Lady Meets Her Match (29 page)

Across the table, Juliette picked at her pastry. Claire pinched nutmeg into the bowl, the brown-black flecks falling lightly on sugarcoated apple pieces. Let the Juliette Sauveterres and Lady Fosters of the world have their way. She had hers, and the deep glow she felt was honest and true.

Her lips curled in a secret smile. There was hot sensuality with Cyrus, his nimble fingers and talented mouth having worked magic on her. But there was kinship, affinity, and humor. She would easily call him a friend and a partner, a man to walk proudly alongside.

“I'm going to tell Cyrus I love him. Tonight.”

Juliette stopped messing with her food, her dark eyes shrewd on Claire. “Why? Has he said as much to you?”

Claire draped cheesecloth over the bowl. “No.”

“Let the man be the first to make declarations of love. Then, you will be in a position of power.”

She reached behind to untie her apron. “This is not about wielding power. I want Cyrus, to laugh with and talk to. He values me. I want to be the same for him.”

Claire folded her apron twice and dropped it on the table. She washed her hands, smiling at her lofty ideas of what it meant to be with a man…with Cyrus—but carnal concerns overruled.

Languid hands and arms unpinned her mobcap. Next came the neckerchief, her mind drifting again to the man who'd find his way to her door, his strong shoulders offering a place upon which a woman could rest her head and hide away for a night.

A chair scraped across the floor. Juliette was up, retrieving her cloak and pattens.

“I worry you go too fast, my friend.”

They walked slowly into the shop, where Nate and Annie prepared to leave for the day.

Claire lifted a sconce from the wall and blew out the candle. “And I was beginning to think I wasn't going fast enough.”

With a flourish, Juliette swept on her cloak, her dark eyes softening. “I do not want you hurt.”

“I won't be.” She reached for another sconce. There was certainty in her step and an unconfined feeling to her hips.

Was that what a night with Cyrus Ryland did for a woman? No wonder Lady Foster was slow to disentangle herself from him.

“'Night, Miss Mayhew.” Nate called his farewell, slipping from the door followed by Annie. The cook gave a silent wave, her eyes alight with mischief.

Outside, the two bent their heads in conversation. Claire went from one sconce to the next, blowing out candles. Her task cast the shop in velvet half-light. With another candle in hand, she blew on the taper, but beyond the smoky spiral, her friend fussed with the tie under her chin.

Juliette never fussed.

“Is something wrong?”

Ebony eyes clouded, and the usually confident shoulders slumped.

“Elise will leave me soon.”

She set down the sconce and rushed to her friend in time to witness a fat tear drop to the floor.

“I'm so sorry.” Claire set a gentle hand on Juliette's shoulder. “The two of you are always together. I never thought Elise would leave. Not without you.”

“Lord Marcus persuaded her to become companion to his mother for a time. The lady recovers from a terrible fall.”

The emphatic Miss Sauveterre dabbed another tear and examined her damp handkerchief. Her lips puckered with disapproval at the wetness.

“
Non
, this is good for her. She will be paid much more than the meager earnings we share.” Juliette sniffled, her lips quivering into a smile. “It is a great falsehood that I am the adventurous one.”

“Do you want to go back to the kitchen?”

“
Non
, I must go.” The Frenchwoman slipped on her pattens and opened the shop's door.

Claire followed, crossing her arms against the chill. She couldn't let her friend leave so abruptly after sharing painful news.

“I didn't realize Lord Marcus's mother was hurt.”

Juliette lifted her hood. “She took a fall from a horse and failed to inform her sons.”

“A fall from a horse?”

“According to Lord Marcus, she is headstrong.” A manicured hand waved off the explanation. “Elise journeys to Northampton this week, though she hasn't met the older brother, the marquis.”

“I've met him.”

Claire brushed her hands up and down her arms, the friction heating her. She loitered under the New Union sign, her feet stamping the ground. Garbed in her heaviest blue wool dress, she'd wait a moment to make sure Juliette fared better before going inside.

Twilight painted midtown skies gray. Ribbons of lavender separated the clouds while, on the ground, carriages moved like black silhouettes. On the other side of Cornhill, one hulking conveyance shined with burnished brass fittings in line behind another ornate carriage.

Cyrus.

“Is that not your Mr. Ryland over there?” Juliette asked, tucking away her handkerchief.

He stood stiffly in front of the Exchange beside an older man.

“Yes. Yes it is.” Claire almost sang the words.

Did he see her? Cyrus faced the New Union Coffeehouse, his pewter stare remote beneath his black tricorne. She blinked, taken aback. Had she imagined his coolness? She stretched her neck, needing a better view, but a carriage rolled forward, blocking both men.

“You need to get your cloak,” Juliette cautioned her.

“Not yet.” Her focus stayed on the other side of the road.

She gathered handfuls of her skirts and stepped forward, moving closer to a carter passing by. Oddness settled in her midsection, though a visit to the Exchange was quite normal. Her feet moved a half step, ready to charge the road, but the bothersome carriage trundled forward.

Cyrus was still there.

A breeze twisted fallen strands of hair over her face. Larger carriages passed and she moved farther into the road.

She waved to him, her smile wide. “Cyrus?”

Stony hardness marked his features.

Needle-sharp cold pricked her skin. Such foolishness calling to him. Her voice was lost from this distance. Her arm dropped to her side.

Cyrus motioned to his carriage, not her.

The cumbersome silhouette rolled forward, blocking her view of him. She stepped into a shallow puddle, the earth squishing underfoot. The ground lacked a solid surface, throwing her off balance.

“What's he doing?”

“Perhaps he sends his men home?” Juliette was beside her.

The Ryland carriage windows offered an unfettered view of the well-lit inside. The conveyance dipped slightly from the weight of someone climbing inside. Square windows framed a dark profile, unyielding as granite.

Cyrus didn't look her way. His fist banged the carriage ceiling, giving the order to drive the black beast onward. He was leaving.

She could be a nameless midtown woman he passed by.

Claire wandered farther onto the road, her lips parting, but not a word came. She wanted to crumple. Her body moved, though she couldn't feel her legs from the numbness creeping everywhere.

“You there,” a carter yelled, his whip cracking.

“Claire!”

Juliette's cry was the last she heard.

Come, come, leave business to idlers and wisdom to fools…

William Congreve,
The Way of the World

“You can't save everyone.”

Cyrus held his quill aloft, the nib hovering over the ink well. He stared hard at the paper in front of him before setting down the implement.

Across from him sat Simon: intelligent, thoughtful, and one born with a keen eye and kinder nature. The blond lad was fresh from his university days. If Cyrus was ever blessed to have a son, he hoped his offspring would favor Simon's qualities. The world had too many brutes and ruffians—he counted himself among them.

Cyrus linked his hands on a stack of papers. “Care to explain?”

Simon waved a hand over the scattered notes, the ledgers scratched with columns of numbers. His hazel eyes lit on the most damning papers of all—the marriage contract.

“You've been like a man possessed since that arrived.” He glanced at the settee, where a rumpled blanket covered the furniture. “Keeping long hours. Zach's chasing down strange errands for you,” he said, his calm smile growing. “Even sending me to deliver a package to that coffee shop.”

Cyrus shifted on his seat at the mention of the coffee shop. Try as he might, he couldn't control all his reflexes when it came to Claire Mayhew. To all and sundry, he spoke little of her or not at all.

When he did, she was mentioned as a passing flirtation. Nothing more. The same words he'd said to the duke. If Marlborough had planted any more spies in Ryland House, they'd report that Cyrus washed his hands of the midtown proprietress—all the better to face his new future.

Monday, he'd driven away from Cornhill and hadn't gone back.

He rubbed his neck where a dull ache persisted. “Excellent skills of observation, Simon. But what does my work have to do with saving people?”

Long fingers tapped pristine sheaves. “This does. Though I daresay marriage doesn't count as day labor. Lucinda told me.” Simon grinned, his face pure Ryland, though nature favored him with a better nose.

“Lucinda?” His hand on his nape slowed.

“She told me about your
encouragement
that she marry the Marquis of Northampton.” He eyed the papers set to bind Cyrus and Lady Elizabeth forever. “Now she fears you're tossing over your happiness all in the name of family security.”

“I won't ask how Lucinda came to know about that document.”

“She has a point. For some reason, you're not at your best. For one thing, you're abrupt with everyone.”

His best? He chuckled, a low, hard sound void of humor. Sleep eluded him. Sustenance came sparing by choice. And his manner? He scrubbed his face, bumping his bruised cheek—the constant reminder from his time with Claire.

“There's too much work to be done and little time to accomplish it.”

The duke had given him a week. Now he had three days left.

Simon folded his arms across his chest. “Collecting promissory notes? Since when are you in the business of buying debts?”

Cyrus picked up the quill, his mouth pulling in a tight line. “Since I have a long habit of choosing my path rather than letting others choose for me.”

Simon's brows furrowed upon hearing that explanation. Cyrus squinted at the ledger before him, columns of numbers a blur to his tired eyes. His scowl likely preempted further conversation, as evidenced by Simon gripping the chair's arms.

“Then I'll not bother you anymore.”

“You can give me a report on what happened when you made the delivery to the coffee shop.” He was careful to keep his eyes on the ledger.

Perhaps he wasn't fully ready to end this conversation.

The void in his chest had worsened since Monday. He pressed the heel of his hand where the ache was the worst; the vacant heaviness never left him. In private moments, his palm rubbed the spot over his heart, the same place Claire had covered him with her hand.

“I delivered your package to the New Union Coffeehouse on Wednesday as requested. But the proprietress in question, Miss Mayhew, was not available to accept the delivery personally.”

“No?” His gaze darted up. “You didn't mention this before.”

“I didn't think it was important. I gave the package to the dark-haired lad behind the counter. He said he'd make sure she received it.”

Nate accepted the package. That was Wednesday. Today was Friday. Had she opened it?

“And he said nothing else?” he asked, scowling again. “Gave no information on her whereabouts?”

“He gave nothing.” Simon's head bent with a curious tilt. “Is this woman the same—”

Zachary pushed his way into the room, eschewing the good manners that required him to knock. Under his arm was a leather folio, similar to other harmless booklets shelved in the study. Zach's cocky smile matched his brash walk.

With a flick of his wrist, his hat sailed onto the small table. His once-polished boots bore signs of a well-traveled day. He tossed the folio onto Cyrus's desk before dropping into the other chair facing the desk.

“Today was fruitful, sir.”

Dimples gave boyish appeal to the less cultivated Zach. Quick with wit and charm, Zach ferreted information without a body ever knowing they gave up a secret. His frame matched Cyrus's, from his brown hair to his square jaw and strong nose; only his light brown eyes set him apart.

He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “What next?”

“Next, our uncle will seek proper rest in a proper bed,” Simon said, sounding very much like a physician.

“He just looks like he had a bad bout and needs to sleep it off.”

A knock at the door announced Belker's presence. The butler stood in the half-open doorway, bowing from the waist.

“Beg pardon, Mr. Ryland. You have a visitor.” The butler looked at the trio of men in the study. “It is your friend, the Marquis of Northampton, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Simon and Zachary rose from their chairs, discussing what next to raid from the kitchen. North would be a welcome surprise from the tedium of his week. He rose from his chair when Belker announced his friend.

“The Most Honorable Marquis of Northampton.”

North walked a few steps into the small study, his cloak draping an arm and hat in hand. Cyrus nodded at the outerwear usually collected by his butler.

“Belker's standards must be slipping.” He pushed back his chair and made to move away from behind his desk. “You can put them on that table if you like.”

“No.” North held up a hand. “In fact, I'd prefer you stay on that side of the desk.”

Cyrus froze. Sunlight filtered through sheer drapes, illuminating North's drawn features. Though Cyrus had not availed himself of a mirror, he'd have still guessed his friend looked worse than he did.

“As you wish.” He pushed back his coat and set his hands on his hips. “Something wrong?”

Thin lines creased the skin under North's eyes. A small stain marked his drooping cravat.

“This is one of those times I wish you imbibed in strong drink, Cyrus.”

“I take it you're in need of something stronger than tea.”

Cyrus walked to a set of paneled doors near his desk. He opened one and pulled out a decanter. Brown liquid sloshed inside the fine-cut glass. He set the decanter and two glasses on his desk, finding an open space.

“Never said I
never
drink.”

He removed the glass stopper and poured whiskey for them both. Light touched the stream, showing off the rich caramel and gold colors.

Cyrus stretched his arm across the desk, offering the half-filled glass. “Since you want me to stay on this side.”

The words were delivered with humor, but North accepted his drink and stepped back. He put the glass to his mouth and swallowed deeply—one gulp, then another, and one more. Cyrus drank too, letting the liquid scorch his already parched throat.

He licked the flavors from his lips—wood and vanilla. One corner of his mouth curled at the thought of Claire. She unknowingly changed his thinking to want to savor tastes and smells.

He held the glass up to the sunlight, catching liquid gold. “What ails you?”

The marquis set his empty glass on the table next to Zach's tricorne. Agitated fingers bounced his hat, his gaze not meeting Cyrus's.

“I'm leaving London. For good. Leasing my house.” He winced with each pronouncement. “Taking care of my affairs, among them looking after my mother and finally settling on a wife.”

“Noteworthy changes,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

North took a deep breath. “I…I made a mistake.” The hat bouncing stopped. “You've called me friend and I betrayed you.”

Cyrus went still.

A hiccup of sound, guilty laughter really, erupted from North. “I liked you when you came to Town. I didn't expect to, nor did I expect things to go as badly as they have…” His words trailed off.

North adjusted the cloak on his arm, failing to give eye contact to Cyrus. Neither man moved, but the clock ticked its persistent forward press. Time was becoming a precious commodity for Cyrus.

Finally, North looked up.

“Three months ago, Marlborough approached me with a plan.”

“What kind of plan?”

Cyrus took a heavy draught of the whiskey, his pulse quickening with new pressure.

“I was to help the Duke of Marlborough. Give him information about you. And he, in turn, would help me regain a small piece of land that belonged to my mother, a simple cottage near the border not part of the Northampton entail.”

“Information about me?” Cyrus set down the glass.

“Yes. Things you like to do, your family, your business, who you spend your time with…everything. At first, I believed all worked for the best. Marlborough went out of his way to make inquiries for your nephews once I told him about them. I obliged His Grace because I thought it was harmless.”

“Until it wasn't,” he said, his tone razor sharp.

North met Cyrus's stare. “Yes, until it wasn't,” he agreed quietly. “A fortnight ago, we met, and he was different…desperate, I'd say. I tried to convince him not to damage your warehouse.” North paused, his features tightening. “Then I heard of the night watchman.”

Cyrus leaned forward, bracing his knuckles on the desktop. “And Miss Mayhew? You fed him information about her?” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Don't bother answering. I know you did,” he scoffed. “And to think, you tried to convince me not to find her.”

Her face danced before him…masked and flirting…untying his cravat and speaking her mind…standing up to him in the shop…him touching her and kissing her here in his study when she stormed into his home.

He would count his life fortunate if she let him touch her ever again.

His fists squeezed tighter.

“And one of the interesting facts in all of this, His Grace holds the deed on the cottage I've tried to get back.” North sighed, an exhausted sound. “It's not worth much, a ramshackle place from what I hear…but he had the title all along.”

Cyrus opened his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, preparing himself for another blow. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, I also came to say farewell. I wash my hands of this and hope you'll forgive me someday.”

Forgive? A twinge pinched his conscience.

He didn't move. “Then I bid you farewell.”

London was not a place he liked. He wouldn't even try anymore. To most, he would always be the rustic, the outsider. He'd always be the man with canal grit on his hands.

North walked to the door and the Most Honorable Marquis looked anything but an honorable peer of the realm. He tarried in the doorway, facing Cyrus.

“Are you going to marry Lady Elizabeth?” He set his hat on his head. “She'd be a genuine prize in all this mess.”

A
prize?
Cyrus flinched at the word.

“You lost the chance to hear my answer.”