Five
Rowden didn’t realize they’d arrived until she went to a narrow door and produced a key. He wouldn’t have thought this a house at all. There were no windows facing the street, no knocker, nothing to indicate someone lived here. But she opened the door and stepped inside, and he turned sideways to fit through and follow. He had to stoop to pass under the door and once inside the ceiling wasn’t much higher. Mostyn would have had to duck, but Rowden just kept an eye out for low beams. They’d entered a room with rectangular windows in the back. The sun was creeping higher in the sky, allowing some light to filter through, but Miss Brown lit a lamp and lifted it, shedding more light on the room.
The chamber was cold and had the musty smell of disuse, but it was in perfect order. A table sat on one side of the room and a couch and chairs were closer to the window. “I thought you said the house had been ransacked. This looks neat as a pin.”
“Neat as a—look!” She went to the table and lifted a teacup. “This tea has been sitting here for days. My father was drinking it when I left that morning, and he left it right here. And see this chair? It isn’t pushed in. “
“So he didn’t push his chair in or put the cup away before he departed. That’s unusual, I take it?”
“Yes. And see here. This table is out of place and his study!” She started for a door at the other end of the room. Well, it was about five steps away. She opened the door to reveal what Rowden would have deemed a closet. It held a desk, a chair, and a shelf of eight to ten books. She took two off the shelf. “These were lying open on the desk. Just left open to the pages he had been reading.”
“That’s unusual?”
“Yes!” Her color was high, and he could see he was exasperating her. He didn’t mean to. Obviously, something had happened to make her father leave without explanation, but he was beginning to doubt foul play.
“He never leaves his books open. He says that damages the spine. They are always returned to their proper place.”
“Is anything else amiss?” he asked. “Is any money missing?”
“We had no money to steal. The rooms upstairs appear undisturbed.”
“May I see?”
She ducked her head, and he could have sworn her cheeks went even redder. “Of course.”
She led him up a narrow, steep staircase. He had to turn sideways to fit his shoulders and duck to avoid giving himself a concussion. At the top of the stairs were two doors, both closed. She opened the first, and he knew immediately it was hers. It was tiny, barely big enough for the narrow bed. On the wall hung a dress and hat exactly like the one she wore now. Under that was a trunk which he imagined held her underthings. The room had nothing else. No window. No paintings. Not even a rug. It was the most spartan chamber he had ever seen.
One look at the crisp white bedclothes, and he knew it had been undisturbed. “Did you right anything in this room?” he asked.
“No. It hadn’t been touched.”
“The other door is your father’s?”
She led him out, closing her door behind him then opening her father’s door. It was only a little larger than hers, and it was equally as spartan. There was a bed, a peg with a black coat hanging on it, and a trunk underneath. The one difference was that on Mr. Brown’s trunk was a framed picture. Rowden stepped inside to look at the picture. When Miss Brown didn’t follow with the lamp, he looked over his shoulder at her.
“I don’t usually come in here,” she said. “I’m not allowed.”
“I think we can dispense with the usual rules in this situation. Bring the lamp closer.”
She did, and Rowden lifted the drawing and studied it. It had been done in charcoal and was the likeness of a young woman wearing a dark dress with a white collar. She wore a cap over her hair, which was, of course, black, as the drawing was in charcoal. Her eyes were black too, but Rowden knew those eyes. They had the same shape as Miss Brown’s. “Your mother?” he asked.
She nodded. “Her name was Catherine.”
“Catherine Ryan and then Catherine Brown, yes?” He set the portrait on the floor beside the trunk. “Could your mother read?”
“I think so.” She seemed to consider, her unusual eyes lowering and then meeting his. “Yes. She read me the Bible and taught me my letters.”
“Then your aunt might have corresponded with her.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Is there any place your father might have kept something like that? Letters or other mementos?”
“Perhaps in his desk,” she suggested.
“Perhaps.” He reached for the trunk.
“What are you about, sir?”
He gestured to the trunk. “The portrait is here. Other items of your mother’s might be here too. Perhaps one will give us an idea of the whereabouts of her family and your aunt.” He didn’t say it, but he thought the contents might also give them a clue as to where her father had gone. Perhaps they’d find he owed a large sum of money and had fled to the Continent to avoid paying. Rowden opened the trunk and indicated Miss Brown should move closer with the lamp.
She did so reluctantly, and Rowden looked down at a pile of neatly folded white linen. He carefully lifted the shirts and neckcloths out of the way, revealing a wooden base. “False bottom,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This top shelf lifts out. My trunk is the same.” She reached down and lifted the wooden insert. She brushed against him as she leaned over, and he caught the scent of starch and soap. Underneath there was another fragrance, something light and feminine he had caught in her chamber. He knew that fragrance—not perfume but the scent of soft curves, silky hair, and satin skin. It was the fragrance of a woman.
“I keep my brush and hair pins on this top shelf,” she was saying, oblivious to the fact that he was half-drunk on her scent. “Underneath are my...are clothing items.”
Rowden looked up at her, their faces closer than she realized because she immediately stepped back. For just a moment, he’d been imagining those clothing items—chemises and stockings and stays. The sorts of women he knew generally wore frilly underthings with ribbons and silk. But he imagined Modesty Brown lived up to her name, preferring sensible, plain items made of starched, scratchy fabric. Rowden could imagine her in it, imagine her lifting her arms to unpin her hair, as he had watched her pin it this morning. The curve of her breast would be revealed, sweet and round and tempting in the prim chemise.
“There, you see?” she said, gesturing to the trunk. Rowden forced himself to look back at it. “It’s just a hat.”
“No one keeps a hat in a trunk,” he said, lifting it out. “Hats are hung. Ah. Here we are.” He lifted a packet of letters wrapped with twine. “Correspondence.” He held the packet out to Miss Brown, but she didn’t take the letters, merely looked at them. “Do you want me to read them?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I...it’s just, I...”
Rowden waited, but she didn’t seem inclined to say more. And she didn’t take the letters. He had the urge to check his pocket watch. He knew he would be late for his appointment at Mostyn’s, but the question was how late.
“Why don’t we go downstairs, make tea, and look through these? You don’t have to open them. But we can sit down and see what we have.”
She stood very still and then gave the briefest of nods. Rowden rose and started for the door, letters in hand, but she made a tsking sound and crouched to replace the items in the trunk as they had been. Finally, she followed him out, closing the door behind her. Once downstairs, she went into the kitchen and seemed to stand there as though she had never seen it before.
“Do you need me to light the stove?” he asked. “You can fetch water while the stove heats.”
She nodded and took a bucket off a peg on the wall. Then she paused, went to a shelf, and took down a tea tin. She looked inside and shook her head. “Never mind. We have no tea.” She held the tin out, and he saw there were but one or two leaves stuck to the bottom. “We use the leaves over again,” she said. “My father likes a cup of tea while he works, and so I did not lay them out to dry when I left. He must never have had that second cup of tea.” She gestured to the tea pot on the small table near the stove. If the leaves were still inside, they would be moldy and unusable now.
Rowden wasn’t sure what he should do. She was safe in her own home, but she was all alone. She wasn’t a lady, who required a chaperone or servants, but was she safe here on her own? What if something nefarious had happened to her father? Perhaps the evildoers would come back for her.
He rather doubted that, considering the house had been untouched, but Rowden didn’t feel right simply taking his leave. He looked about the kitchen and noted the bare shelves. She had what looked to be a bit of flour and perhaps some potatoes, but how would she buy more provisions? Surely her church would help her, but hadn’t she said the church elder had turned her out and instructed her to look for her aunt? Others might be willing to help, but Rowden knew what it was to rely on the charity of others. He supposed family was different. Of course, when his father had disowned him, no one in Rowden’s family had dared oppose the duke.
He simply needed to help her find her aunt. Then he would know she was safe and cared for and he could be through with his obligation to her. “Gather what you need,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
She lifted her head and stared at him. “I am not.”
“I can’t leave you here with nothing to eat and no blunt, and I can’t have you sleeping on Mostyn’s doorstep again. We’ll bring the letters, and you can read them at Mostyn’s. He has a comfortable room away from the boxing rings where you can read and have a cup of tea.”
“I don’t think I should frequent a place full of half-dressed men,” she said. “My father wouldn’t like it.”
Rowden wanted to say that her father had left her in this predicament, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut. “I’ll send for Lady Lorraine,” he said. “She is Mostyn’s wife and the daughter of the Duke of Ridlington. You can’t object to her.”
“The daughter of a duke?” She looked down at herself, and for the first time Rowden detected a note of self-consciousness about her ugly attire. “I think she has better things to do than take an interest in me.”
“You think that because you don’t know her. She’s not so high in the instep, and she loves—” He had been about to say interfering but he stopped himself just in time. “She loves helping others.”
“I don’t know.” She smoothed her skirts.
“Well, consider it in the hackney.” He withdrew his pocket watch and winced at the time. “I am late, so we must go now. Fetch what you need. Hurry up,” he said, giving an imperious flick of his hand. He might be a bare-knuckle fighter, but he still knew how to behave like the son of a duke.
She hesitated slightly then went to do as he asked. Less than ten minutes later, she returned with a small, worn valise. He took it from her, lifted the letters and slipped them in his pocket, then led her out of the house. She locked the door and tucked the key in a pocket, and then he bought her another of Elias’s pies while they searched for a hackney. Of course, she protested she was not hungry, but she ate it, and Rowden was pleased to see her face regaining some color and her movements filled with more energy. If he could do nothing else, he could make certain this woman did not starve.
* * *
MR. PAYNE’S MANAGER was pacing outside Mostyn’s when they arrived. Modesty had thought Payne well-dressed this morning, but his manager was a sight to behold. He wore a tall beaver hat cocked to one side, a coat the color of a deep red wine, a cream-colored waistcoat with embroidered designs that were the same color as the coat, and tight fawn-colored breeches. His boots were even glossier than Mr. Payne’s. She thought he might be cold as he was on the street without a greatcoat, but he seemed to have been pacing for some time and perhaps that had kept him warm.
As soon as Mr. Payne helped her out of the hackney, his manager called to him. “You’re late.”
“Couldn’t be helped,” Mr. Payne said, giving her a reassuring smile. He was always doing that—trying to reassure her. She appreciated the attempt, even though she was beginning to realize that life as she’d known it was over.
“It could be helped if you arrived on time.” He stopped pacing and stared at her. “Why is she here? First, she cost you fifty guineas, and now she makes you late? What good is another match with the German if you won’t train?”
Mr. Payne stiffened. “You arranged another fight with the German.”
“Not yet.”
Payne waved him away and started for the door to Mostyn’s. Modesty couldn’t do anything but follow.
“But I know how to make it happen.”
“Go on,” Payne said, opening the door and allowing her to pass inside. She remembered the small entryway from the week before. The door to the studio was open, and Mr. Burr swept a spot near one of the roped off areas.
“He’ll fight you again,” the manager said as he stepped inside.
“When?”
“When you win against Abraham Strong.”
“Strong?” Mr. Payne yelled the word so loudly Modesty jumped.
“Stop bellowing. You’re frightening your companion.”
“I’m quite alright, Mr. Chibale,” she said.
He looked at her directly for the first time. “It’s Mr. Okoro, but everyone calls me Chibale. This lout here hasn’t given me the pleasure of your name.”
“Miss Brown,” the lout in question said.
Mr. Okoro gave her a slight bow. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure, Miss Brown, but as you seem to be a distraction, once again, for my client here, I’m afraid I’m left wondering why you are here.”
“I’ll explain later,” Payne said, moving into the studio. “Why do I have to fight Abraham Strong? I beat him last year.”
Mr. Okoro followed him. “Then beat him again.”
Payne stopped and narrowed his eyes. “The German doesn’t want to waste his time with me, is that it? He wants me to prove I can win before he’ll fight again.”
Burr glanced at them and swept a bit more eagerly.
“His manager didn’t put it that way.”
“No, I’m sure he was far blunter. Tell him no. Wait. Tell him hell no. I’ll fight the German or no one.”
“I am the manager here,” Okoro said. “You fight who I say or get another manager.”
Payne stared at him, and Modesty half expected him to dismiss the manager. Mr. Mostyn had emerged from a room a few feet away, and Modesty wondered if that was the room Mr. Payne thought she might use.
“Arrange the match,” Mr. Payne said.
Mostyn, leaning on the door to the antechamber, nodded his head in approval. “Oh, shut up,” Mr. Payne said, though the other man had said nothing.
“The match is already arranged,” Mr. Okoro said. “Tomorrow night at the Cock and Bull. You’re the last fight of the night.”
“How much?”
“If you win, twenty pounds.” He paused. “And we split it.”
Mr. Payne gaped. “You’re taking fifty percent now? That’s highway robbery.”
“I earned it with all I had to do to arrange this match. Besides,” Okoro said, walking toward the center ring. “I need a new coat. I’m taking Madame Renaud to the Negro Merchant’s Guild winter ball.”
Payne’s face broke into a grin. Modesty had seen him smile before, but this smile was almost boyish in its enthusiasm and exuberance. “She said yes?”
“Of course, she said yes.”
“You weren’t so certain of yourself a few days ago.” He turned and Mr. Okoro helped him out of his coat.
“I knew my charm would win in the end.”
Mr. Payne slapped him on the shoulder and tugged his neckcloth loose. In that moment his gaze landed on Modesty, and she realized he’d all but forgotten her. He stiffened. “Miss Brown. Let me show you to the antechamber.” He looked for her valise, scooped it back up, and started for the room where Mr. Mostyn stood leaning against the door.
Payne’s footsteps faltered. “Mostyn, Miss Brown—you remember her?”
The tall blond man nodded slightly.
“She’s hit a bit of a snag, and I offered her use of the antechamber this morning. She has some reading to do. I hope I haven’t been presumptuous.”
Mr. Mostyn lifted one eyebrow, which Modesty took to indicate Mr. Payne had been presumptuous. But then the blond man stepped aside and held out a hand, indicating the antechamber.
“I may have use of it?” she asked, wanting to be certain before she entered.
“Yes.” He had a deep voice but not an unkind one, and she smiled at him and stepped into the chamber. It was small but quite a contrast to the utilitarian boxing studio. The chamber held a large desk with two chairs behind it. One was more feminine in style and the other large and functional. A low fire burned in the hearth across from the desk and a velvet couch-type furnishing faced the hearth on a rug of deep blues and golds. Several other chairs were pushed against the walls, obviously ready for use should they be necessary, and Modesty was quite at a loss for where she should sit. The couch looked inviting, but if she were to read, perhaps the desk would be better. She’d never had so many choices in seating.
She glanced at the door to see if Mr. Mostyn would give her any guidance and saw Mr. Payne had one arm around Mr. Mostyn’s shoulder. Mostyn was leaning his head down to listen to Payne who was speaking earnestly. Mostyn glanced in her direction, and Modesty realized they must be speaking of her. Then Payne looked at her and gave her a reassuring smile. She tried to smile back, but it was all she could do this morning not to burst into tears yet again.
“You write, and I will sign,” Mr. Mostyn said. It was the most words Modesty had ever heard him utter.
Mr. Payne looked a little taken aback, but he didn’t argue. He entered the chamber, went to the desk, and opened and closed drawers until he found a blank sheet of parchment. Then he dipped a quill in ink, scrawled something quickly, and held the pen out to Mostyn. When Mostyn entered, the room seemed to grow very small and quite warm. The tall man bent, and with his tongue lodged at the corner of his lips, he made his mark. Then he replaced the quill and returned to the studio. Modesty could see why he used this room. The angle of the door allowed her to see almost the entire studio. She saw Mostyn hand the paper to Mr. Burr and then Burr nodded and left.
“Lady Lorraine will be here soon,” Mr. Payne said. “In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. Do you need anything?”
She tried not to look at him. When she looked at him, she couldn’t help but notice he did not wear a coat, and she could see the slimness of his waist where the waistcoat met his breeches. He had broad shoulders and unlike some men she knew, he did not need the coat to emphasize them. They were quite impressive even in shirt sleeves.
“Miss Brown?” he asked.
She quickly looked away. “Where should I sit?” she asked.
“Anywhere you like. I believe Lady Lorraine favors this chair, so you might find it comfortable.” He indicated the feminine chair behind the desk. “Or you could sit on the chaise longue.” He indicated the couch before the fire. “Then you’re sure to be warm. I’ll be in the ring if you need anything.” He started for the door then paused. “Try not to make a sudden appearance when I’m in the middle of sparring,” he said. “My head has just stopped ringing from the last time.”
“I apologize again,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
“I was teasing you. You haven’t been teased much, have you?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t remember ever having been teased until she met him. She had always thought of teasing as an unwanted thing. A boy pulling a girl’s hair or calling each other rude names. But the sort of teasing Mr. Payne employed was not unpleasant at all. It was sort of a friendly banter.
“Right. I’ll be in the studio,” he said. She watched him leave and wondered if she should close the door behind him. While she wondered, he stripped off his neckcloth and his waistcoat and handed them to Mr. Okoro, who laid them on a chair at the side of the ring. Then Mr. Payne sat on the chair and removed his boots and stockings. Modesty knew she should close the door now. At the very least, she should look away. There was nothing sinful about the human body. God had made it, and it was good—as was everything in His creation—but the direction of her thoughts was anything but pure. And Paul had instructed the church at Philippi to think on “whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely.”
Mr. Payne’s calves were certainly lovely. They were round and muscled and covered with a light dusting of dark hair. And then he tugged his shirt over his head, and though she had seen his chest before—just this morning, in fact—her mouth still went slightly dry at the sight of his bare chest. Not only were his shoulders broad, they were muscled. She had seen statues carved out of marble, and she had thought the sculptors quite inventive in the way they portrayed the chiseled form of man.
But now she knew men like those rendered in marble existed. Men who had flat bellies with ridges of muscle, thick biceps, and—Payne rose and gave her a view of his bare back—and Lord, help her, backs that all but rippled with muscles. Mr. Payne bent to duck under the ropes marking the boxing area, and Modesty quickly turned her back. She should not ogle him. She would not like to be ogled were she in his place. She would read the letters.
She withdrew the packet from her coat pocket then decided it was too warm with the fire and removed the coat. There was a coat rack by the door, and she hung the coat there and then, a bit reluctantly, hung her hat there as well. She tucked stray pieces of hair into her cap and hoped not too much of her awful red hair was visible. Of course, standing so near the door she could not help but peek out. Payne was in the arena, going through a complicated set of jumps and lunges and dropping to the floor, all at what appeared to be Mr. Okoro’s direction. She realized he must be warming up his muscles, and since her thoughts were drifting to those muscles again, she looked away and took her packet of letters to the longue.
The twine on the packet had been tied tightly as though to keep the letters undisturbed. Her efforts to loosen the knot only tightened it. Modesty wondered if her difficulty was a sort of sign. Perhaps she was not meant to read the contents of the letters. They were private. But how could she justify not reading them if they might give some indication as to the whereabouts of her father? What if he needed her, and the clues to finding him were in this packet of letters?
She struggled with the knot further, and then gave up, went to the desk and searched for a letter opener. She found a quill knife and used it to sever the twine. The pieces unraveled and pooled on the desk. She swept them away and dumped them in the rubbish bin. Looking up, she noted she had an even better view of the studio from the desk, so she made a point of returning to the longue before she watched Mr. Payne too long.
She was staring at the letter on the top of pile and wondering at the unfamiliar writing on it when she heard the first thud. She couldn’t stop herself from looking up and immediately witnessed another thud. Mr. Payne had hit Mr. Mostyn’s upraised palm. Mostyn had joined Payne in the ring. Mr. Mostyn had removed some of his clothing as well but retained his shirt. He was not moving around as Mr. Payne was. He was holding his hand up and moving it about as Mr. Payne danced around, jabbing high and low at Mr. Okoro’s orders. Mr. Okoro stood outside the ring, seeming to direct the activities inside.
Modesty completely forgot the letters she was supposed to be reading—or perhaps not supposed to be reading—and stared at the action in the ring. The way Mr. Payne moved was mesmerizing. He was so fluid and quick. His muscles bunched and rippled as he moved, and it was almost beautiful. And then Mr. Okoro called out something and both men went to different corners. Mr. Mostyn leaned against the ropes on his side as though quite bored while Mr. Payne wiped his face with the towel Mr. Okoro offered and listened as Okoro gave him a litany of directions. Finally, he nodded and tossed the towel on the ropes. He went back to the center of the ring, and Mostyn joined him.
Their stances were different now, tighter and purposeful. She realized the sparing was about to begin in earnest. The men circled each other, both crouched, Payne’s fists raised, Mostyn’s hanging loosely at his sides. Payne jabbed and Mostyn ducked. This went on for some time, with Mostyn seeming to easily avoid every punch Payne threw at him and not offering any of his own.
And then suddenly that changed.
Suddenly, as if some undetectable cue had been given, Mostyn threw a punch. Mr. Payne seemed ready for it. He ducked, turned, and punched back. Modesty winced at the thud of Mr. Payne’s fist connecting with Mr. Mostyn’s chest. She put her hands on her cheeks, ready to cover her eyes if necessary. She really did not want to see anyone hurt.
The two continued their dance—advancing, retreating, one jabbing and then the other. Mr. Payne hit Mr. Mostyn again, and Modesty covered her eyes. Her fingers were spread, though, and she saw the smile Mr. Mostyn flashed. It was not a smile filled with any sort of humor.
Faster than she could close her fingers, Mostyn feigned moving to the left. Mr. Payne shifted away, and Mostyn, who had only looked as though he would go left, had an opening and punched him hard in the belly.
Mr. Payne doubled over, and Modesty ran toward the ring. She didn’t even realize she was running until she was at the ropes and pausing to figure out the best way to get through them. Finally, she decided there was no ladylike way to get through them and just crawled under one. Vaguely, she heard Mr. Okoro calling her name, but she ignored him, climbed to her feet and stood between Mostyn and Payne who was now looking up at her in confusion.
“Step back!” she ordered Mr. Mostyn who looked down at her impassively. “Don’t you dare hit him again.”
He didn’t move, which was not a promise not to hit Mr. Payne again, but at least wasn’t aggressive. She turned to Payne. “Are you hurt?”
He gestured and moved his lips, but she couldn’t hear and had to step closer. Closer to that bare chest, which was now glistening with perspiration. “I’m fine,” he wheezed. “Just had the breath knocked out of me.”
She turned back to Mostyn. “Why would you hit him so hard? This is supposed to be practice.”
Mostyn looked at her then Payne then finally to Mr. Okoro as though he expected one of them to do something with her. Mr. Okoro entered the ring. “It is practice, Miss Brown.”
“But Mr. Mostyn hit him very hard.” She gestured to Mr. Payne who was now covering his eyes as though humiliated.
“Let me help you out,” Mr. Okoro said. Modesty allowed it and then allowed Mr. Okoro to escort her back to the antechamber. He went to a cabinet, lifted a pitcher, and poured a liquid into a glass. She took it and sniffed.
“It is only water. You seemed overwrought.”
“I am not overwrought.” She was overwrought. She must be if she was climbing into boxing rectangles. “I do not understand why that big brute would hit Mr. Payne.”
Okoro smiled. “Rowden hit Mostyn first, and harder than he should have for a practice fight. Mr. Mostyn was repaying him in kind. It’s a sort of game with them. They have been friends for a long time, and they like to see who can land a punch.”
“Hitting each other is a game?”
“You do not have brothers, do you, Miss Brown?”
“No. What has that to do with anything?”
“Never mind. I assure you Mr. Payne is fine. He is also a big brute. If Mr. Mostyn wanted to flatten him, he could have. He pulled that punch at the last moment.”
She sipped the water and sank onto the longue, considering. “It did not appear that he pulled it, as you say.”
“I assure you he did. Moreover, you needn’t concern yourself with the practice. I am there to make certain Rowden is ready for his fight tomorrow. He won’t be ready if Mr. Mostyn knocks him flat. But you should let me watch out for him. Men do not like to be rescued by women.” He lowered his voice. “Hurts the pride.”
She thought of Mr. Payne with his hand over her eyes. “I didn’t think of that.”
“I daresay this situation is all new. Mostyn’s lady will come soon, and she will explain everything.”
“Fine.” Modesty nodded, rather embarrassed now that she had obviously overreacted. When Mr. Okoro returned to the studio, she rose and closed the door after him. She had come here to read the letters and read the letters she would.
No matter how much they scared her.