Lady Meets Her Match (28 page)

The runner's eyes flared at the compliment. “They're all good men at Bow Street. And I stayed up since most who'd know anything move in the dark. Best to meet them in their natural state.” The smirk was back but friendlier.

Cyrus eyed the messy paper. “And what have you found?”

“Not many places in London sell spirits of salt, especially in quantities to destroy your refinery business. Chemicals speak their own language, spilling truth better than most women.”

Cyrus would never have connected chemistry and Emerson, but the runner's tired eyes sparked alive and awake when he mentioned the topic.

“I started there and found interesting information.”

“Such as?”

“Done much to anger any dukes, Mr. Ryland?”

“I know two and am in good stead with both,” he said carefully. “Marlborough and Bridgewater.”

“Bridgewater, Bridgewater,” Emerson repeated the name, his fingers drumming the table “He's your partner on the canals.”

“More like His Grace owns the lion's share of his namesake,
Bridgewater
Canals.”

The runner folded the paper in half, revealing more scratches one could take for letters and numbers. “But if something happened to you, who'd benefit?”

Cyrus sat up taller, not liking the tenor of the conversation. “My family. An even distribution.”

Emerson tapped the paper, his brows knitting together. “Kills that theory.”

“Why the fascination with dukes?”

“Bear with me.” The thief taker examined his notes again, one finger rubbing his nasty scar. “What about Marlborough? Any business connection with him?”

“None whatsoever. In fact, he's doing much to benefit me, helping my nephews land in some fine places. His Grace gets nothing in return for his generosity.”

The runner tipped his head back. “It's a rare day when someone acts without expecting something in return,” he scoffed. “And you've no other connection with Marlborough?”

“There's been encouragement to court His Grace's daughter, the Lady Elizabeth Churchill.” Cyrus paused, the chair creaking beneath him. “As lovely as she is, I've no interest.”

“And Marlborough knows this? You're not stringing the young lady along, are you? Giving her a merry ride?”

Cyrus exhaled long and patient. “I don't string women along, Mr. Emerson.”

Emerson frowned, his lids dropping to half-mast. “Hmmm…” he hummed a thoughtful sound and folded his wrinkled paper again.

“Care to explain?”

“I have two things,” the thief taker said, holding up two fingers. “One, a friend of mine received an order to deliver spirits of salt to a wharf near Billingsgate. Two, he was paid by a duke.”

“You're sure of this?”

“The first, yes, a hard fact. The second…call it soft information.” The thief taker tucked away the messy note in his inside pocket. “My man never saw the nob who placed the order. One of his attendants did, and he wore plain clothes. He rode in an unmarked carriage with another person. My man overheard someone say ‘Your Grace' from inside the carriage.”

“But I have no problems with Bridgewater or Marlborough…any duke for that matter.”

“I'd say you do now. Big problems. A duke is nigh to impossible for the likes of us to reach.”

He knew the runner meant impossible for commoners to take to justice, even a commoner such as Cyrus. Money was its own kind of fortress, but lofty standing in Society made the best security of all.

Isn't that why he craved marrying into nobility someday?

Not anymore. He glanced to the stairs. Not as long as Claire Mayhew walked the earth.

“A duke'd have to murder someone at noon in Piccadilly with a dozen witnesses before the Crown'd do anything.” Emerson unfolded his body from the seat, his limp coat flopping open. “They're almost untouchable.”

Cyrus stood up with Emerson, waiting while his morning caller slipped back into his cloak. He appreciated the man delivering this news, but he itched to be upstairs with Claire. All day. This was the one day the New Union was closed, and he had plans for more enticing laundry lessons.

“Thank you for what you've reported. Keep digging.”

“I will.” Emerson paused in front of the door, gray light shadowing his features. “And what'll you do in the meantime?”

“Do some digging of my own.”

The light patter of footsteps sounded overhead. Claire had to be up. Emerson put his hand on the knob, hesitating.

“May I give you some advice?”

Cyrus wrapped his fingers around the shop's key in his coat pocket. He yearned to lock out the outside world.

“Go on.”

“Consider staying away from your
sleeping
companion for a while. Whoever wants your attention may go for a bigger prize than your sugar refinery.” The runner's stare drifted a lazy trail to the back stairs. “The likes of her could get crushed. Remember what happened to the Billingsgate watchman.”

“What makes you so sure whoever's behind this would harm Miss Mayhew?” The key's sharp bits dug into his thumb. “A shopgirl?”

“I'm not. But do you want to risk it?” Emerson set his tricorne on his head, his voice somber. “Any man can see she's more than a lightskirt to you. You're in deep, Ryland.”

In
deep.
The words bounced around his head right as his gut turned to lead at the thought of Claire being harmed. He needed to protect her.

“Make the nob think she's not of value to you. That's my advice. You can always pick up with her again when this blows over.” The runner delivered the words with a shrug.

Then he opened the door and stepped outside, his cloak stirring around worn boots.

“Wait.” Cyrus moved beyond the door, flipping his collar high. “How can I see to her safety if I'm not with her every minute?”

Emerson swung into his saddle. “You'll do more to protect her by making it look like you lost interest.” He tugged up his collar. “But if you like, I can set a man to watch over her.”

Fog remnants stretched across Cornhill like thin bits of wool. Cyrus stared at the Exchange's arcade, the space behind the arches a dark shadow. Anyone could lurk here. Claire was wide open to harm with nothing but a flimsy lock for protection.

She
won't leave her shop.

The New Union Coffeehouse meant everything to her.

His stare shot back to the runner. “Send only the best.”

“I'll send Tremaine. He favors red waistcoats. Despite that, you'll never know he's around.” Emerson wheeled the roan around, chuckling. “Like a ghost that one.”

Cyrus pointed at the empty arches across the way. “Tell him to be there at noon. But if I don't see him, I'm not leaving her side.”

Emerson tipped his hat and nudged his giant horse eastward. Cyrus stood in the cold, watching horse and rider gallop into the last threads of fog.

Behind him, light stretched into the chill. The sun was rising, but he was colder for it. His hand dug in his pocket, fingers pinching the key's shank. He wanted sorely to lock and bar the New Union door and never let another soul enter.

For years, he'd labored hard, scratching his way from insignificant farmer to the grand place he inhabited now. Yet, after last night, he'd trade it all to stay here. With Claire. When he was with her, there was no place he'd rather be.

And now?

Time raced against him. He had until noon.

* * *

Her footsteps banged the wooden stairs behind him. He heated water—or tried to. She walked closer, tugging her shawl around her shoulders.

“You astound me, Cyrus Ryland. First your skills with laundry”—she peered into the pot, her voice light—“and now with water. You're quite the domestic, aren't you?”

He tucked one hand behind his back. “I'm not sure what all a domestic does, but if it includes working with tepid water that refuses to heat, then I'm your man.”

“It's my stove,” she said, laughing. “You don't know how to work it.”

Claire repositioned the pot over a perforated iron plate.

She pulled his black silk ribbon from her pocket and motioned to a chair. “Please sit there and I'll tie you up. After we get you properly done, there's something I want to show you.”

He took a seat at the table, yielding to her ministration. “Want to tie me up? You're full of surprises this morning.”

Her fingers combed his hair, his scalp tingling from her attention. His eyes shuttered at the shiver snaking his spine, waking more skin in want of her touch. Claire inflamed him with the slightest provocation. They needed to get above stairs soon.

“Your queue won't be its usual perfection,” she said, the silk skimming his nape from her officious effort.

His mouth curled with a private smile. She missed entirely his reference to being tied up and that pleased him. He'd be the one to introduce her to those sensual pleasures.

And she didn't ask about his morning visitor. Did she miss Emerson's visit?

He cleared his throat and chose a more innocent topic. “My mother and sisters cooked with an open hearth. Stoves, I thought, were for heating purposes.”

“They are,” she said, finishing the loop behind him. “But you need to see this.”

She strode to the square stove set in the fireplace and knelt before the iron box. Wheat bundle designs cast in relief embellished every panel. Claire opened the metal door, her bright gaze fixed on the iron box. She scooped new coals on top of ashy embers, spreading the lumps strategically in the middle.

“Look at this,” she marveled.

He crouched low and peered inside the iron box. Someone had fashioned a shelf inside, a shelf high above the newly smoldering coals.

“This is why I
had
to have this shop. Your Castrol stove. Straight from Belgium.” Her fingertips grazed a unique metal rack inside the box. “Someone—Mr. Tottenham, perhaps?—had the idea to fashion a shelf here for cooking
inside
the stove instead of on top. I've never seen anything like this.”

They hunkered close together in front of the iron, the walls inside sooty from use. Twin smoke ribbons curled from the coal-catching fire. Once a little flame sprung from the pile she had erected, Claire shut the door.

“This small transformation makes cooking much easier than using an open hearth or faggot oven.”

She folded her coal-smudged hand inside her apron, her jeweled gaze meeting his as though she'd just bared her soul. Strands of hair fell about her cheeks. Claire had dressed hastily, and her hair was pinned loosely at her nape.

A pink crease still marked her cheek from her pillow, and he was struck by how small things could mean so much to her. His heart swelled inside his chest at her simple admission.

He rested an arm over his knee, grinning. “I've been waiting a long time for a woman to appreciate me for my stove.”

“I think you have many parts women can appreciate.” Her tender lips parted, flirtatious and kissable.

“But there's only one woman who interests me, a certain woman who left her shoe on my doorstep.”

She hugged her skirt-covered knees. They crouched close on the kitchen floor, a place as intimate as it was humble. He lived in one of London's grandest homes, yet there was no place he'd rather be than in this modest kitchen with Claire.

His pretty shopgirl reached for him. “You scare me, Cyrus Ryland.” She stroked his morning whiskers, the bristles scraping in the quiet. “I could get lost in you.”

“Enough to come with me and leave your shop?”

Her fingers touching his face slowed. “Are you jealous of my coffee shop?”

Her lips quirked in a smile. Claire tolerated him, he could see as much by the breezy light in her eyes when she called him, correctly, on his motive. But she didn't have the complete picture.

Of course she didn't. He hadn't told her everything.

He bowed his head. “Guilty as charged.”

“Besides, we both live in London. Where do you imagine we would go?”

More daylight crept into the kitchen. Noon and the watchful runner would be here all too soon.

“I'd rather we explore other topics, such as your special request last night.”

Laughter bubbled up from her. “Why is it I'm not afraid to ask for what I want when I'm with you?” Her voice poured a liquid smooth balm on him. “Something about you, Cyrus Ryland, emboldens me, makes me feel safe and free.”

His fist pressed into his knee. Now would be a good time to tell her the truth, reveal Emerson's findings in the night, and the suggestion that he stay away from her. His mouth opened, well intended words formed, but nothing came.

More soft, white tendrils fell loose about her face, and she was the tender maid in the fairy-tale book all over again. Crouched in her kitchen in worker-woman garb, a glow of affection painted Claire's features.

“We have all day,” she pointed out.

He was her protector, the fierceness of that truth ingrained in him. Emerson would go about his hunt; Cyrus had plans for his. He captured Claire's hand and kissed her palm.

How could he burden her with troubles he was meant to solve?

With the clock ticking toward noon, explanations drifted away like smoke.

A hungry wolf at all the herd will run,

In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.

Ovid,
The Art of Love
, translated by William Congreve

The Royal Exchange crowned the man willing to play the odds wisely. But few ever did. Cyrus had always thought wealth and position were the greatest rewards. Yet tucked away on the other side of Cornhill's busy thoroughfare in a modest, narrow shop was the greatest prize.

Claire
Mayhew
.

Cyrus's lips curved. She'd chafe at being thought a prize, but the truth was men
won
the hand of their lady fair. Some rhythms never changed.

Around him, early evening stretched its cloak. A few souls exited establishments to hang radiant lamps outside their doors. Candlelight shined through the New Union's mullioned front window, gleaming prettier than diamonds on a woman's neck. Or was this his bad need to be with Claire?

Figures moved inside the near-empty shop. Claire's crown of flaxen hair was visible beyond the wavy panes. She'd taken her mobcap off. She'd expect him soon.

His smile faded.

Cyrus pressed the heel of his hand on his breastbone. The ache wouldn't leave him alone.

His polished shoes stood on midtown soil, but the ground was not so solid underfoot anymore. A few things he'd long believed as truths were falsehoods: men didn't control their worlds, and chaos came in many forms.

The Duke of Marlborough had come to the Exchange today, looking for Cyrus.

His Grace had never darkened the doors of commerce before. Now, footsteps struck stone behind Cyrus, slow in their gait but all the more powerful.

The duke stopped beside Cyrus and surveyed Cornhill's bustle, his silver-topped cane held as a king might grip a scepter. The elegant walking stick made an ornament of authority for a man who didn't need it. The old man's eyes shut and ducal nostrils flared, breathing deeply of the midtown air.

“Do you smell that, Ryland?”

“Smell what, Your Grace?”

A tang of brackish Thames air mixed with earth and man. Drays and carriages, carters and pedestrians stamped the earthen road, bringing goods from land and sea.

“Change.” The duke's rheumy eyes opened. “The aroma of prosperous merchants. A frightening thing for people of my class, you know—especially prosperous upstarts like you.”

Cyrus hid one clenched hand behind his back, following the hum of activity before him.

“Your class has been around for centuries, will be for centuries more,” he asserted, his legs shifting to a wide stance. “Other men need only use the talents God gave them…grab a chance when it's given.”

“Ah, therein lays the rub.”

Cyrus peered at the duke. He wasn't strong on reading people, but balance sheets spoke volumes to a man's character and priorities. Much could be found in them about Marlborough and what he loved most: not family but his home, the infamous Blenheim Palace. Cyrus didn't want to dither with the duke over merchants and status of class; he preferred the company of the fair woman who aroused him like no other.

He regretted leaving at noon yesterday, was wavering even now on following Emerson's advice.

“If you will speak plainly, Your Grace.”

The old man shook his head, a dry, dusty croak springing from his throat. Laughter was all wrong coming from Marlborough.

“There are few subtleties with you, Ryland. Very well.” Watery eyes stared out beneath a loose tie wig. “Blenheim Palace was my father's reward for valor in battle. Lost it once over poor political choices. To his credit, he regained it. Now my beautiful Blenheim faces more threats.” His lips thinned. “I'll not be the one to lose so fine a place in this world.”

Cyrus stared blankly at the road. “You want a loan.”

“I won't take a loan,” His Grace sputtered. “To what end?”

He itched to say His Grace couldn't afford a loan, but that would rub salt in festering wounds.

“Why should I put myself further in debt?” the old man railed. “I'll
not
do it. I leveraged everything,
everything
on building warehouses in Runcorn. Now, Sir Richard Falsom contests the canal progress there. Before Parliament, no less.”

Cyrus knew of the costly warehouses sitting empty in Runcorn. Bridgewater had come to Cyrus's bank for a loan to pay the laborers when his canal business stalled. Bridgewater had offered substantial collateral. Marlborough, by contrast, had offered none. He'd sought a loan, deeming position alone as worthy of the transaction.

“You want me to just
give
you money?” He shook his head. “Won't happen.”

“But that's precisely what you'll do.” The duke's eyes became hard pebbles. “Remember your sugar refinery?”

He faced Marlborough, eyes narrowing. Emerson was right.

“The night watchman was badly injured.”

A thin hand waved that off. “The men got carried away.”

The night breeze shifted, and Cyrus unwisely faced the New Union. Claire was about the business of extinguishing the lights, but looking at her was dangerous. Marlborough followed his gaze.

“You said a man should grab a chance when it's given. I'm grabbing mine, Ryland. There's a petition in the House of Lords to widen a section of Cornhill Road, authored by me. I shall paint myself the champion of midtown.”

Cyrus scowled, his fisted grip clenching harder at the small of his back. The duke's eyes gleamed with malicious light. The silver-and-black cane swung an arc over the stretch of road before them.

“This section in particular works well, don't you think?” He waved a gloved hand at the arches behind them. “What better place than the road in front of the Exchange?”

“Get to the point.”

“Very well. A row of buildings on the other side must be leveled…a blow to you since you own much of this section of Town, but a man of your wealth? You'll recover.” Pallid lips turned with a cruel smile, and the duke's gaze fastened on Claire's shop. “However, certain proprietors in the area could face hardships.”

“You would do that over money?”

“Same as you'd toss opportunity over a bit of muslin.” The old man's voice quavered. “And your nephews? I'll make sure doors are closed to them. The only work they'd find is in some backward Irish village.”

Cyrus bit back a retort, forcing himself not to look across the road. Restraint served best when facing an opponent.

“Oh, I know about your coffee-shop girl.”

Cyrus jammed a hand in his pocket. “She was a passing flirtation, nothing more.”

The duke shrugged a gaunt shoulder, his visage bland and disbelieving. “Marriage to my daughter works in everyone's best interest.”

Everyone
but
mine.

His Grace's mouth twisted. “Keep her on the side if it pleases you.”

Claire.

He wanted to rub his chest. A vise could have been clamping its jaws on him. Instead, his fingers wrapped around the New Union master key buried in his coat pocket.

Everyone would be in a good place. Marlborough would save his home and save himself from financial peril. Zachariah, Simon, and Peter would have only the best doors opened to them. Merchants and their families would thrive, living as they had, undisturbed. None would have to face upheaval of home and business.

The duke's plan worked neatly for others, and none would be the wiser.

Cyrus scanned the row of tidy, prosperous businesses lining the street. Claire stood outside the New Union's door in pale blue, her head angling as though she spied him in the distance.

She
will
keep
her
shop.

A well-sprung carriage rolled up to the Royal Exchange arcade, blocking his view. The carriage bore the Marlborough family crest: a white lion rampant on a black canton. The duke poked his cane at the emblazoned door like an exacting headmaster.

“See that? You're right about one thing: my class has survived the centuries.” His narrow chin shot up. “I sit in the House of Lords. Because of that, we will survive many more.”

Cyrus faced an ugly picture, but the shocking image wasn't the duke: it was him.

His brows pinched something fierce. Was this old man a portrait of what could happen to him in a decade or two? A man bent under the sway of his own power?

Hungry
for
security
at
all
costs?

A pair of footmen hopped from the back of the conveyance, quick to snap open the door and pretend invisibility while they stood and waited.

Marlborough leaned heavily on his cane. “I give you a week, or I move the petition forward with the full force of my name behind it.”

Claire. She needed his protection at all costs.

“How much?” he asked, the words dry in his throat.

His Grace smiled, the tips of his teeth showing. “The marriage contract for Elizabeth was delivered to your home today.”

The New Union's key slipped from his hand, dropping to the bottom of his pocket.

The old man stepped up to the waiting carriage. “I look forward to your decision.”

* * *

Earlier that hour…

“One
le
petite
mort
and you're ready to give him all your attention.” Juliette dabbed a serviette to her lips. “What about exploring other men? Have you learned nothing from me?”

Claire's knife hovered over pieces of apple. “Oh, I had many more than one,” she corrected, almost laughing.

Smiling was something she hadn't been able to stop doing since yesterday. All day, she had moved with loose-limbed, agile steps, Cyrus constantly on her mind. He would be there tonight.

“
Humph
.” Juliette's eyes rolled. “Don't let so much sex go to your head.”

“Not so loud,” she chided, her voice dropping lower. “Nate's mopping the floors. Besides, you're the one always telling me to let a man put color on my cheeks.”

Juliette's fork circled the air. “Of course, let him woo you, bring you wonderful gifts before you are chained to one man. Some men, you know, get what they want from a woman and then they are done. Everything is about the conquest.”

“It's not like that with Cyrus.” She sliced the last apple chunks. “Not at all.”

Annie's mouth quirked as she finished drying a dish, plain stoneware stacked in front of her. “Speaking of Mr. Ryland, miss, I saw my sister, Abigail, yesterday.” She picked a new plate and ran her drying cloth over it. “She told me about the pastries and some of the ladies casting their accounts all over the drawing room floor.”

Claire winced and set down the knife. “It wasn't that bad…only a few spit out the bites they had taken.”

“What happened?” Juliette asked from her side of the table. “Those ladies didn't like your pastries?”

“I must've salted the pastries for Miss Ryland's luncheon…mistaken salt for sugar when making the glaze. It was a busy morning Saturday.” Claire scooped up the apple pieces and dropped them in a bowl. “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing, miss.” Annie's voice went higher. “Something bad happened there and Ryland House is all abuzz.”

Claire folded her hands into her apron, wanting to wipe clean the disastrous social event.

Juliette set down her fork, wiping her mouth free of crumbs. “What do you mean, Annie?”

“Abigail says a thief taker came to the house…some problems with salt and destroying property at one of Mr. Ryland's warehouses.”

“I know about it,” Claire admitted. “Cyrus told me. But I'm not convinced there's a connection.” She grabbed another green apple and polished it on her apron. “My baked goods are of no consequence. It was just a simple cooking error.”

“But it wasn't, miss,” Annie insisted. “Abigail says a whole crock of salt was empty. And there was a new maid, a young woman there for a few days, but after the salting, she disappeared, left the house without collecting her wages.”

Claire dropped into a chair, her head tilting toward Annie. “But why would a woman go out of her way to destroy
my
pastries?”

“I don't know,” she mumbled, hefting the stack of plates in front of her. “Best I take these dishes and put them away, miss.” She walked to the archway and gave Claire an impish grin. “I do know one thing: that Mr. Ryland has put some color in your cheeks.”

Annie winked at Claire and disappeared into the shop, humming a jaunty tune. Claire picked up a paring knife and began peeling the apple. The apple's juice was sticky on her fingers.

“Why didn't you tell me about the salted baked goods?” Juliette asked. “That must have been too horrible for you.”

Claire smiled, slowing her progress on the apple. “Because you were in a hurry and you were more concerned with the carnal nature of my visitor than other such details.”

“
Humph.
And you need to be harder to get. Men like a chase.”

“Funny that you say that. Lady Foster gave similar advice.”

And
she's miserable, alone as she is.

“You see? It is as I said.” Juliette speared a bite. “You are being too easy.”

The Frenchwoman sat tall in a pretty, forest-colored dress, the deep shade complementing her features. Her friend meant well, but she turned what went on between men and women into something akin to a battle.

Claire reached for the sugar, testing the light grains on her tongue. Satisfied she had the right ingredient, she dumped the sweetener into the mix. In her grip, the wooden spoon swirled around the heavy, earthen bowl, the parts blending into what would become a luscious dessert.