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.”
She took his hand. “I’ve heard other soldiers say the same thing. I’m sorry you were sent to war. That there is such a thing as war.”
He squeezed her hand. “So am I.”
“You spoke of your father earlier.” His grip tightened on her hand. “Lady Lorraine said everyone thought your father would forgive you when you came home a war hero. He didn’t, I take it.”
“No, he didn’t. Killing some of the enemy and saving a few of our own men pales in comparison to the sin of marrying without his permission. Marrying a Catholic, nonetheless. I don’t suppose Lady Lorraine mentioned my late wife was a Papist.”
He was hurting her hand with his grip, but Modesty didn’t think he realized it. “She did, actually. I’ve always thought the Protestants and the Catholics had more in common than they did differences.”
His grip loosened and he gave her a dubious look. “Don’t let your father hear you say that.”
Modesty looked down.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think before I spoke.”
She smiled at him. “I understand the sentiment. Most people are intolerant.”
He smiled back at her. Now was her chance to ask him. She wouldn’t have another opportunity so perfect, and she’d been wanting to know. Summoning all her courage, she asked, “Is that why you wish to never marry again? Because your first marriage caused the break with your father?”
The shouting from the arena quieted and it seemed silence hung in the air. Rowden released her hand, and though she wore gloves, her hand felt cold. “That’s not why,” he said, standing. “It’s because when she died, she and my unborn child, she took half of my heart to the grave with her. I’d rather keep the other half,” he said. “Though I can’t imagine anyone would want such a paltry thing at any rate.”
He walked away, raising a hand to a man she recognized from the drawings as Tom Cribb. Modesty watched as he stripped off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. She saw what no one else saw, though. He still wore his armor. He hadn’t spoken those words to her to hurt her, but they’d stung nonetheless. She understood him perfectly. He had nothing left to offer her. He’d loved and lost that love and wouldn’t risk his injured heart again.
But as much as Modesty wanted to accept that, to walk away—figuratively, if not literally—it was becoming more difficult every day. Because her heart, which had never thought it would feel love, was falling more and more in love with Rowden Payne. She deserved more than what he could give her, and yet she wanted him all the same.
Watching him step into the ring in nothing but breeches made her face heat. His chest was muscled, his arms powerful, his back broad. He’d put his hands on her in the coach, and she wanted to take those same liberties. She wanted to touch him, kiss him, hold him. And all of his warnings and cautions hadn’t lessened that desire even one ounce.
* * *
THE COACH WAS STUCK. Chibale and the other passengers stood on the side of the road as the coachman and the outrider tried to dig one of the wheels out of the mud. Chibale had his suspicions the coachman had been drinking. His face was quite red—though that might have been from the wind—and he’d also driven straight into a muddy section of road when a drier path was an easy option. Some of the other men moved to help push the coach, and together they freed the wheel from the mire. Unfortunately, the coach still didn’t sit right, and a cursory look underneath revealed a broken axle.
Chibale put his head in his hands. At this rate, he would never make it to Hungerford. He wanted to be there for the mill, but that wasn’t his main concern any longer. His main concern was protecting Rowden and Miss Brown. If Notley was in Hungerford, and Chibale had no doubt he was, he would go after both of them. Miss Brown would be the easier target and by hurting her Notley could—as the saying went—kill two birds with one stone. Hurting her would hurt Rowden. And that was the point. Notley wanted to hurt the people he blamed for his own situation.
Chibale had to make it to Hungerford and warn Rowden. And yet here he was, standing on the side of the road, in the freezing cold, watching the coachman and outrider discuss the situation. If the distance hadn’t still been so great, Chibale would have walked and risked freezing. But he wouldn’t make it before the mill started even if he ran.
He eyed the horses the coachman was unhitching from the coach. He could steal one of them, but he was no horseman, and he would probably be thrown off or pulled off by the coachman before he got very far. Filled with frustration, he began to pace. The movement had the added effect of keeping him warm. At first when he heard the sound of wheels approaching, he didn’t believe it. And then he glimpsed a coach in the distance. Chibale paused and blew out a relieved breath. The coach could travel to the next town and send help back.
And then as the coach drew even closer, Chibale’s smile grew. He knew that coach. It stopped abreast of the broken public coach and Aidan Sterling lowered the passenger window. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
The coachman told him about the broken axle, and Sterling listened, his gaze landing on Chibale then back to the coachman. “We will send help back at the next posting house.”
The coachman thanked him.
“Mr. Okoro,” Sterling said. “Why are you standing on the side of the road? I thought you’d be in Hungerford by now.”
Chibale approached the coach. “I had personal business and couldn’t leave yesterday.”
Sterling pulled out his pocket watch. “Well, if you stand about here all day, you’ll miss the mill.” He opened the door. “Get in.”
Chibale climbed in and settled back on the seat as the coach drove away.
Sterling offered him a brandy, and Chibale took it.
“I heard your coaches were the most luxurious ever built. I see that wasn’t exaggeration.” Chibale admired the fine curtains and upholstery as well as the custom wood cabinets and the painting on the ceiling.
Sterling waved a hand. “Have to do something with all of this blunt. I don’t like traveling, so this is my way of making it more bearable. You should have written to let me know you were departing today.”
“I didn’t know if I was.” Chibale told him about the vandalism at Madame Renauld’s and what he’d discovered about Notley.
“Little weasel,” Sterling said. “I’ve always hated his sort.” He rapped on the roof of the coach. “Change of plans,” he told the coachman. “Take us straight to the exhibition. And hurry.”
* * *
SOMETHING ABOUT HAVING Modesty watching him gave Rowden more energy. Even Cribb commented on how light of foot he was and how sharp his jabs looked. Of course, it didn’t hurt to have Tom Cribb coaching him, but it was Modesty that made the difference. He could spot her out of the corner of his eye. She sat on the edge of her chair, leaning forward, eyes large and focused completely on him. Those eyes. He had a weak spot for them—especially now when he recognized the look in them.
He’d seen it in Aidan’s coach when he’d kissed her and touched her. It was desire. She wanted him.
Plenty of women had looked at him like that. Plenty had done more than look, but he hadn’t ever felt toward any of them like he did toward Modesty. He wanted her too and badly. He channeled that raw frustration into his training and punched harder, moved faster.
When he was finished, he went to the corner, accepted a towel and water from Cribb and wiped his face. It was no surprise Trogdon was nowhere to be seen with the oranges. Cribb leaned his elbows on the ropes. “You fight like that tonight, the German doesn’t stand a chance.”
“I’ll fight like that tonight,” Rowden said, aware of the men standing around, listening. He could see them putting their heads together, probably already placing bets. If he did win, he and Chibale would take home a bulging purse. He hadn’t thought much about retiring before, but if he won tonight, he would leave when he was at his best. Rowden preferred that to spending several more years being pummeled in the arena.
He glanced at Modesty, who was trying not to look at him. But what would he do when he retired? He could always buy out Colonel Draven and work with Mostyn in the studio. He liked coaching. He could do that all day and come home to...Trogdon.
His manservant had just entered the tent carrying a basket. As soon as he saw Rowden, he shifted it from his hands to his arm. Rowden rolled his eyes, wondering how long Trogdon would drag this on. He grabbed his shirt from the ropes and pulled it over his head. “Did you buy the oranges?” he asked.
Trogdon paused midstep. “About that, sir.”
Rowden saw Modesty walking their way and held his temper. “Go on.”
“They were out of oranges.”
Rowden refrained from pointing out that was because Trogdon had wasted time, not going when Rowden had told him. “What did you find?”
Trogdon offered the basket, and Rowden removed the covering since Trogdon was still pretending his hands were injured. Inside were half a dozen lemons and limes. Rowden started to open his mouth to chastise Trogdon but then he glanced at Modesty. She had a worried look on her face and glanced at Trogdon sympathetically.
“Good work,” Rowden said.
Trogdon’s head snapped up. “Sir?”
“You know I don’t like oranges. Much rather have lemons or limes, and they’re all citrus. Good work.”
Trogdon stared at him. “I did well, sir?”
Rowden glanced at Modesty, who was beaming.
“You did.” Rowden took a lemon from the basket, peeled it and took a bite. He winced at the tartness but preferred it to the taste of oranges any day. “Let me take that,” he said. “Why don’t you go back to Battle’s Peak and apply salve to your hands? I told the housekeeper to leave a bottle in your room. Maybe they’ll be feeling better tonight.”
Trogdon stared at him. “Mr. Payne?”
“Yes, Trogdon?”
Trogdon shook his head. “Just checking, sir. I’ll do that, sir.” He left, and Rowden set the basket down and pulled the rest of his clothing on. He’d expected Modesty to turn her back, but she watched him quite hungrily. She’d probably forgotten she wasn’t supposed to ogle men. Rowden shook Cribb’s hand again and ducked under the ropes. One glance at his rumpled shirt and the coat hanging over his arm told him he should go back to his rooms and prepare before going anywhere, but he didn’t want Modesty to wait any longer.
“I know I look a bit of a wreck, but I’ll stay in the coach,” he said.
She froze and he inadvertently tugged her forward before he realized she’d stopped. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to go?”
“I do,” she said. “It’s just now that the moment is here, I’m...scared?”
“It’s your father’s mistress who should be scared,” he said. “Give her that disapproving look you gave me the first night we met. She’ll burst into tears.”
Modesty laughed and started walking again. He liked hearing her laugh, liked knowing he could make her smile, make her happy, make her...well, best not to think of that.
Rowden left her with the basket at the edge of the field and went to find Aidan’s coachman. Most of the coachmen were playing dice or cards, but Aidan’s was standing by his horses, ready. Rowden waved to him and walked back to Modesty. She looked so pretty standing with the basket in both hands, the green of her dress peeking out from under a blue pelisse, and her hair blowing gently in the breeze. But he caught a movement a little behind her and frowned when he spotted Notley. The man was leaning against the edge of a stall, hands in his pockets, looking deliberately innocent. But Rowden didn’t like it. Notley had obviously followed them. The man was making it clear he was watching them.
Modesty turned to see what had caught Rowden’s attention, but he moved beside her and put his arm about her, effectively blocking Notley’s view of her. He pulled her close and when the coach pulled up, he opened the door and lifted her inside. He gave the coachman directions then took his seat opposite her just as the coach started away. He set his coat down and reached for the buttons of his shirt. “I’ll just fasten these and tie my cravat,” he said.
“Don’t bother,” she said. His gaze met hers just as she moved across the coach and slid onto his lap.