Her Royal Payne Page 5

  Or did she?

  Modesty stopped pacing and thought of the day she had visited Mrs. Kydd. Afterward she had stopped into the boxing club. She hadn’t belonged there, not just because she was a woman but because the men who paid to attend the club were gentlemen. Of course, she had been taught to believe all men were equal in the eyes of the Lord, but she was well aware the upper classes did not share that sentiment.

  The Royal Payne was from the upper classes. Perhaps he would help her or would ask some of the gentlemen from the club about her aunt.

  She had not thought of Mr. Payne in days. She’d been too preoccupied with worry about her father, but now that she did think of him, her face felt warm and her heart sped up. She wanted to see him again. Her father would not have liked it. He would not have liked her going to the boxing club. But perhaps she had found Mostyn’s because God knew she would need to go back again later. God always had a plan, and even a man like Mr. Payne could be part of it.

  Modesty really had no other options at this point, so she straightened her hat and started for Pall Mall. It was still too early for Mostyn’s to be open, but she could stand outside and wait. Surely it wouldn’t be long. Ignoring the gnawing in her belly and the throbbing of her head, Modesty began to walk.

  Four

  Rowden woke to the sound of pounding. He pulled the pillow over his head and pressed it tight over his ears. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but the pounding continued.

  After a moment he heard the door of his bed chamber open and the plodding steps of his manservant Trogdon. “Someone is at the door, sir.”

  Rowden scowled under the pillow. “Make whoever it is go away. That’s what I pay you for.”

  “Yes, sir,” Trogdon said. He shuffled away. Rowden closed his eyes and was almost asleep again when Trogdon shook him. “He won’t go away, sir.”

  Rowden threw the pillow. “If I have to—” Rowden squinted. “Burr?” He glared at Trogdon. “What is he doing in my rooms?”

  “I let him in, sir.”

  “Of course, you did,” Rowden muttered.

  “We have a bit of a situation, Payne,” Burr said.

  Rowden snapped his fingers at Trogdon, who gave him a confused tilt of his head. “My dressing gown, Trogdon.”

  Trogdon looked about, clearly unsure where the garment might be. With a sigh, Rowden lifted it from the foot of the bed himself and donned it. “What sort of situation?” he asked as the last vestiges of sleep fled and his head cleared.

  “I found that girl curled up in front of Mostyn’s door. She was shivering and didn’t wake when I shook her,” Burr said, rubbing his bald head.

  “What girl?” Rowden asked. There were any number of orphaned children living on the streets of London, though Rowden couldn’t remember any sleeping in the doorway of Mostyn’s. They tended to seek out places with food for obvious reasons.

  “The girl who came last week. The one in black,” Burr said.

  Rowden stilled. “Miss Brown?”

  “No, she was wearing black.”

  Rowden shook his head. “Where is she now? Still in the doorway?”

  “I brought her here,” Burr said. “I laid her on your couch.”

  Rowden gave Trogdon a sharp look. “Is there a woman lying on my couch, Trogdon?”

  “Yes, sir.

  “And why did you not mention this before?” Rowden asked, pushing past his manservant and Burr to pass through the bed chamber door.

  “You didn’t ask, sir.”

  Rowden would have throttled Trogdon, but he spotted the small black form on his couch. She wasn’t moving.

  Rowden cursed under his breath. He was a man who went to great lengths to avoid any sort of serious responsibility toward others. He’d had enough of that in the war and...before. The last thing he wanted was responsibility for a woman lying unconscious on his couch. And yet, what was he supposed to do? Put her out in the cold? He cursed again.

  Rowden crossed the room and knelt beside the couch. “Open the drapes and light a lamp, Trogdon.”

  She was turned away from him, and Rowden touched her shoulder. It felt ice cold.

  “Bring me a blanket and a pot of tea,” he ordered. “Miss Brown?” Rowden said, patting her shoulder. She did not move. Where was the blanket? Rowden looked up to see Trogdon standing in the middle of the room, unmoving. His feet were bare as were his calves. He wore his nightshirt and a long cap over his golden curls. He scratched at those curls now, clearly confused.

  “Trogdon!” Rowden bellowed and the servant jumped. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to remember, sir. You gave me so many orders, I forgot the first one.”

  Rowden blew out a breath. “Go make a pot of tea, Trogdon. That’s all you need to do. Make tea.”

  “Make tea, sir.” He repeated it under his breath as he moved away.

  “What are you planning to do with her?” Burr asked.

  Rowden bent and scooped her into his arms. “Right now I need to warm her up. Watch out.” He carried her past Burr and into his bedchamber. She weighed practically nothing, though he could feel she wasn’t skin and bones. That at least was a relief. She was undoubtedly cold but hopefully hadn’t been out on the streets and starving. He set her on his bed, pulled the blankets up and around her, then strode to the hearth and stoked the fire. When it began to crackle, he returned to the bed and looked down at her. Her face looked very small under the large brim of the black hat. It couldn’t be comfortable to lie with that hat on, so he reached under her chin and tugged the ribbons loose. Gently lifting her head, he removed the hat and stepped back in surprise.

  She wore a plain white cap under the hat, but it couldn’t disguise the deep auburn hair at the crown of her head. No wonder her skin was so pale. She was a redhead. He wouldn’t have thought it.

  “You’d better not be thinking of taking anything else off,” Burr said, his voice closer. Rowden looked over his shoulder at Burr, who was right behind him now.

  “Are you concerned I plan to take advantage of her?”

  “You put her in your bed and started undressing her.”

  “I put her in my bed to warm her and removed a hat. You will be relieved to know that’s as far as my intentions go.” Rowden moved away from her and checked on the fire again. It was blazing now, far too warm for Rowden’s comfort, but he added more coal nonetheless. “Why did you bring her here?” His voice held a note of accusation, and he didn’t try to disguise it.

  “Don’t know,” Burr said, moving to stand at the head of Rowden’s bed, almost as though he were Miss Brown’s protector. “I didn’t know what else to do with her.”

  Anything else but bring her here.

  “Here we are,” Trogdon said, entering with a blanket over his arm. He’d dressed and combed his hair. His cravat was perfectly tied, his golden curls expertly tousled. He offered the blanket and when Rowden didn’t take it, he nodded at it. “You said to fetch a blanket, sir.”

  “Trogdon, do you see Miss Brown?” Rowden said, his voice low and deceptively calm.

  Trogdon looked at the bed. “Is that woman Miss Brown?”

  Rowden nodded.

  “Then yes, sir, I see her.”

  “Do you notice anything about her, Trogdon? For example, do you notice what is on top of her?”

  “Blankets, sir?”

  “Right. Which is why I asked you to fetch tea. I have blankets. I do not have tea.”

  “I distinctly remember you asking for a blanket.”

  Rowden made a low sound in the back of his throat, and Trogdon backed away. “If you want tea, I will make it now.”

  “Thank you, Trogdon,” Rowden said between clenched teeth. With exaggerated care, Trogdon set the blanket on a chair in the corner and turned to leave the bed chamber. Rowden could have sworn he heard him muttering about how some people were never happy.

  “Seems he has apartments to let,” Burr said, tapping his head.

  “Yes,
he’s not the brightest lamp in the larder. I would let him go, but who else would hire him?”

  And that was precisely the problem with responsibility. Rowden did not need anyone else relying on him.

  Rowden went to the window and parted the curtains slightly to look out. It wasn’t that he cared so much for the view. His rooms overlooked St. James’s Street, and there was not much to see this morning. It was more that he needed something to look at rather than the woman lying in his bed. The weather outside was cold and gray. The sun had risen, but the light was weak, and the clouds promised rain that day. It wasn’t cold enough for snow—it rarely was in London—but that didn’t mean the temperatures weren’t frigid, especially for a woman in a thin coat and no gloves. Rowden looked back at the small form under his bedclothes. How long had she been out in the cold? Hours? Days? Surely not days. But judging by how cold and pale she’d been, however long she’d been out in the elements was too long.

  Trogdon appeared in the door again this time with a tea tray. “Shall I set the tea on the dresser, sir?” he asked, his voice tight. His gaze did not meet Rowden’s, and it was obvious the man’s feelings had been hurt. Rowden would make amends later.

  “Yes, the dresser.”

  Trogdon set the tray on the dresser and poured a cup, adding lemon as Rowden liked it.

  “It’s not for me, Trogdon,” Rowden said. “See if she will take some.”

  Trogdon straightened. “You want me to play nursemaid?”

  Rowden frowned. “You’ve tended me when I was sick.”

  “Yes, but you are a man.” Trogdon pointed accusingly at the bed. “That is a woman.”

  “Women drink tea the same as men.”

  “But I am a manservant, sir. I serve men, not women.”

  Rowden opened his mouth to explain that was not what manservant meant but decided it was not worth the effort. “You may go, Trogdon.”

  Trogdon did not waste a moment, moving to exit more quickly than Rowden had ever seen him. Burr made to follow. “Where are you going?”

  Burr stopped, looking like a small child caught in mischief. “Mostyn will wonder where I am,” Burr said.

  “Mostyn is still in bed with his wife.”

  Burr shifted but started toward the door again. “He has a lesson in two hours. I’d better ready the studio.”

  “Ready the studio? How long does it take to open a door?” Rowden followed Burr into the drawing room, but Burr was already closing the outer door behind him.

  Rowden looked about. He had a woman who came a few days a week and cooked and cleaned, but he had no idea if she came today or what time. Miss Brown needed attention now, and he supposed there was no one else to do it. He returned to his bedchamber and noted she hadn’t moved. Lifting the tea tray, he brought it to his bed and placed it on the other side of her. He used a spoon to fish the lemon out of the cup of tea Trogdon had prepared and then held the cup in one hand as he awkwardly slid an arm behind her head with the other.

  The tea had cooled enough that he could have brought it to her lips. Instead, he wafted it beneath her nose as though it were smelling salts. He had no idea why he was doing this. It seemed rather stupid until she fluttered her eyelashes. Rowden’s heart beat faster. Fearing she might wake with a start, he set the tea back on the tray. “Miss Brown,” he said quietly. “Miss Brown, wake up.”

  Her eyes fluttered again, opened, then closed. Then opened wide and stared at him. The look of abject terror on her features made Rowden want to pull her close and assure her she was in no danger, but he rather thought that would not be helpful—for either of them. “You’re safe,” he said. “I won’t harm you.”

  Her gaze stayed on his face for a long moment then slid down to his neck and lower. Rowden looked down and realized he was still wearing his dressing gown. The open neck revealed a V of the bare skin of his chest. He released her and stood, pulling the dressing gown closed. She looked around and then, seeming to realize where she was, tried to jump up. She stumbled and almost fell, and Rowden forgot his clothing and pushed her back into bed.

  “Not yet, Miss Brown. You need to eat something first, I think.”

  “Why am I here? What do you intend?” she demanded. Because of course her puritanical mind jumped to the conclusion that he had put her in his bed to take advantage of her.

  “You are here because you were found unconscious on the doorstep of Mostyn’s, and Burr didn’t know what else to do with you. I had intended to make you drink tea and give you something to eat so you could regain your strength. But now that I realize you are in my bed, I will have to ravish you.”

  Her eyes widened and she pulled the covers to her chin.

  Rowden blew out a breath. “I was not serious.” As though he would have any woman who did not want him, especially some little church mouse dressed head to toe in the dourest black.

  Although, she did not wear all black now. In her struggles the moment before, the white cap over her hair had come loose, as had some of her hair. The auburn waves fell around her face and shoulders, and Rowden couldn’t deny that she looked rather tempting with her hair down. He’d been careful not to look into her eyes, but he knew the combination of that hair and those eyes would turn any man’s head. He turned his back to her, walked to the door, and called for Trogdon to bring toast.

  Then he leaned on the door frame, crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded at the tea tray. “Drink some tea. It will warm you.”

  “How do I know you haven’t put spirits in it?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Why would I put spirits in tea first thing in the morning? The only thing that’s been in the tea is lemon. It’s on the saucer there. You can add it, if you like, or there’s cream.”

  She glanced at the tray but made no move to lift the teacup.

  “Go ahead and sniff it if you don’t believe me. You’d be able to smell the spirits.”

  She seemed to accept that idea and lifted the cup gingerly, sniffing it. Then she took a small sip and swallowed.

  “You see? No spirits.”

  She closed her eyes, and Rowden moved forward. “What’s wrong? You’re not feeling lightheaded again, are you?”

  “No.” She took another sip. “I just haven’t had tea this lovely since...”

  To Rowden’s horror, her eyes seemed to well with tears. Oh, hell. He was not at all good with tears. “Don’t start crying.”

  She sniffed and, panicked, Rowden went to the door again. “Trogdon! Toast! Now!”

  “I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes.

  Rowden gave her a suspicious look, but she seemed to be telling the truth. She sipped more tea, and he thought perhaps some color had returned to her cheeks. It seemed an eternity before Trogdon finally appeared with the toast. Rather than enter, he handed the tray to Rowden and fled again. Rowden brought the tray to the bed, set it beside the tea then stood at the foot, one arm on a bed post.

  “Do you want to tell me why you were sleeping on Mostyn’s doorstep?”

  She took a piece of toast and nibbled at it. “I didn’t know where to go,” she said, glancing at him quickly from under her eyelashes.

  “Why not sleep at home?”

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was hungry and cold, and I just closed my eyes for a moment.”

  “Which still does not explain why you were not at home.”

  “Something has happened,” she said.

  “I gathered that.”

  She didn’t speak, just nibbled her toast.

  “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but am I correct in assuming the reason you were at Mostyn’s was to see me?”

  “Yes. I was hoping to see you,” she admitted. She set down the toast and straightened her shoulders. “I thought you might be able to help me. You don’t have any reason to, of course. I don’t expect—”

  “I’ll help you,” he said. Anything to get her out of his bed and his flat. He had found, in the past, that short-term responsibility
usually meant avoiding it in the long-term.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I am looking for my aunt, Miss Augusta Ryan.”

  Rowden waited for her to say more, but that was apparently it. “How would I know your aunt?”

  “She might be married now. Her surname might not be Ryan. I thought you might know her because I think she is—or at least, she seemed to me to be—of the upper classes.”

  “And you think on the nights I’m not having my head bashed in at a tavern, I’m attending balls at Almack’s?”

  “No, but the men who frequent the boxing studio are gentlemen. I thought you might have heard of her or know something.” She shook her head. “I see now that I was not thinking clearly. I just have no idea where to begin if I’m to find her.”

  “You could hire someone.”

  She looked down, and Rowden knew he’d said the wrong thing. Of course, she didn’t have any blunt to hire someone.

  “Never mind. I can ask around. I’m sure someone knows of her, and I do have connections.”

  She looked up at him, and tears were in her eyes again. “Thank you.”

  “No crying.” He pointed at her. “No tears.”

  She nodded and wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Rowden went to a drawer, pulled out a clean handkerchief, and handed it to her. She took it with a watery smile and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m feeling a bit better now,” she said.

  “Good. Eat another piece of toast, and I’ll take you home.”

  Her expression froze. Rowden swore in his mind. “What’s that look about? Why can’t you go home?”

  She picked up the toast and nibbled again. “I can go home.”

  “Why the hesitation? And good God, just eat the toast already. Don’t nibble at it like a bird.”

  Her eyes flashed at him, and he forgot he was not supposed to be looking at them. Was this how they looked when she was angry? Almost green and brilliant with light. Her cheeks were red as well. What the hell had he done to anger her? Tell her to eat?

  “Sir, I must ask you not to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  He squinted at her. “Take the...when I said good God?”