Her Royal Payne Page 6

  She pointed a finger at him, and he almost took a step back. “That is twice now.”

  “Point taken. No blasphemy. Now do me a favor and stop dissembling. Something must be very wrong if you were unconscious on the doorstep of Mostyn’s. What’s happened? Where is your father?” That seemed to unlock the vault because as soon as he mentioned her father, she slumped as though she’d been shot.

  Rowden moved around the bed and sat on the edge. “It’s your father then. What’s happened?” Now he was making progress. Get her back to the father and be done with her.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice sounding perilously close to tears. Rowden clenched his fist and remained where he was. “That day I met you at Mostyn’s was the last time I saw him.”

  Rowden tried to think back to when he’d seen her last. It had been the day after the fight with the German. That was almost a week ago. “Go on,” he said, resisting the urge to ask questions. It was better to let her tell it in her own way.

  “He sent me to visit Mrs. Kydd. She lives on Pall Mall, and she had made a donation to the church. I brought her a basket with our thanks, and on my way back, I stopped into speak with you at Mostyn’s. How I wish I’d never done that! If I had come home sooner. If I had not dawdled...”

  “What did you find when you returned home?” Rowden had to ask because she was tearing up again.

  “The house was empty. Not just empty,” she said. “It was in shambles.”

  “And you’ve had no word from him since?”

  She shook her head, using his handkerchief to catch several rogue tears.

  “No messages have come to the house? He has not stopped in to change his clothing or gather funds?”

  She dropped the handkerchief. “I didn’t think of that. Perhaps he has been at home. I never thought to check.” She tossed back the covers now and Rowden prepared to catch her if she should stumble, but she seemed steady enough on her feet.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, watching her warily.

  “I couldn’t stay in the house alone. I have been with the Plineys. Mr. Pliney is a church elder.”

  She brushed the wrinkles out of her ugly black dress. Rowden watched her, thinking that even in the awful gown, she was still very pretty, especially without that hat. “You haven’t been home then?” he asked, an idea forming. “You haven’t tidied the house?”

  “I put the books away,” she said. “I couldn’t leave those lying about.” She frowned as she noticed her hat on the floor. Slowly her hand went to her bare head and then she gasped. “Turn around!”

  Rowden spun around, expecting nothing short of an assassin behind him. When he saw nothing but the door to his dressing room, he turned back. “What the devil—”

  “Don’t use that phrase!” she said. “Turn back around.”

  He turned back around. “May I ask why I am turned around?”

  “You didn’t tell me I had lost my cap and hat.”

  “I removed your hat so you could lie back comfortably, and your cap fell off of its own accord.”

  “You should have told me!”

  “Forgive me,” he said, staring at the paper on his walls. His gaze traveled to a table with a wash basin and pitcher. A mirror had been hung above the basin, and he could see her frantically pinning her cap back in place. “I was more concerned with the fact that you were cold and unconscious. I wasn’t looking at your hair.” Not much, anyway.

  “Good. I don’t—I don’t like to be without my hat,” she said. She’d paused her movements when she spoke, obviously not certain how to explain her distress.

  When she raised her hands to twist her hair up, the bodice of her shapeless dress stretched over her breasts. He hadn’t really thought she had breasts or any sort of body under that sack. He rather wished he didn’t know she had a body under that sack as now he would be thinking about it.

  He looked back at the walls. “I have an idea,” he said, changing the subject. “Why don’t we return to your house and look for information about your aunt there? Surely your mother—I presume she has passed—had a miniature or letters or something with your aunt’s information on it.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Perhaps in my father’s room. But I never go in there. You may turn back around.”

  He did, disappointed to see her back in the oversized hat that obscured most of her face. “I think he would understand you trespassing in this case. It seems to be an emergency.”

  Her gaze had drifted from his face down to his robe, and he realized the neck had opened to reveal a swath of chest again. “My eyes are here,” he said, teasing. But she turned as red as a cherry and began to stammer apologies. He waved a hand. “It seems to me the place for us to begin to find your aunt and discern what might have happened to your father is your home. I’ll dress and we can be on our way.”

  “You don’t intend to dress with me present?” she said, sounding horrified. Rowden knew he still had the vestiges of a bruise on his temple, but he didn’t think he was that hideous to behold.

  “No. I thought you might have another cup of tea and more toast in the drawing room. Trogdon!”

  For once the manservant was nearby. He entered immediately and gave a small start when he saw Miss Brown. Rowden could hardly blame him. She did look rather frightful in that costume. “Trogdon, will you move the tea tray and toast to the drawing room for Miss Brown then return and help me dress?”

  “Of course, sir.” Trogdon gathered the tray and led Miss Brown away. Rowden moved to his desk and snatched a piece of parchment. He’d need to pen a quick note to Chibale explaining why he would be late to Mostyn’s. His manager had secured him another match the following evening, and Rowden really needed to practice. But it would have to wait. He felt annoyingly protective of Miss Modesty Brown. She had chosen her words carefully, but he understood the implications of her situation well enough.

  She was alone in the world. No mother. Father missing. Relying on the charity of friends. He’d seen what happened to women in that position, and he didn’t like to think of Miss Brown begging on the corner or raising her skirts in a back alley—not that he could imagine that. She’d probably insist on keeping her hat on.

  He smiled briefly at the image then shook it off and dipped his quill in ink.

  MODESTY SAT PRIMLY on the couch in Mr. Payne’s drawing room. As soon as his manservant had returned to the bedchamber and closed the door, she finished the toast she’d been nibbling in two bites and reached for another piece. There were four triangles of toast in all, and she planned to devour each one. She drank tea in between, her gaze darting to the bedchamber door lest she be caught eating like a starving dog. But she was starving, and once the toast was in her belly, she sat back and closed her eyes, feeling the worst of her headache fade slightly.

  She was used to meager provisions, but she’d never gone hungry under her father’s roof. Under the Plineys, she’d been slowly starving. It wasn’t that they’d intended to starve her, there just wasn’t enough for everyone, and Modesty could see the children were hungry, so she often gave half of her small provision to one of them.

  Now she did not even have the Plineys. She would probably have to go to the church and ask them to feed her. She’d fed the hungry many, many times, but she never imagined she would be one of those waiting in the line.

  Modesty opened her eyes and looked about the drawing room. This one room was almost as large as her entire ground floor. Obviously, The Royal Payne wasn’t always being knocked out by opponents. It appeared he did quite well for himself. She ran her hand over the upholstery on the chair where she sat. It was a dark purple, soft and velvety. His bed had been soft and the bedclothes thick. She hadn’t realized beds could be so large. Hers was short and narrow, the mattress lumpy and uneven. Her sheets were always clean, but the material was rough and scratchy. She shouldn’t be concerned about these material things. They were not what mattered. Life on earth was fleeting, but some
nights certainly felt very long...

  Modesty turned her head to look at more of the room and her gaze landed on a bookshelf on the wall behind her. She turned more fully and stared at what appeared to be two full floor-to-ceiling tiers of shelves full of books. With a gasp, she rose and went to the wall of books and peered at the shelf at eye level. She read the titles of the books, mostly poetry volumes, and mostly authors she had never heard of. Though she did recognize the name of Lord Byron. Oh, but she had heard her father preach against him in church. He was said to be quite evil.

  Modesty looked behind her and, seeing no one there, pulled the volume off the shelf. Her heart beat fast and she told herself she should not be looking at the book. But she wanted to see what was so scandalous about Lord Byron. She opened a page and had to steady her hands so the page would stop shaking.

  Hers is the loveliness in death,

  That parts not quite with parting breath;

  But beauty with that fearful bloom,

  That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

  Expression’s last receding ray,

  A gilded Halo hovering round decay,

  The farewell beam of Feeling past away!

  Modesty stared at the verse, then took a breath and read it again. These lovely words couldn’t be evil. They seemed to pierce her heart, right into her soul. They seemed to be speaking directly to her, reminding her of those awful days when her mother had died and been laid out and tended on the table in the dining room.

  The night before the funeral, when her mother would be laid to rest, Modesty had sneaked down from her bedchamber. She’d been all of five, and she’d stayed awake until the house had gone quiet. She knew she would not be allowed to attend the funeral, and this was her last chance to say good-bye to her mother in private.

  She’d carried a candle down with her and set it on the table beside her mother’s body, which had been dressed in a clean black gown and her best pair of shoes. Modesty had taken her mother’s cold hand and looked at her face for the last time. Her thoughts, though not as poetic as Byron’s, had been similar. Her mother had looked so beautiful in death that it was hard for Modesty to believe she really was gone. She half expected her to open her eyes and smile at Modesty. The doctor who had come a few times while her mother had been in bed said her mother’s heart was weak. It did not beat like everyone else’s and it had finally given out. But Modesty didn’t believe the doctor. Her mother’s heart had been fuller and stronger than anyone else she knew.

  And though she had looked pale and haggard in her last days, struggling to breathe or even sit, on the table she had looked so much like Modesty always thought of her—serene, beautiful, and, in the light of the candle, haloed.

  She hadn’t wanted that beauty covered by dirt and put in the ground. She’d wanted her mother to stay with her always. She’d been very naughty the next morning, refusing to come down when the undertaker had come to collect the body and the men had left for the funeral. Modesty preferred to remember her mother as she had been that night.

  Modesty replaced the volume and stepped back. Why would her father call such lovely words sinful? The words had been secular, yes, but they weren’t evil. Of course, her father called much of what he saw in the world evil. Modesty always verbally agreed with him, but sometimes she privately disagreed. Was a prostitute who gave herself to a man in a dark alley wicked or was she doing what she must in order to feed her children? Was a fighter like Mr. Payne immoral? It was difficult to see a man who possessed a book of poetry like the one she’d just glanced at as evil. She might not want to hit another person for money, but hadn’t Jacob spent a night wrestling with God? If God was against pugilism, why had He engaged in it?

  Her father would have had an answer. He would have explained the meaning behind the story—how Jacob was not simply physically wrestling with God but wrestling mentally as well. He was learning that one must give up control and give everything to God. So was it merely a story then? If it was true, how could she fault a man who did what God himself had done?

  The door opened and Mr. Payne stepped out. He looked about until he spotted her and then he raised a brow. “You look like you’ve been doing something you shouldn’t.”

  “I was simply admiring your library.”

  He glanced up at it. “Some of those came with the flat, but I have added to it.” He strode into the room. “You finished the toast, I see.”

  Modesty barely heard him. She couldn’t help but stare at his attire. The few times she’d seen him before he had been dressed informally—too informally, some would say. But this morning his dress could only be described as the height of fashion. He wore fawn-colored knee breeches, with highly polished black boots, a berry-colored waistcoat with dark green vines embroidered on it, a white neckcloth, and a navy coat that fit tightly and emphasized his broad shoulders. His short black hair was artfully styled, brushed rakishly to one side.

  Payne looked down. “What’s wrong?”

  Modesty shook her head and smiled, not trusting herself to speak.

  He offered an arm. “Shall we?”

  Modesty hesitated a moment then took his arm, feeling rather silly. After all, she was not one of those debutantes she occasionally glimpsed traipsing in and out of shops and carriages with their wild curls and their plumed hats. She must look ridiculous on his arm, but she didn’t release it.

  Once on the street, Payne hailed a hackney, and once they were inside, he raised his brows at her expectantly. She gave him the address, and he relayed it to the driver. Then he sat back and peered out the window. Modesty had expected to be peppered with questions, but he was quiet until finally he sat forward. “Is there still a pie cart on the corner near that old fountain? The one that never has any water?”

  She knew the fountain. It had been dry ever since she could remember. “I know the fountain, and I do think there is a man with a cart who often sells his pies there.”

  “We’ll stop and buy one.” He looked at her. “Two.”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” she protested, though her belly gurgled at the idea of pie rich with sauce and potatoes, carrots, and a flaky crust.

  “I can’t very well eat if you do not, and I haven’t had one of those pies in years.”

  “You know Bowling Square?”

  “When I started as a fighter, I used to have matches in the Rose and Thorn.”

  She knew the place. It was a tavern she’d never seen the inside of, though she’d passed it practically every day of her life.

  “The early matches are the newer fighters, those who haven’t made a name for themselves yet, so when I began I would often finish a match before the pie seller—what is his name? Isaac?”

  “I believe it is Elias.” She’d always called him Mr. Elias when she passed. She’d asked for his surname, but he told her it was just Elias. She’d never bought one of his pies. She didn’t ever have any coin to spare, but they always smelled divine.

  “That’s right.” He snapped his fingers. “Elias. I would often buy his last three or four pies before he left for the day. Then I became better known and my matches moved later and to better taverns—not that there’s anything wrong with the Rose and Thorn—and I didn’t see him anymore.” He sat back, a wistful look on his face. “I miss those days sometimes. I certainly miss those pies.”

  Modesty always felt slightly ill in a carriage but listening to Mr. Payne speak seemed to help with the queasiness. “What do you miss about those days?”

  “It was simpler,” he said, looking out the window again. He appeared to be watching the people on the streets, but Modesty imagined he was seeing the inside of a tavern from years ago. “Two of us would decide to fight and we’d strip down, push some tables aside, and men would place bets. I didn’t earn much, but it was real.”

  “And it isn’t real now?”

  He shrugged. “It’s all show. The pamphlets plastered to every wall, the parading around the tavern, the managers hurling insults. When
I lost before, my friends would buy me a drink and we’d laugh it off. Now the newspaper writers publish columns speculating as to whether my career is over.”

  Modesty hadn’t considered that his profession, if one could call it that, would be a source of any stress for the man. She had just assumed the men pummeled each other. She hadn’t thought of it as a business. “I don’t read the papers, but I can’t believe anyone would think your career over. You’re still young and...virile.”

  He looked away from the window. “Virile, am I? I didn’t expect compliments from you.”

  Now she looked out the window. It made her stomach clench to see the buildings pass so quickly, but she wanted to look at anything but his eyes. “It’s not a compliment. It’s just an observation.”

  “What else have you observed about me?”

  She did look into his green eyes now. “You are rather arrogant.” To her surprise, he laughed at the insult.

  “I won’t argue with you there, but I will say I’m knocked on my arse just often enough to keep my arrogance bearable. At least that’s what Chibale says.” He pulled out a pocket watch and winced at the time. “Speaking of Chibale, he’ll have my head if I’m too late to the studio.” He replaced the watch. “Can’t be helped, I suppose.” He knocked on the roof of the hackney. “Just over there,” he called, pointing out of the window.

  The conveyance stopped near the fountain and Mr. Payne climbed out then handed Modesty down. He paid the driver then took her arm and led her to Elias and the pie cart.

  “Well, well, well,” Mr. Elias said, beaming at Payne. “I never thought I’d see ye again.”

  “I’ve been dreaming of your pies,” Payne said. “I had to come buy one. Actually, two. One for the lady.”

  Elias nodded at her. “Good morning, Miss Brown.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Elias.”

  The pie seller didn’t ask why she was with a fighter, but he gave her an inquisitive look. “I heard about yer loss to the German,” Elias said, opening a cupboard and removing two pies. “Ye planning a rematch?”