Lady Meets Her Match Read online

  His lips pressed into a grim line. Had she marked him as an easy target, the Midlands rustic fairly new to Town?

  Her practiced seduction had him panting after her in his own home no less. An ugly, guttural laugh rumbled from him when he pictured moments ago how he’d raced after her like some besotted swain.

  He picked up the chase again, this time with measured steps. Glass crunched underfoot. No, he’d not find a trace of her, but that didn’t stop him from moving past gawking men and women gathered in his hall, all witnesses to his folly.

  He needed to check the obvious for himself.

  Behind him, Belker issued terse commands and profuse apologies that fell on deaf ears. Cyrus stepped through his open doorway, scanning the night. Clouds covered the moon, casting darkness everywhere.

  Liquid clung to his lashes, and he became aware of how much he’d been doused. Cold champagne soaked his waistcoat and shirt. He swiped wetness from his face and shook the excess from his fingers. The nectar seeped into the corners of his mouth but failed to sweeten him.

  Carriages lined his driveway; many more waited on Piccadilly. Their candle lanterns dotted the blackness with yellow points of light. Somewhere out there, London hid a lone woman on the escape. His fists curled at his sides. He would hunt down the vixen and find out what game she played.

  She hadn’t run from another man tonight. She ran from him. Him. Why?

  A coachman cleared his throat on the bottom step, clutching a brown object to his chest.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” The man tipped his head in deference to Cyrus and held up a shoe. “The lady who just ran out left this.”

  Cyrus moved down the steps. The coachman stretched out his hands, offering a brown leather shoe of middling quality—a commoner’s shoe, not a silk slipper.

  “The lady wore this?” He turned the flat-heeled footwear in his hands, examining scuffed leather and a broken tin buckle.

  “Fell off her foot on this spot, it did.” The coachman nodded with conviction. “Saw it meself. So’d Harry over there.” He jabbed a thumb at another coachman who bobbed his head in agreement.

  “She came flyin’ out yer house wearin’ a blue gown.” Harry spoke into the fray, waggling his finger at the bottom step. “Right there, the lady almost tripped. Then she ran that away.” The coachman tipped his head toward the east.

  Cyrus stared blankly in that direction. On ground level, much was obscured by the black shapes of carriages and horses.

  “Thank you,” he said, nodding curtly to the men.

  He climbed the stairs one slow step at a time, twin hazes of anger and bafflement battling in his mind. His fingers slipped inside the shoe, meeting grainy leather warm from her foot. He turned the shoe with its ruined buckle over in his hands, hunting for evasive clues but finding none. The cobbler’s imprint had been worn down, the impression unreadable.

  What did he know of women’s shoes? Their footwear had never fascinated him, but he held an important key to the secret life of one Miss Claire Tottenham.

  More like he burned to get his hands on her.

  To do what? Shake her? Kiss her? He scoffed aloud and the two coachmen glanced his way. Yes, he wanted to test her lips—claim them was more like it—if only for the satisfaction to take what she brazenly offered when they danced. Any tenderness was crushed the moment Miss Tottenham looked at him, aloof and rejecting, before running away. He needed to find out why she played him falsely, for that was most assuredly what went on tonight.

  Her words rang in his head: Of course, a woman could just as easily take advantage of a man, couldn’t she?

  He turned, facing London’s midnight sky. Cool night air caressed his champagne-soaked skin. His flaxen-haired guest shunned silk slippers under her skirts…an interesting choice for a courtesan. One surprising question pushed hard, a question he was certain contained the answers he needed.

  Why would a woman wear common brown shoes under a ball gown?

  “I’ll hunt you down,” he vowed under his breath. “Whoever you are, wherever you are, I’ll find you.”

  Three

  A little disdain is not amiss…

  William Congreve, The Way of the World

  “Women make the cleverest adversaries, Mr. Ryland,” Sir John Fielding said, rubbing his flaccid chin. “Much more difficult to capture than men.”

  “It’s been more than a fortnight.” His words came clipped and forceful. This was his third visit to Number Four Bow Street. “You say your men have not a single clue as to the woman’s whereabouts? How many blonds of that hair color can there be in London?”

  The wooden chair creaked under Fielding’s form.

  “A woman’s toilet is a delicate matter. We cannot accost every flaxen-haired woman in London, asking how she achieves that shade.” His slack waist jiggled with his chuckle. “My men would meet with more slaps in the face than answers.”

  The magistrate’s eyelids fluttered low under the black ribbon tied across his forehead, the sign announcing his blindness.

  “Your masked lady doesn’t match any descriptions of the women in my gazette. Her unique hair color aside, what we have is a brown leather shoe lacking a cobbler’s imprint, and some silver threads…threads you say match the lace on her dress. The scar on her hand is the best identifying mark we have.”

  The Blind Beak of Bow Street, as he was known, turned his ear toward Cyrus. “You’re welcome to look through the gazettes again, but I must counsel patience.”

  Cyrus had witnessed Sir John’s odd habit often in their meetings. The older man caught details from sound alone—a scratch of the ear lobe, the cant of his head a few degrees, all telling signs the magistrate was digging deeper. Did Sir John seek something from him? Cyrus bristled in his seat, disliking the awful sense of being bare-arse naked before the Blind Beak.

  He breathed in deeply, seeking the advised forbearance but not finding any. Rumors claimed Fielding could identify over a thousand criminal voices with his practiced ear. But Sir John likely hadn’t heard Miss Claire Tottenham speak. Nothing about her fit the typical housebreaker.

  “None matched her description the first time around,” he said, eyeing the row of paltry evidence on the desk and trying for a different tack. “But if I increase the reward…five hundred guineas—”

  “Ho there, Mr. Ryland.” Sir John leaned forward. “Much as I welcome fair payment, let’s not be hasty. Justice moves at her own pace. Tossing money around won’t make her appear any faster.”

  “Justice? Or Miss Tottenham?” Cyrus gripped the woolen bundle in his lap.

  Beside Sir John, Jack Emerson, the tall thief taker who patrolled the West End on horseback, crossed his arms, bunching his poorly cut coat.

  “That’s a fine bit of reward, Mr. Ryland,” Emerson said. “A lot of gold to offer for a thief who hasn’t stolen anything. Begs the question: What exactly is your interest in the woman?”

  “She stole something.”

  Across the desk, Emerson’s eyes narrowed. He no doubt gleaned Cyrus’s intent and had already passed judgment. The man stood in a wide-legged stance, which probably intimidated most people. Not Cyrus. A wicked slash bisected Emerson’s left brow and cheek down to his jaw, making him all the more threatening. Both men came from rougher places, survived rougher times.

  Cyrus squared his shoulders, determined to have his due. Truth be told, the thief taker wasn’t far from the mark. To have Miss Claire Tottenham in his grasp would gratify him to no end. But that was his business. Apprehending thieves was the magistrate’s.

  Every nuance of the masked ball had etched itself on his memory, playing in his mind on a daily basis. Only in rare moments did his brain prod him with meddlesome moral questions: Did he go too far? Should he use his power and wealth to seek what amounted to vengeance over an embarrassment?

  “Do your job and find
her.” He gave a curt nod. “I’ll worry about the rest.”

  “Gentlemen, please.” Sir John’s visionless stare drifted over the desk. “Mr. Ryland, you said you have more evidence to add to our collection.”

  Cyrus took the folded cloak from his lap and set the dark wool with the other items brought out for discussion.

  “This woman’s half cloak was found on a fence post behind Ryland House. The butler kept it, thinking the cloak belonged to a forgetful maid, but none claimed it. He brought it to my attention this morning.” Cyrus pointed to a single thread of white-blond hair caught on the fabric. “And there’s a strand of hair…matches hers.”

  “Behind the house. The mews.” Emerson placed the cloak in Sir John’s waiting hands. “The lady might’ve entered through a back door, maybe the servants’ quarters. I’d like to interview your household staff again”—he smirked at Cyrus, a hand fisted on his hip—“that is, with your permission, of course.”

  The cocky thief taker would do as he pleased, whether officially showing up at Ryland House or tracking down the servants on their half days.

  “Do what you must,” he said. “I expected you’d be more adept at finding one simple woman.”

  “You mean the simple woman who sneaked into your house and duped you?”

  Emerson’s jibe failed to cow him.

  “Let’s keep to the matter at hand.” The magistrate’s hands rubbed the cloak’s fabric, searching the seams. “A half cloak of decent quality but not a fine weave, likely worn by a woman of the merchant class…or she’s in service, an upper servant perhaps.”

  Sir John set the rumpled cloak on the desk, and one finger circled the air, a habit signaling he was recounting facts.

  “You say she wore a ball gown with a jeweled necklace…one appearing to be real, not paste. Yet you didn’t see earbobs, gloves, or a fan anywhere on her person.”

  “None that I can recall.”

  He’d wanted to kiss her ear lobes, not admire jewelry that might dangle from them. The canny magistrate pushed him at their first meeting to picture Miss Tottenham again. Those hazy, insignificant details trickled from him, and he gave Fielding due respect for capturing subtle, telling facts.

  “And she wore common, brown leather shoes with a ball gown,” Sir John said, his voice slowing as though he weighed the facts. “Yet, after three weeks, you still report nothing’s gone missing, not so much as a pence from the money box in your desk.”

  “Correct.”

  “I’m less inclined to think your masked lady is a courtesan.” The magistrate leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps the question we ought to ask is: What else did she want from you?”

  * * *

  The carriage trundled through London’s teeming afternoon streets. Cyrus sat cocooned in butter-smooth leather, the new squab in his new carriage lending to the aroma of success. But the back of his head banged the high cushioning. First-rate carriage wheels hit the same ruts in second-rate roads.

  He rubbed his aching neck. Had he gone soft living in Town this past year?

  Life sped by too fast, and he couldn’t shake the sense that he was going…nowhere.

  Strange notion for a man with so much.

  He leaned an elbow on the armrest, staring out the window, looking but not seeing. His skull throbbed from recalling every nuance of the fateful evening three weeks past. But his shoulders and back? Those muscles bore welcome soreness from recent labors, reminding him of where he’d come from.

  The magistrate had insisted they revisit the disastrous evening once more. He asked again about each person Cyrus spoke to that night, digging all the deeper into the nature of each relationship.

  Some questions were harmless. Some answers were not.

  The interview shed light on tetchy corners Cyrus would rather not revisit. He’d sat stone-still through the miserable process, spilling information with Emerson scratching names and notes on paper. Cyrus didn’t flinch once, despite the inner pummeling he took. Retelling the debacle when his former mistress crossed paths with Lady Elizabeth Churchill offered more fodder for the thief taker to look up from his pad and smirk anew.

  Nothing had gone smoothly that night.

  Cyrus had excused himself from the ball’s mind-numbing noise in need of quiet. He went to his study and, instead, found her.

  His carriage rocked down Cornhill, his memory lulling over the agreeable parts of the evening. The pleasurable image of her untying his jabot, speaking her mind, and yes, their dance floor flirtation played in his mind. Other parts of him unhampered by Miss Tottenham’s deception savored the memory when he was alone, clenching with delight. Her specter invaded his quiet and solitude, those two rare commodities in his life, and it wouldn’t let go. Her words, her smiles teased him, reaching places long dormant.

  His breath fogged the carriage window, creating a blur as unclear as the answers he sought. With Miss Tottenham, a questionable woman at best, he devoted much time and energy hunting her. He wanted more from the woman, but exactly what that meant eluded him.

  He touched the window’s cold glass, dragging his fingers across the flat cloud his breath created. Beyond the haze, the Royal Exchange’s arcade came into view, freeing him from the very male quandary of females.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and a welcome phantom weight settled on his shoulders—the mantle of responsibility found in the world of commerce, his comfortable world of existence. Outside his window, the Cornhill streets bustled with shoppers.

  North lounged under one of the Exchange’s outer arches. Hat tucked under his arm, the marquis removed his watch from his waistcoat. He walked up to the carriage, sunshine bouncing off his gold watch.

  “You’re late for today’s meeting,” North admonished, tucking away the timepiece while Cyrus exited the carriage. “Or we could say you’re very early for next week’s.”

  Cyrus dismissed the carriage with a clipped command, but upon turning around, North’s brows shot up.

  “And by the look on your face, the day’s not been good to you either.”

  “I’m at a standstill on something.” Cyrus jammed his tricorne on his head.

  “So things didn’t go well at Bow Street,” North speculated, tapping his walking stick on the ground. “I can’t say the Lloyd’s meeting was much better—at least for some of us.”

  Cyrus eyed the brass and ebon stick, an item he associated with the foppish and the aged, yet the male ornament hid a wicked blade that’d snap out the end with the push of a lever. His friend was a man not to be taken lightly, though too many did.

  He glanced beyond the trim, stone arches, trying to divine the inner workings of the appointment he missed.

  “Was the meeting that bad?”

  “Not if your name’s Ryland,” North said wryly. “Your coffers runneth over, my friend, to the tune of a princely sum according to the clerk’s report.” He peered at the sky, shoulders drooping under his frock coat. “I’ll never understand business.”

  “Play the percentages to your advantage.”

  He shifted his feet into a wider stance. Most of life could be worked out with numbers—a belief he held firmly since words bedeviled him. He was about to tell his friend that he spent too much of his income, but his face tightened in a pained way.

  North wasn’t up for talk of business strategy any more than he wanted to be interrogated about personal matters. Stark news must be ahead for his friend. The marquis needed cash flow in a bad way; his estate bled money, from his ne’re-do-well brother causing one costly scrape or another to a flighty sister who didn’t marry well, yet considered requests for funds from her brother the marquis a standard answer to her problems.

  “You could try courting Lucinda again,” he suggested. “Some women need persuading.”

  “Let a man keep his pride, will you?” North brushed away a speck from his slee
ve. “Neither my impeccable manners nor my lofty title convinced your sister we’d make a good match.” He settled his hat on his head, smiling blandly. “Let’s face facts. She doesn’t want to be the next Marchioness of Northampton.”

  “Lucinda doesn’t know what’s best for her.”

  North snorted. “And you do?”

  “Women need a man’s strong, guiding hand.” He clamped his hands behind his back and tipped his head at four glossy-coated bays pulling a fine carriage. “Like those beautiful steppers. Give them limits, point them in the right direction, and they perform as nature intended.”

  “Such wisdom.” His friend chuckled, shaking his head. “And yet you still manage to keep company with some of London’s finest ladies.”

  Cyrus squinted at the street humming with life. “I’m not daft. There’s a right time and a right way to guide a woman…let her know what’s in her best interest.”

  North tugged his ear, appearing to digest that male wisdom. Both men had their successes and failures with the fair sex. Cyrus settled on the firm belief women were like beautiful jewels: treat them right, put them in the best setting, and they shined.

  To his dismay, he found a man might also reach for a woman he finds fascinating only to discover sharp edges. With Cyrus’s luck of late, his friend was better off ignoring his advice.

  North scanned the environs. “Right now it’s in my best interest to have some kind of refreshment.” He pointed his walking stick to the left. “Over there…the White Lyon Tavern and the Nagshead. Of course, we might run into Marcus. And that’d ruin this glorious day for everyone.”

  “What’s the problem with your brother now?”

  Wind ruffled Cyrus’s coattails. Early autumn breezes had already turned brisk in London, carrying the Thames’s grimy scent. He considered their options to the right. Drapers, silversmiths, cabinetmakers, and the like all lined either side of the Exchange. Midtown merchants of every stripe sought coveted space close to the heart of London’s commerce.