Lady Meets Her Match (10 page)

“Miss Mayhew?” His brows pinched together. “Did you hear me?”

She blinked, snapping to attention, all the more a fool for getting lost in her musings. “Oh, I…I wasn't paying attention.”

He'd been speaking to her, and she gaped at him, eyes glazed and assessing like some doxy sizing up a freshly scrubbed sailor.

“Why don't we sit down and discuss the luncheon?” He motioned to the table where his sister waited. “Surely even a busy proprietress can take a moment to sit?”

She took a bracing breath and grabbed a clean mug. “Of course.”

Steady hands poured her coffee. She hoped for a moment alone before sitting down at a table with him, all the better to reorder her rampant senses.

Her morning, like the last few days, had been full of surprises, most of them unpleasant. A moment to collect herself was what she needed before shifting into this most unexpected meeting, but the dratted Mr. Ryland waited, his nearness absorbing all the air around her.

She moved around the counter, and Mr. Ryland jammed his hat under his other arm, waiting for her. His pewter eyes creased again in the corners, his warm hand enveloping hers to take the steaming stoneware. On the short walk through her narrow shop, he carried her mug and his like some attentive beau. She could carry the coffee on her own. She served multiple mugs at once throughout the day, but any protest died on her lips.

He was winning a charm battle today, she'd give him that.

She slid onto the shiny black bench, her hands curling around her cup, the singeing heat waking her mind from a numbing fog, and, oh, to sit down was heavenly. Beside her, Miss Ryland set down her chocolate, ready to take on the business at hand.

“Annie was telling me what happened to her. I can't imagine a man promising marriage, then trapping a woman into prostitution.” Miss Ryland's chocolate-tinged lips made a small O.

This was good—a diverting subject that caused her to face Lucinda rather than the mind-muddling man across from her.

“It's true. There's a man in Stepney…done that to more than a few country girls. He brings them here under the guise of marriage, but the marriage certificate turns out to be false.”

Mr. Ryland sat square shouldered, consuming much of the space across from her. He set the box tied with a red silk bow on the table and sipped his coffee, his eyes on her over the white rim of his cup. Surely he was aware such things went on?

She dare not divulge every detail. Miss Ryland looked to be a few years younger than her, but the young woman's manner was that of someone who lived a sheltered existence. Claire rubbed her thumb across her mug's New Union stencil, choosing her words with care.

“Annie managed to escape, but not before he gave her an awful beating,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I hadn't been in London very long. I was looking to obtain a shop—” She shifted on the bench and her knee touched Mr. Ryland's. “Needless to say Annie and I found each other, and now she has honest employment here.”

Mr. Ryland's gray eyes flickered—from the contact under the table?—yet he kept quiet. Her skin warmed everywhere, the attention as soft as the feel of the sun on a summer day.

Miss Ryland planted her hand on the table. “All the more reason we should serve your pastries at my luncheon,
and
I insist you attend the gathering as my honored guest.”

Honored
guest
at
Ryland
House?
Meaning
I
will
walk
deliberately
back
into
the
lion's den…at least one particular lion?

Claire licked her lips and of all things, Mr. Ryland's cambric cravat came into her sight line, if only for a second, before her gaze shot up to meet his. The corners of his mouth turned with hidden humor, lighting his face in the subtle way of a shared secret.

Did he see her looking at his neckwear?

“You would be most welcome.” His eyes sparked with provocation.

“Of course you would,” Miss Ryland echoed the sentiment, seemingly oblivious to the current flowing between Claire and her brother. “Why not talk about the hardships of women you've met? That'd make the ladies who usually attend the meetings understand this isn't about delivering baskets of jam.”

Claire tapped the side of her mug. Miss Ryland was full of youthful verve. Her compassionate heart had to be sizable to want to help struggling women. Lucinda Ryland wasn't pretty, but she sparkled with life. Thin lips and a nose too much like her brother's dominated her face, but her dark hair and vivacious manner made her distinct.

“The ladies who participate in the War Widows Betterment Society do so because they or their families seek connection with my brother, not out of any desire to help the less fortunate”—she grimaced at her brother, who took a breath, appearing ready to protest, but didn't—“and you know I speak the truth.”

Miss Ryland touched Claire's arm. “But if you could share Annie's story, make them understand that these terrible things happen right here in Town.”

“Crimes of all sort go on in London, wouldn't you agree, Miss Mayhew?” Mr. Ryland posed the question, his voice taciturn to his sister's energy.

Claire tucked her elbows close to her side, aware that he wasn't letting her off so easily for sneaking into his house after all. Why the veiled reference to her forgery? Why make an appearance in her shop today as though he offered his support? The well-intentioned Miss Ryland spoke in her emphatic, youthful rush, unaware of the tension.

“And just think, your baked goods served at the meeting could only be good for business…” Miss Ryland mused aloud about the menu and numbers of guests.

Under the small table, a male leg stretched, skimming Claire's skirt. She forced her attention on Miss Ryland, but from her side vision, she noticed him. Couldn't help it. He watched her like a hawk does a sparrow. Then his booted foot planted itself very close to her leg.

A spangle of awareness shot up her legs, causing her bottom to fidget on hard wood. Despite layers of underskirts, she couldn't shake the feeling of sitting before him in naught but her drawers. She nodded amicably at Miss Ryland, sipping her coffee. Was he staking territory? Goading her to accept?

His foot moved closer.

She regarded him across the table, one brow raising in challenge to his leg pressing hers. She stayed politely stiff. A masculine brow arched in response.

“I would be pleased to attend,” she blurted. “And I'm happy to provide an assortment of baked goods for your luncheon. This Saturday, you say?”

Her chest and neck warmed with a flush. The bold move tossed more complications her way, among them her lack of appropriate attire for a luncheon at Ryland House. But she'd not be cowed. The meeting could be exactly what the New Union needed.

The shop door opened, and Mr. Pentree entered with a few more patrons behind him. The agent approached the table, tucking his plain black tricorne under his arm.

“It's always a pleasure to walk past your door, Miss Mayhew, if only to get a whiff of the wonderful aromas inside,” he said with his customary cheer. “A sure sign of success, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Ryland?”

“To Miss Mayhew's success.” Her landlord raised his mug in salute, his deep-voiced words a provocation.

Claire shot up from her seat, clutching her cup close. “Mr. Pentree, please take my seat.”

Across the shop by the chalkboard, Nate jabbed Sharp Eddie on the chest. The two leaned in close, as though menacing each other. Claire rubbed her nape and walked toward the lads. She didn't want to interfere, but this was a place of business, her business. She couldn't afford to look bad with Mr. Ryland on the premises.

Nate bared his teeth at his friend. This was the second incident between the two in as many days. Thankfully, the shop's din absorbed most of their argument.

“Gentlemen, please,” she admonished. “This is not the time or place.”

Eddie's head whipped around, his lips curled in an ugly snarl. Claire halted mid-step. The lad from St. Giles could be a cornered beast. His breath came heavy…from rage or running from the docks, she couldn't say, but he thrust a wrinkled page at her.

“Here. News from Tower Wharf.” Eddie jammed his cap on unruly hair. “I'll come back later to collect my ha'pennies.”

The youth banged a chair in his hasty departure, and Nate skulked into the kitchen.

Outside, a tempest of a different kind blustered; gentlemen walked past her window gripping their coats. A storm was coming. Her day held enough turmoil; she need not get between Nate and Eddie.

Claire set down her mug and smoothed the foolscap. Unexpected troubles came of late…conflict between the runners…a late delivery of flour…bad sugar…spoiled coffee beans she had to toss and then purchase more at a higher price…a basket of eggs crashed on the floor twice this week…and the cost of spices…

She rubbed her neck, a dull ache forming there and in her shoulders. Doubts crept in, sometimes crashing over her, leaving her pummeled and bruised despite her best efforts.

“Trouble with the lads?”

She whirled around, her hand still on her neck.

Her unwavering landlord stood there, hat and box in hand.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” she said, her tone overbright. “Things are going along quite well here.”

“I could see that by the way Mr. Fincher's friend stormed out of here.”

She chafed at his droll tone, yet for a long second wanted to lean on him, test those capable shoulders. Would that make her less competent, finding shelter in a man, if only for a moment? She was strong of mind and body. She stood on her own two feet, but part of her craved rest from the tedium that wore a soul down to the nub.

Her hands slipped into her apron pockets, and she decided against any naked admission of need.

“Mr. Ryland, on your first visit to my shop, you questioned my accounts. Now do you plan to inspect how I manage the messengers?” She was being a little tetchy, but that assessment of his touched a sore spot. “As long as I pay my rent come Friday, whatever else happens is no concern of yours.”

He cracked a smile. “Not afraid to put me in my place, are you?”

“As in reminding you that you're my landlord and you've no business giving me such commentary? I'm happy to. I doubt you share your opinions with the
male
proprietors who rent from you.”

Frayed nerves and a morning fraught with mishaps put her on edge. To admit this to him would be akin to acknowledging a chink in her shopkeeper's armor. She wasn't choosing her words with care but let them flow nonetheless.

“Duly noted, Miss Mayhew. I admit I haven't changed my mind on this venture of yours,” he asserted. “At the table, even you acknowledged the dangers preying on women in London. At least my sister's business proposition must prove some goodwill during this trial period.”

She heard him, but her vision caught on the curious red ribbon. Ryland glanced at the box under his arm, his stance relaxing.

“This is the other reason for my visit today,” he said quietly, holding out the wooden box. “It's for you.”

Her gaze snapped up to his. “For me?”

Claire reached out, accepting the gift with cautious hands. She hefted the box gingerly up and down, checking the sides.

He chuckled. “I promise there's no viper inside.”

“You bought me a ledger, didn't you?” Her tone lacked all enthusiasm. A rectangular account book could fit inside the box. So would a shoe.

“If I did, you must agree a ledger would do you good.” His brows slammed together, a small vertical line forming above his nose. “But you won't know until you open it.”

Claire took a step closer, clutching the box between them. She could never stand nose to nose with him—her head reached him mid-chest—but something about being in Mr. Ryland's presence enlivened her. She welcomed whatever he offered, same as she welcomed the small revelations that came to her about this man.

Wasn't a gift of an account book a step in the right direction? She should be grateful, but looking again at the coming storm outside her shop opened her to a new notion.

“I thank you for the gift, Mr. Ryland, but it'd be more truthful to say I think I've just figured you out.”

“Have you, now?”

“Yes.” She nodded, warming up to her discovery. “You actually enjoy telling women what to do, giving them the full weight of your opinion.”

Ryland clasped his hands behind his back, appearing to ponder what she said. “The full weight of my opinion.”

“Oh, yes. Some men bluster on about duty, issuing orders to their wives, daughters, or sisters”—she dropped her voice and gave him a pointed look—“their mistresses. But you,
you
take joy in the task.”

“And what if I do?” he drawled. “Is it bad to want to take care of a woman?”

“Take care of a woman?” Light laughter bubbled up from her. “Therein lies our dilemma: how you and I define what that means.”

Her body quickened, invigorating every limb. Standing up to him, speaking her mind, freed her, almost erasing the rough morning. But his reaction baffled her. He didn't bristle at all from her pronouncement. Rather, unsettling, natural power emanated from his eyes, as deep a gray as calm winter seas.

Did Mr. Ryland feed off their exchange?

She wouldn't find the answer because the caustic smell of burning baked goods reached her nose.

“Oh, the tarts,” Annie cried and sprinted from her place behind the counter.

Weight settled again on Claire's shoulders, reminding her she was a woman of business, not leisure. Beyond her front window, a black conveyance fitted with polished brass trim came to a halt. The demands of the day pulled her in one direction, taking Mr. Ryland in another.