “Fine! It were Notley.”

  Chibale’s arm dropped as though it had been weighed down with lead. He hadn’t expected the man to say Notley. He hadn’t expected the damage done to the shop would have anything to do with him. He gestured to the shop. “So this is because of me?”

  “I don’t know why. I’m not paid to ask questions.”

  “What did he pay you to do?”

  The man glanced at Chibale’s fist, now balled. Slowly, Chibale opened it.

  “He paid me to break the window and toss it. Overturn tables and shred the fabrics and the like.”

  “Just you?”

  The man compressed his lips again, obviously unwilling to give the name of the men who’d done this with him.

  “I’ll try a different question. Was Notley here?”

  The man shook his head. “He had some fight to go to. Said he had business there.”

  Chibale hissed in a breath. Notley had no business at the fight as his only fighter was on a ship right now. And who was responsible for that? Chibale and Rowden. Rowden, who was in Hungerford right now.

  “Why’d you come back last night?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I wanted to see what I’d done. Should have stayed away.”

  Chibale grabbed his coat and pushed him against a wall. “I’ll give you some advice, friend. When I untie those binds, run home and don’t ever come near here again. Next time I see you anywhere nearby, I’ll do to you what you did to those dresses inside.” He drew out a knife he carried and made a slashing motion and the man’s eyes widened. Finally, he nodded his head. Chibale spun him around and used the knife to cut the ropes.

  “Get ou
t of here.”

  The man ran.

  Chibale took a breath and went back into the shop. “Say nothing of this to Madame Renauld. But I want one of you”—he pointed to the bully boys—“here at all times. If anything happens to her—”

  “It won’t,” one of them said. “We care about her too.”

  “Good. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

  “Where are you going?” Twig asked.

  “To settle some scores.”

  Seventeen

  “Oh, good, I’ve caught you,” Modesty said as Rowden strolled into the breakfast room the next morning. His brows rose when he saw her, and she definitely noticed the way his eyes warmed.

  “You are up early.”

  “I missed you last night. I wanted to wait up, but the day tired me more than I thought.”

  “I was out late.” He gestured to the sideboard. “Would you like something with your tea?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  He piled food on his plate as he would need energy for Cribb’s coaching and then for the fight later this evening. “I’m sorry I left you with Lady Florentia.”

  “I don’t mind at all. She was very kind, and look.” She stood and showed him her dress.

  “It looks as though it was never torn,” he said.

  “Her maid was wonderful.”

  He glanced at her hair as she sat again, and she felt her cheeks warm.

  “Did she do your hair?”

  Modesty nodded.

  “I like it.”

  Modesty did too. It had been pulled back in a loose bun with a generous portion falling down her back in auburn curls. The maid had commented how lovely the color was, and Modesty had almost believed her. For so long she had thought of her hair as a curse. But perhaps it was pretty. Rowden seemed to think so.

  The dining room door was open, and she spotted Rowden’s manservant pass by, peer in, then keep walking. Rowden saw him too but ignored him. “Did Lord Nicholas ever join you?” he asked.

  “No. Lady Florentia said he doesn’t care for company.”

  Outside the doors, the manservant passed again.

  “Only the company of horses. But I thought he had better manners.” He slammed his fork down, and Modesty jumped. “Stop pacing in front of the door, Trogdon, and come in.”

  The manservant slid inside and bowed. “So sorry to bother you, sir.”

  “I thought you’d be gone by now,” Rowden said.

  “Yes, about that. What was I to do again, sir? My hands, you know—”

  “Shut up about your hands. I asked you to go into town and buy oranges, Trogdon. For the fight this evening.”

  “Ah.” Trogdon nodded confidently then shook his head.

  “Why are you shaking your head?” Rowden asked.

  “It’s the middle of winter, sir. There aren’t any oranges.”

  Rowden sighed and muttered, “This is why I need Chibale.”

  Modesty decided to help. “Mr. Trogdon, is it?”

  “Yes, miss.” He bowed to her. “Good morning to you.”

  “Good morning. You make a good point about it being winter.”

  He smiled at her. “Citrus fruits don’t grow in the winter. I learned that in school.” He gave Rowden a sideways glance as though to imply his employer had not learned much in school.

  “I learned that as well, but there is an exhibition this evening, and there are perhaps a dozen”—she looked at Rowden—“what do you call them? Milling coves?”

  “Yes.” He was watching her with a curious expression.

  “There are a dozen or so milling coves in town. They will all want oranges for the fight tonight, yes?”

  Trogdon tapped his chin with his hand, which he had wrapped with linen strips. “They will, miss.”

  “Is it not reasonable that some enterprising shopkeeper has thought of this and purchased oranges to sell in town?”

  Trogdon’s eyes lit up. “I wish I had thought of that, miss. I’d make a bundle.”

  “Next time, Trogdon,” Rowden said. “Right now I’d like you to go buy several oranges.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll do my best.” He bowed again and departed.

  “I’d like to strangle him with those so-called bandages,” Rowden said. “There’s nothing wrong with his hands. I caught him tying his neckcloth this morning.”

  Modesty sipped her tea. “I think you will get further with your servant if you play along and give him sympathy.” Rowden stared at her as though she had lost her mind. She couldn’t help but smile at his expression. “Hear me out. I have known people like him before, often older widows who complain incessantly and drive everyone away. But they just want attention. They want someone to acknowledge them and hear them. Often their lives have been difficult, and they want sympathy. I imagine a bit of sympathy will go a long way with Trogdon as well.”

  Rowden stared at her. “You want me to coddle my manservant?”

  “It couldn’t hurt. Give him some salve for his hands and ask how they are. I imagine they will heal much faster if he is given attention for them.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with them,” Rowden muttered.

  Modesty put her hand on top of Rowden’s and squeezed. He looked up at her, and she thought he might say something about what had happened in the coach yesterday. She thought he might give some indication as to whether it had meant anything to him. But he pulled his hand back and lifted his fork again.

  Modesty tried not to feel hurt. He’d told her he wanted her against his better judgement. Perhaps he was regretting what they’d done in the coach already. She wondered if she should tell him she wouldn’t demand he marry her. Certainly, her missing father wouldn’t demand it either. But it might be better to leave things alone.

  “I know you must have much to do in order to prepare for this evening,” she said. “I was wondering if you could have the coach take me to...” She wasn’t certain what to call the woman in the letters. “To the woman my father wrote to.”

  “I’ll take you,” Rowden said.

  “You will?” Modesty set her teacup down. “But I thought you would be busy. I don’t want to be a distraction.

  “I can’t believe I ever thought of you as a distraction. I want to take you.” He straightened. “But I’ll wait in the coach. I’m sure you’ll want privacy.”

  Modesty hadn’t thought that far ahead. All of her planning had to do with finding a way to reach Hungerford, not what she would say once she faced her father’s mistress.

  “I saw Tom Cribb at the exhibition last night,” Rowden said.

  “The famous pugilist?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “We used to preach repentance to the crowds who came to see him.”

  “Since Chibale isn’t here yet, he offered to put me through my paces this morning. Come with me, and when we’re through I’ll take you to—I’ll take you where you need to go.”

  Modesty cocked her head. “You want me to come to the exhibition with you?” Why was she asking him? He didn’t want her to come. It was simply more convenient for her to be there so they could leave afterward for her business. “Never mind,” she said. “You already explained that it’s easier to leave from there.”

  “That’s true,” he said, cutting his food. “But I do want you there.” He looked up. “I could use the support. The bookmakers put odds-on the German.”

  Modesty stood in surprise and what felt like outrage. “That’s ridiculous. Of course, you will beat him.”

  Rowden raised his brows at her. “I will?”

  “How can they not see that?”

  He sat back. “Modesty Brown, you never stop surprising me.” She thought he might reach for her then, drag her onto his lap, and kiss her...or something more. But the door opened, and a footman entered. And so Modesty sat back in her seat and Rowden continued to eat, and she wished they could be alone again.

  THE EXHIBITION WAS unlike anything Modesty had
ever seen. In what looked to be a large race course, a huge tent had been erected. Subsequently, smaller tents and booths had sprung up around it with vendors selling everything from food—including, she noted, oranges—to artistic representations of the well-known pugilists like Gentleman Jackson, Mendoza, and Tom Cribb.

  “None of you?” she said as they passed a stall on the way to the main tent.

  Rowden gave her a quelling look. “Thank God.”

  “You don’t want the fame?”

  “I’ve already turned my father’s hair white. I don’t want to make him apoplectic.”

  The day was sunny but still cold. She was dressed warmly, and still she felt a shiver run up her back. Rowden had tucked her arm into his, drawing her close to him, keeping her safe. He led her into the exhibition tent, which had several braziers in the various corners, and she was happy for the warmth. A man in nothing but breeches danced about the arena while another man called directions to him. Modesty knew she shouldn’t be looking at a man who was half undressed but she glanced at him under her lashes. He was thick and broad, but she’d seen Rowden without his shirt, and there was little to compare to him.

  Rowden led her to a seat and sat beside her, his gaze on the arena.

  “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “I know his name.” He glanced at her quickly. “Tom Pease. Fought him once. Beat him.” He nodded at the pugilist. “We call him Pretty Pease because he has a pretty face.”

  Modesty hadn’t looked at the man’s face, but she did so now. It was not as handsome as Rowden’s, but she was probably biased.

  “He’s fond of that pretty face and protects it. Not now that he’s throwing practice jabs and darts, but when he has an opponent, he ducks his head or raises an arm to cover it. Then you can hit him in the ribs or the breadbasket.”

  “I never realized there was so much strategy in pugilism.”

  “You were busy telling all of us we were going to hell.”

  She nodded. “I still don’t like it. It’s dangerous, unnecessary violence. Men are hurt and people pay to see it.”

  “It’s a barbaric world,” Rowden agreed. “But after the war, I’m not really capable of being shocked by violence or inhumanity. Nothing anyone does to anyone else surprises me anymore.”