Her Royal Payne Read online

  Outside the ring was the lad’s father. He had removed his hat and greatcoat, but he still wore his coat and a cravat expertly tied. He had his hands on the ropes, clutching them tightly as though he could somehow infuse his strength and spirit into his son.

  The other man Rowden knew only as Burr. He wasn’t certain if it was the man’s Christian name or surname, and he didn’t ask. Burr was large, not quite as tall as Ewan but equally as brawny, and Burr was bald. He had bruises all along his face, and Rowden also hadn’t asked if those were from practice sparring or a fight outside the studio. Burr had been a professional fighter, like Rowden, but he was mostly retired now. Rowden liked to think he could best Burr, but the two men hadn’t tested that yet.

  “Forgive my bad manners,” Rowden said to the woman looking about the studio as though it were the first ring of hell. “I should have introduced myself. Rowden Payne.” He gave her a stiff bow, and she blinked at him before finally nodding.

  “My name is Modesty Brown.”

  Rowden almost laughed. It was the perfect name for her, so perfect it was almost a caricature. But he held his laughter and ushered her closer to the ring. “When they pause, I’ll introduce you to Mostyn.”

  She dragged her feet, but finally they stood on the side of the rectangle adjacent to the lad’s father. He watched as the lad stepped forward and back, jabbing with his hands, weaving and bobbing as he moved.

  “It looks like a dance,” Miss Brown said.

  “Yes.” Rowden had considered that comparison before. In the ring, it often felt like a dance, except there would be no champagne or stolen kisses at the end of it. You danced well or you were flat on your back.

  The lad paused, grasped a towel from the corner and wiped at his sweat-streaked face. He looked at Ewan, and Ewan made a circular motion with his hand, indicating the lad should do it again. The lad looked as though he might argue, then he thought better of it and began the exercise again. Rowden glanced at Miss Brown. She seemed intrigued despite herself. Her face was a study of contrast. Her eyes, those exotic eyes, were fixed on the lad with interest. But her mouth, almost too ordinary to share a face with those eyes, was pursed disapprovingly. Rowden thought he could like that mouth—not as much as the eyes, but he could definitely like that mouth if she softened it. It was a very kissable mouth.

  Almost as soon as the thought materialized, Rowden pushed it away. Rowden liked women, and they liked him. But this was not the sort of woman a man dabbled with. He doubted she had ever held a man’s hand, much less been kissed.

  “Why must he repeat the steps over and again?” Miss Brown asked. She spoke in a hushed tone, and he had to lean closer to hear her.

  Rowden glanced back at the lad. “There’s not much time to think when you’re in the ring and another man is throwing punches at you.” He glanced at Miss Brown, and she was looking at him with interest. His belly tightened unexpectedly, and his face warmed. “Your body acts instinctively. Training will overcome instinct only if that training has become second-nature. So the lad learns to weave and dodge and punch rather than flinch or duck or run.”

  “God gave man those instincts to protect us from harm. It seems foolish, if not sinful, to work against them.” She didn’t say working against them was like working against God, but Rowden took her meaning.

  “God also gave us the capability to train and to learn. Maybe it’s His will we defeat our instincts.”

  She didn’t answer, merely looked back at the roped-off area. No doubt she had an answer ready, though Rowden thought his rejoinder had been strong. After all, man’s every instinct was toward what the Miss Browns of the world would call sin. But she either did not like to argue or, more likely, had been told it was unbecoming and unwomanly.

  Too bad. Rowden would have liked to argue with her, to see those hazel eyes flash at him with temper.

  The lad finished, lifted his towel again, and said, “I’m ready for something new.”

  Ewan didn’t speak, merely lifted one eyebrow slightly in challenge.

  “I am!” the lad protested. “I’ve mastered this.”

  “Mostyn will say when you’ve mastered it,” the lad’s father said.

  The lad scoffed and shook his blond hair. “He doesn’t say anything. I’m telling you both, I’m ready for the next lesson.”

  “Uh oh,” Rowden said under his breath.

  “What is it?” Miss Brown asked.

  “He’s rolling up his sleeves.” Rowden watched Ewan finish with one cuff and begin on the other.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, Miss Brown, you are about to receive a demonstration. Stand back a step or two, would you?”

  She didn’t argue, just took two steps back from the ring.

  Ewan moved to the center of the ring and crouched slightly. He rarely spoke, and he rarely needed to. It was clear what he intended. The student gave his father a look, then tossed the towel aside, and assumed a defensive posture. Ewan advanced, and the student retreated.

  “You see,” Rowden said quietly, speaking close to Miss Brown’s ear. “That’s instinct.” Then more loudly, he called, “Use what you just learned, lad!”

  The student glanced at him, nodded, and began to repeat the steps he’d been practicing. He jabbed at Ewan who easily deflected, and then Ewan threw a light punch, and the student was able to evade it.

  “It seems he has learned the lesson,” Miss Brown observed. Her hands were folded together, giving her a very prim appearance in her black garb, but her voice held a note of excitement.

  “Keep watching,” Rowden said, doubtfully. And indeed, in the next moment, Ewan threw another punch and another. The lad, who had looked so confident a moment before, stumbled and faltered. One of Ewan’s punches glanced off his shoulder, and the dash of pain was the beginning of the chaos. The carefully choreographed dance was gone, and the lad scurried and lurched about the ring. He was an easy target, and Rowden counted the student fortunate when Ewan punched him lightly in the breadbasket. It was hard enough that the student doubled over and went down. A punch from Ewan, even a light one, flattened a man.

  Ewan looked at the lad’s father, and the man nodded his head. “We’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. Then Ewan climbed over the ropes and stood to the side, rolling his cuffs back down.

  “Come,” Rowden said, reaching to touch her back and lead her toward Ewan, but he stopped just short of touching her. “I’ll introduce you.”

  She did not move. “I did not come to see him. I came to apologize to you. I have done that.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he said, thinking again of the fifty pounds. “But you can’t come to Mostyn’s and not meet the man himself.” He moved forward and beckoned her, and finally she followed, a mutinous look on her face. The look was brief and then slid into a compliant smile, but Rowden had seen it.

  And he wanted to see it again.

  “Miss Modesty Brown,” he said as he approached Ewan. “Might I present Mr. Ewan Mostyn, the owner of this fine establishment.”

  Ewan looked down at the little figure in black as a hawk might study a field mouse. He nodded then looked at Rowden, a question in his eyes.

  “Miss Brown came to apologize to me. She and her fellow Crusaders interrupted my match with the German last night, and the distraction cost me fifty pounds.”

  Ewan’s gaze shifted to the bruise on Rowden’s temple, and Rowden clenched his fist to stop himself from touching it. He sighed. “Yes, I know what you say about distraction.” Rowden looked at Miss Brown. “Mr. Mostyn has absolved you of blame.”

  Miss Brown wrinkled her brow. “He did not speak.”

  “He doesn’t have to. I know what he’s thinking, and it’s that boxing is all about focus. Lose your focus and lose the fight. I lost my focus.” Rowden looked at Ewan. “But can you blame me? Look at her eyes.”

  Ewan scowled. “I’m not allowed to look at another woman’s eyes.”

  “How is Lady Lorraine?” Ro
wden asked. He leaned closer to Miss Brown. “Mostyn’s wife is...how do I say it the polite way?” He gave Ewan a questioning look and Ewan shrugged. “In the family way?”

  “Oh!” Despite his attempts to use the most unobjectionable term he could find, her cheeks still turned quite pink. Rowden stared and almost forgot what they were discussing. The transformation from the pale, drab creature into a blushing woman was remarkable. She looked almost beautiful. She stared hard at the floor then recovered herself. “What a blessing,” she whispered.

  Ewan blew out a breath as though he did not consider his wife’s current state a blessing. Rowden did not know Ewan’s wife well, but she was the daughter of a duke, and as he was once the son of a duke, their paths had crossed many times. He knew her brothers better than he knew her, but he’d been at a dinner party or two with Lady Lorraine and she was—for lack of a better word—effervescent. He couldn’t imagine she would have turned cross or sour because of pregnancy, but she might be even more excitable than usual. After all, Rowden had once had sisters, and he’d watched the amount of planning and hysterics that went into every aspect of their weddings. He could only imagine readying the nursery was much the same.

  “Mostyn,” Burr called. “Mr. Johnson is here for his lesson.”

  Ewan clapped loudly and started for the ring, and Miss Brown jumped about a foot. Rowden put a hand on her back to steady her. She jumped again, as though his touch had burned her.

  “You’re rather skittish, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I should depart.”

  “No need to run off. You could watch Johnson’s training. He’s a good deal better than that puppy in here earlier. Or you could watch me. When you arrived, I had just begun my own daily regimen.”

  Her gaze strayed to the rectangle on the far side of the studio, and Rowden almost thought she would stay. But then she shook her head vehemently enough that her ugly black bonnet nearly fell back. “I must go home.”

  “I will see you out,” Rowden said. When they reached the entryway, he grasped the door handle and pulled it open. She stepped through, and he looked about for her escort. Seeing no one waiting for her, he frowned. “Did you come alone?”

  “I did. I came to pay a call to Mrs. Kydd, who lives just there.” She pointed to a row of terraced houses down the street. “She is a benefactress for the church. But I have tarried too long. Good day, sir. I do hope you recover quickly.” She raised an ungloved hand, almost as though she might touch him. Rowden wanted to lean forward so that she might brush her fingers against his skin, but she lowered her hand quickly and looked away. “Good day.”

  “If you wait a moment, I will fetch my coat and hat and see you home.” She was relatively safe walking through this part of the city in the middle of the day, but he would feel better seeing her safely home. “Step back inside, out of the cold. I will be just a moment.”

  She stepped back into the entryway, but her step was hesitant and her gaze on the street. Rowden hurried back into the studio, gathered his coat, and all but sprinted to the entryway where his greatcoat and hat hung. He was not surprised to find her gone when he returned.

  He grabbed his hat and ran out of the studio, hoping to catch her. But he looked this way and that and couldn’t spot her anywhere. It didn’t help that all of London was out and about on Pall Mall. Rowden swore and went back inside. It was for the best, he told himself, hanging his greatcoat back on the rack. He did not want responsibility for the woman. And he needed to train. Chibale would organize another match soon, and this time Rowden must win.

  But when he stepped through the ropes a short time later, her hazel eyes still haunted him.

  Three

  Across town, Chibale lingered across the street from Madame Renauld’s. He’d stood there for about a quarter of an hour, trying to work up the nerve to go inside. The feelings he had when he thought of Madame Renauld were not like anything he’d ever experienced before. His chest felt tight and his heart beat fast. He felt slightly lightheaded, and he’d spent part of the last quarter hour taking deep breaths and talking himself into walking inside the modiste’s shop. He was Chibale Okoro, son of Gamba Okoro, who was son of Thimba, the great warrior and lion hunter. If his grandfather could hunt down a lion, Chibale could face a woman with nothing more deadly than a needle and thread.

  A woman passed in front of the shop, stopped, peered at him, and crossed the street. Chibale recognized her belatedly and straightened. “Why are you standing out here?” Bethanie asked. She was his younger sister and the favorite of his siblings. Although she was almost seventeen, she looked much younger. Like their mother, she was short and slim. She wore her hair in a pinned-up twist, and she wore a day dress of light blue which suited her copper complexion. Chibale himself was dark, like his father. As such, he preferred bolder colors, but the pale blue suited Bethanie.

  “I was waiting for you,” Chibale said.

  Bethanie gave him an odd look. “It’s freezing out here. You should have waited inside.”

  Chibale offered his arm, giving himself one more silent lecture to be brave. Though he was not religious, he called upon the spirit of his grandfather anyway. He could use the lion hunter’s bravery. He led Bethanie across the street and opened the door of Madame Renauld’s. A large man stood nearby. He gave the two a look then went back to scowling at the shop in general. Chibale had seen Madame Renauld’s bully boys before. They were employed to keep thieves and ruffians away. Chibale had read in the papers of groups of boys who swarmed shops and, while the dressmakers tried to shoo them out, grabbed handfuls of the fine fabrics on display. But just as the bully boy—er, bully man—moved away, Chibale was startled by a fluttering of feathers. A large, brightly colored bird looked down at him from a perch. The bird cocked its red head and said, “Would you like to see the fine lace? Fine lace!”

  Bethanie smiled and clapped. “Oh, I forgot about the beautiful parrot!”

  Chibale could have sworn the bird preened. “Hello!” it said.

  “What is your name?” Bethanie asked.

  “What is your name?” the bird repeated.

  “Bethanie,” she replied.

  “Fine lace!” the bird said.

  Bethanie looked at Chibale. “Do you think his name is Fine Lace?”

  “Her name is Bleuette,” a pretty woman with light brown skin said, coming forward. “And she will talk to you all day, Miss Okoro.”

  “How extraordinary!” Bethanie said.

  Chibale found talking birds more disconcerting than extraordinary.

  “She is,” Miss Phaedra agreed. “You are right on time. And hello to you, Mr. Okoro.”

  Chibale nodded. “Miss Phaedra, good to see you again. My sister is here to see her dress. Is it ready?”

  “Of course! Madame Renauld is upstairs making the final alterations as we speak. I will take you to the dressing room. And you, Mr. Okoro, we have a private parlor where you may wait.” The bell above the door tinkled as a well-dressed woman entered, and Miss Phaedra turned and signaled to another woman, who came out and greeted the lady. But not before Bleuette asked if the woman would like to see the fine lace.

  “This way, please.”

  Chibale and Bethanie followed Miss Phaedra up an enclosed winding flight of stairs to the first floor of the shop. The ground floor was clean but a bit cluttered with goods to tempt the shop’s customers. But the parlor he was led into was quiet and dim with no sign of clutter. Or talking birds. The room was cool and dark, the heavy draperies pulled almost all the way closed. A couch had been positioned behind a raised platform and was flanked by a grouping of chairs. In the back was a table and a door to a dressing area.

  Chibale’s breath caught in his throat as he finally spotted Madame Renauld. She stood by the table with a small smile on her face. “Mees Okoro,” she said, coming forward. She had the loveliest French accent Chibale had ever heard. When he spoke, the sounds of London punctuated every word. When she spoke, he could almost see the
Seine and the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame. “We have anxiously awaited your arrival. Thees dress ees a masterpiece, if I do say so myself. I know you will be pleased.”

  Bethanie clasped her hands and beamed. Chibale felt almost guilty. He hadn’t thought how much pleasure such a fine dress would bring his sister. He had only been looking for an excuse to see the modiste. He made to follow his sister toward the room behind the table, but Madame Renauld raised a hand.

  “Monsieur will wait in here.” And with that, she followed Bethanie into the dressing room and closed the door.

  “Would you like coffee or tea?” a blond woman asked. Chibale had not even noticed her.

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  “Something stronger then?” She gestured to several crystal decanters Chibale assumed held brandy and sherry and such. He could have used liquid courage right now, but he declined the offer. Then the blond too went through the door, and he was left alone. He did not know how long he paced the room. It was probably ten minutes, no more, but when the door opened again, he turned eagerly, expecting to see his sister. Instead, Madame Renauld emerged.

  She wore a gown in deep burgundy. The waist was high, as was the current style, and though she wore a fichu at her bosom, it was sheer and did little to hide the plumpness of her breasts above the neckline of the dress. The gown had long, tight sleeves and threads of gold running through it, making the wearer seem to shimmer when she walked, especially in the candlelight of the parlor. Without saying a word, Madame Renauld went to one of the decanters, poured amber liquid into it, and crossed to him.

  Her hair was swept into an elegant chignon, and the upsweep highlighted the strong cheekbones in her face and her dark eyes, framed by long, thick eyelashes. She had a generous mouth with lips a bit too red to be natural, and Chibale liked to imagine kissing that mouth until the paint had been rubbed away so he could watch as she reapplied it.