Nine
The Cock and Bull was teeming with people—the Fancy, they were called—though the name did not fit this motley group. Modesty did not know if she had ever seen so many people. The sound and smell of them, after the quiet and clean scents of a night and day at Lady Lorraine’s house, was almost shocking. She was thankful Mr. Mostyn had accompanied them—not that they’d had any choice about it. He entered the tavern and people made a path for him. A few people seemed to know him and moved forward as though to greet him, but with one look, those men thought better of it and moved away.
Modesty followed Mr. Mostyn and Lady Lorraine to a table near where the boxing area had been set up. It was a square of about eight feet that had been roped off with stakes in each corner. Two men were already inside the ropes, swinging at each other, but Modesty did not recognize them. The table Mostyn had chosen was occupied, but when Mostyn stood over them, the men who’d been sitting there lifted their drinks and moved.
Lady Lorraine removed her cloak and laid it over her chair and motioned for Modesty to do the same with the cloak she had borrowed. She leaned close to be heard. “If you drape the cloak over the chair before you sit on it, your dress will stay clean.”
Modesty nodded. She reached for the ties at the cloak’s throat and then had to take a deep breath. When she’d put on the dark blue dress in her chamber at Lady Lorraine’s home, she had felt rather daring in it. Lady Lorraine had assured her the bodice was modest, but Modesty had never worn anything where her neck showed, not to mention her collarbone. Instead of being shapeless, the dress had a “waist” just beneath her breasts and the fabric there was fitted to show her figure. The hem had to be altered slightly so as not to drag on the ground and the sleeves were a bit long as well, but they’d been easily tucked and pinned under. Her arms were covered as were her legs. But she still felt exposed when she opened the cloak and laid it on the chair.
Modesty started to put a hand over the pale flesh at her neck then resisted and sat, placing her hands in her lap.
“When does Lord Rowden box?” Lady Lorraine asked.
“Last,” Mostyn said.
“Of course.” One of the men in the ring hit the other quite hard in the face and both Lady Lorraine and Modesty shrank back. Lady Lorraine turned to Modesty. “You look very pretty. I can’t believe you were hiding that glorious hair under a cap. You should have allowed Nell to have her way with you.”
Modesty put a hand to her hair, which had been arranged in a sophisticated upsweep. Lady Lorraine’s maid had wanted to leave some of it down and falling over her shoulder in curls, but Modesty had refused.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Lady Lorraine asked, looking about them. “I confess I do not like boxing much, but look at all of these people. Some of them appear quite dangerous.”
“I have no doubt,” Modesty said, having been in her share of taverns over the years. “We are fortunate to have Mr. Mostyn with us. May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why do you refer to Mr. Payne as Lord Rowden? You said earlier his father was an idiot.”
“I’m not sure I should tell you if he hasn’t divulged it, but I suppose it’s no secret,” Lady Lorraine said. “He is a younger son of the Duke of Comerford. I know him as Lord Rowden because my father is a duke, and we were often thrown together in Society when we were younger. But Lord Rowden’s father disowned him when he married.”
Modesty’s heart clenched tightly, and it seemed the room began to swim. “Why?” she asked, careful not to betray her feelings.
“The woman he married was Catholic. I believe his father refused to consent to the match, and he married her anyway.” Mr. Mostyn put a glass of water in front of her and she smiled at him and sipped it. A server put a glass in front of Modesty as well.
“But that was a long time ago. It was before he went into the army and became a war hero. We all thought his father would forgive him after that, but apparently even his son distinguishing himself in battle was not enough for Comerford.”
The crowd roared as one of the men in the arena went down and did not rise. One of the men in his corner rushed to the side of the ropes and yelled at him to get up, but he could only climb to his knees and then went back down again. The umpire then took the standing boxer’s hand, raised it, and declared him the victor.
The noise level in the tavern became too loud for speaking, and Modesty sat back and tried to digest what she’d just been told. Not only was Mr. Payne the son of a duke, he was a war hero. But more important than either of those matters, Mr. Payne was married. Modesty hadn’t quite admitted to herself that she was attracted to Mr. Payne. It wasn’t the sole reason she had come to the match this evening, but it had certainly been a factor. She wanted to see him again. She wanted to see the look he’d give her—that one that made her cheeks feel warm and her belly flutter.
But he was married. He shouldn’t be looking at her like that, and she should not want him to. She would have asked Lady Lorraine to take her home right then, but a glance at the lady showed Modesty she was smiling at her husband and quite obviously enjoying herself. Modesty wouldn’t cut her enjoyment short. The lady had spent hours writing letters to inquire after Augusta Ryan, and then she’d spent even more time helping Modesty dress for this evening.
Two more men were entering the boxing area, both of them dark-skinned and shirtless. The tavern owner introduced one as John “The Mighty” Jones and the other as “The Black Plague.” Modesty frowned. What sort of sobriquet was that?
“What the devil are you doing here?” a voice asked from behind her. Modesty looked up and into the green eyes of Rowden Payne. His gaze shifted from her to Mr. Mostyn. “You brought her?”
Lady Lorraine rose and extended her hand. “Oh, how lovely to see you, Lord Rowden. Yes, the weather is quite cold this evening. We are fine, thank you for asking.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he told her.
Mostyn crossed his arms over his large chest and nodded in agreement.
Lady Lorraine scowled. “And why is it, exactly, you think you have the right to tell me where I can and cannot go?”
“Fine,” Mr. Payne said and turned his gaze back on Modesty. “Why are you here? And what are you doing dressed like that?”
Modesty looked down at her dress and wished she could pull the cloak over herself again. It had been a mistake to come. She hadn’t known about the wife, and now it was obvious that Mr. Payne did not want her here.
“She looks very pretty,” Lady Lorraine said.
“That’s the problem,” Mr. Payne said. “Half the men in this place are staring at her.”
Modesty looked around, but no one seemed to be looking at her. Most everyone was staring at the fight, although a few people close by were watching the scene at their table.
“If you are determined to be disagreeable, then go back to your corner,” Lady Lorraine ordered.
“I can’t,” Mr. Payne said. “Chibale wants a word with him.” He cocked his head toward the one they called the Black Plague. “I’m supposed to make sure he doesn’t leave this way.”
“What’s the problem?” Mr. Mostyn asked.
“He has a rough hand with women,” Mr. Payne answered, and his gaze flicked toward a corner of the room. Modesty recognized Mr. Okoro there, sitting in a chair and speaking to a beautifully dressed woman, who was crying. The woman looked up briefly, and Modesty gasped when she saw the woman’s eye was swollen and red. She had obviously been hit.
Modesty felt the heat of indignation rise in her. The blood seemed to rush to her face.
“That man hit her?” she asked, indicating the large boxer in the ring.
“Yes,” Mr. Payne answered, his gaze flicking to her then away again. He obviously did not like what he saw, but then she should be glad of that as he was married and should not be looking at her.
“But he is so much bigger than she,” Modesty said.
Mr. Payne nodded, still not looking at her. “I believe the plan is to make him aware of that issue, among others.” He grabbed a nearby chair and sat beside her. “I won’t trouble you with my presence long, Miss Brown. I just want to make sure he doesn’t slip away before Chibale and I can have a...word.” He turned his attention to the boxing match for a few moments, and that gave Modesty a chance to admire his profile. He had a strong chin and forehead. His nose was not quite perfectly straight. She assumed it had been broken at some point, but it was still a better nose than many men she had known. He glanced at her, and she quickly pretended to be immersed in the fight.
“Did you read the letters?” he asked, when the men had gone to their corners for thirty seconds.
“I did,” she said. “They were...not what I expected.”
“I see.”
She could feel his gaze on her face, obviously trying to read her emotions. “The letters were not from my aunt.” They had not been from her mother either, but she did not want to mention that.
“Lady Lorraine is making inquiries into your aunt’s whereabouts?” Mr. Payne asked.
“Yes. She’s been very kind.”
“Would’ve been kinder not to bring you here,” he muttered. The mill began again, and the noise level rose with the men. Mr. Payne had to lean closer. Modesty could not help but catch the scent of him—something dark and musky mixed with the smells of beer and ale from the tavern. “Did the letters give any indication of where your father might be?” he asked.
She had thought of that. Modesty had considered that perhaps her father had gone to be with his other family. But certainly, he would have written to assure her he was well. He would not abandon her. Still, what if this other woman knew something she did not? It might be helpful to seek her out.
Modesty would have had to read the letters again and pick out places they’d referenced. She hadn’t had the stomach to do so yet. Truthfully, she wasn’t certain she wanted to see her father again. It might be better to find her aunt first. Her aunt had loved her mother and might take Modesty in.
“They might,” she answered finally. And then because she was thinking of her mother—thinking of scorned women—she made a show of looking about. “Is your wife here tonight, Mr. Payne?” she asked.
He stilled. To Modesty, it felt as though the entire tavern stilled, though of course, no one but he could even hear her. Quite obviously, he hadn’t liked what he heard. It was as though a door opened and the cold night air rushed inside.
“My wife?” he asked. “Did she tell you about her?” He nodded toward Lady Lorraine who was watching the fight with her eyes covered but her fingers spread.
“Yes. I asked why she called you Lord Rowden, and she told me the story.”
“It appears she forgot a key part.”
“What’s that?”
“My wife is dead.” He rose and walked away.
* * *
THE FIGHT IN THE ARENA went on, but for once, Rowden didn’t see it. He didn’t know who was winning, and he didn’t care. He hadn’t cared since he saw Ewan Mostyn walk in with his wife on one arm and a beautiful woman trailing behind. But she wasn’t just a beautiful woman. It was Modesty Brown.
Rowden had caught glimpses of her beauty before. When he’d been mesmerized by her eyes for long enough to allow the German to plant a facer, he’d gotten a peek. Yesterday morning in his bedchamber when pieces of her hair had come loose, he’d caught another glimpse. But looking at her tonight, her beauty hit him like a punch in the chest. He hadn’t seemed able to breathe.
And perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed the rest of the tavern had held its breath as the beauty with the ravishing red hair made her way through the swath of people Ewan willed out of his way.
And then they’d reached the table and Miss Brown had removed the cloak she wore, revealing a half moon of skin below her throat, and Rowden had made his way to the table to ward off every other man who had the same idea. It wasn’t even that the amount of skin she showed was scandalous. It was far too modest for a venue like this one, where more of the ladies’ chests spilled out of their bodices than was contained inside. It was just that combination of pale skin and dark blue fabric pulled taut over perfectly shaped breasts. Sometimes what was only hinted at was far more tantalizing than what was on display.
But Rowden had quickly remembered himself. The mention of Mary had dampened his lust. Mary, who had been dead for ten years now, and who he sometimes believed was only a figment of his imagination. He was a different person than the impetuous boy who’d married her. He was a man now, and a man who knew Miss Brown was no lightskirt to be trifled with. And Rowden didn’t want any more from a woman now. Perhaps ever.
Chibale rose and stopped Rowden before he could sit back at the table where they’d been watching the fighting. Madame Renauld’s assistant sat there now, her head down to hide the bruised skin near her eye. It would be puffy and swollen in the morning. “I finally got her to admit it,” Chibale said, jerking his head toward the table. As soon as the Black Plague had entered the tavern, Chibale had spotted Phaedra and pointed her out to Rowden. She had cowered behind the big prizefighter, keeping her head down and herself out of the way. She reminded Rowden of street dogs he had seen who slinked along back alleys, hoping not to call attention to themselves lest they be kicked.
“Admit what? We all know he did that to her.” He cut his eyes to the square, where the men were resting for thirty seconds, and the Black Plague cast a dark look at Chibale and then the assistant at their table.
“Do you know why?”
“He’s an arsehole?”
“That and because she tried to call it off. She told him she didn’t want to see him any longer and locked herself in her flat. He broke the door down, beat her, raped her—she says took liberties—and made her dress and come tonight.”
Rowden clenched his fists. He knew a thousand other women in London lived that same story this evening, but it still angered him. It always angered him when the strong picked on the weak. His first fistfight had been in the yard at Eton. His opponent had been a bully who kicked a younger boy, causing the lad to trip and bloody his nose. So Rowden, who had been big for his age, gave the bully a bloody nose.
But it would take more than a bloody nose to stop the Black Plague. “Want me to kill him?” Rowden asked, angry enough that he was only half-joking.
Chibale frowned. “I want you to start preparing for your mill.” He tapped Rowden’s forehead. “Up here. I’ll take care of him.”
“On your own? His friends will have his back, and even if you do manage to give them all what for, he’ll only break her door down again tomorrow.”
“I know someone who will take her in and keep her out of view for a few days. I thought Trogdon could take her out of here while I take the arsehole out back for a word.”
Rowden shook his head. Trogdon was currently sitting beside the Black Plague’s woman, inspecting a glass of amber liquid with a frown. Rowden had brought the manservant to act as his knee man. Chibale would act as a water man and give him advice during the match.
“That’s too much responsibility for Trogdon. He’ll muck it up, and this situation is delicate.”
“Then what do you suggest? I want her out of here before I take him on.”
Rowden looked about the room, his gaze going inadvertently to Miss Brown before he forced it to move away. “Why don’t I take her out the back? I’ll put her in a hackney to—”
“Madame Renauld’s shop.”
“Very well. I’ll walk right by the ropes, so he sees me with her. When his fight is over, he’ll head out that way to look for us. That’s when you have your...discussion. I’ll wait for you in case you need my help.”
Chibale nodded. “I won’t need your help, but it’s a sound plan. There’s still another mill before yours. It should be enough time for you to get back and warmed up.”
“A good skirmish always warms me up,” Rowden said with a smile, and he felt that old burst of energy flow through him. Lately a mill hadn’t given him that excitement, but a fight to protect a woman—that was always a pleasure.
He and Chibale returned to the table and Trogdon set his glass down. “Is it time, sir?” he asked.
“No. Stay where you are and hold the table.”
Trogdon gripped the edges of the table with both hands. Rowden sighed. “I mean, don’t allow anyone else to sit here.” Rowden looked at the woman with one hand covering her swelling eye. “Miss—”
“You can call me Phaedra,” she said peering at him with her good eye. “And I know who you are—The Royal Payne.” She gave a small smile, and Rowden winced when he saw the cut on her lip split.
“You can call me Rowden,” he said. “Our mutual friend”—he gestured to Chibale—“indicated you might be more comfortable elsewhere. Would you allow me to put you in a hackney and pay the fare?”
“He’ll only find me if I go home.” Her gaze strayed to the fight in the roped area, and there was fear in the way her eyes widened.
Chibale leaned over and whispered something to her. She looked at Rowden again then nodded her head. “Are you ready now, sir?” she asked.
“More than ready, Miss Phaedra.” He went to her, pulled out her chair, and offered his arm. She took it and turned toward the nearest exit. Rowden steered her toward the roped off area instead. She gave him a terrified look, and he gave her a steady one back. “This way,” he said.
She let out a shaky breath and allowed herself to be led in front of the ropes. She kept her gaze on the floor, but Rowden turned his head to watch the mill. The Black Plague was staring at the two of them, hate in his eyes. A moment later, he issued a dart to his opponent, who swayed but stayed on his feet. And then Rowden was through the crowds and in the kitchens. The cook gave him a look, opened his mouth to scold, and then thought better of it. Rowden tossed the man a coin and led Miss Phaedra out the back door.
The night air bit into his overly warm skin like a tiger. Miss Phaedra held an outer garment, and she dropped Rowden’s arm and tried to pull it on. Clearly, she was bruised all over as she struggled. He helped her don the garment, and when tears streamed down her cheeks, he handed her a handkerchief. “None of that now,” he said, patting her shoulder awkwardly. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel very strong today.”
“You’ve made it this far,” he said. “Now we put you in a hackney and send you to this Madame Renauld. Chibale will come check on you later.”
The back door burst open, and Ewan came spilling from it, his wife and Miss Brown right behind him. “Idiot,” Ewan said. Miss Phaedra gasped, but Rowden put a hand on her arm.
“They’re friends,” he said. “Usually.”
“Do you want to die?” Ewan asked.
Rowden made a show of looking at his shoes. “If the devil wants to dance, I’m more than ready.”
Ewan gestured back toward the Cock and Bull. “He’s in a rage, beating that man bloody.”
Miss Phaedra gasped and tensed. Rowden shrugged. “Then the plan is working. Ewan, stop a hackney for me, will you? This lady has another appointment tonight.”
Ewan looked at Phaedra, assessed the situation, then stalked toward the front of the tavern. Lady Lorraine seemed winded, her wide gaze going from her husband’s retreating form to Miss Phaedra and back again. But Miss Brown’s brows were pulled together in a look of concern.
“Are you well enough to travel on your own?” she asked. “Should I go with her?”
Rowden almost rejected the idea, but Miss Phaedra was in more pain than she allowed them to see. He had gone from touching her arm to comfort her to holding her up. “Do you mind, Miss Brown?” he asked. “I will come fetch you later and return you to Lady Lorraine’s.”
“I don’t mind at all. Where are we going?”
“My employer’s shop,” Miss Phaedra said. “Madame Renauld.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” Lady Lorraine said, coming forward. “Who did this to you? The fighter?”
“Let’s talk about it later,” Rowden said as Ewan came back and gestured to them to come with him. “He’ll be out here as soon as his fight is over, and I’d rather we weren’t all standing around.”
“Lorrie!” Ewan called, and she lifted her skirts and followed him. He’d stopped two hackneys, and he opened the door of one and gestured to Rowden. Then he led his wife to the other, had a brief discussion with her, and put her in the second. He was sending his wife away, and Rowden was glad of it. If things did not go as Chibale hoped, there could be a riot. Who knew what might happen when men were drunk and excited by shows of violence?
Rowden handed Miss Phaedra into the first hackney then Miss Brown. He held her hand a little longer than was necessary, and when she looked back at him, he pressed some coins into her hand. She looked down. “This is more than the fare.”
“I know, but just in case you need it.”
She squeezed his hand, and the simple gesture made his heart tighten. He pushed the feeling away. He did not want these emotions. He’d allowed his emotions to rule him once before, and he’d lost everything. Never again.
He released her hand, stepped back, and closed the door. Then he told the driver to take the ladies directly to Madame Renauld’s.
The jarvey peered down at him. “She’ll be closed this late, guv.”
“That’s not your concern. See them there safely or I’ll come looking for you tomorrow.”
“No need for threats, guv. I’ll get them there.” He made a sound and the horse started away. Ewan came to stand behind him.
“Chibale wants a private discussion with the arsehole,” Rowden said.
Ewan shrugged.
“The way I see it, he can have his discussion, but we can also put in a word.”
Ewan flexed a fist the size of a boulder. “I find myself with plenty to say.”
Rowden put an arm around his shoulders, and the two men made their way back behind the Cock and Bull, where the sounds of raised voices could already be heard.