Lady Meets Her Match (7 page)

She stacked the tarts, sneaking quick looks at him from under her mobcap's ruffle. She couldn't bring herself to fully trust this shift of charity. What was he up to?

Her landlord pulled out a considerable coin pouch from a pocket inside his coat. He stood stoic and businesslike, placing the bag on the counter. No, her being here wasn't about money—his or anyone else's. Her little shop was about much more than that. Surely a man with so much wouldn't begrudge her the opportunity to make her own way in the world? But this wasn't something to explain with tempers barely cooled.

Mr. Ryland kept one hand on the counter and twisted around, looking to his friends sitting by the window. Setting the last tart in place, she guessed him to be close to a decade older than her. Waning daylight and polished metal candle sconces brightened the shop, highlighting a few silver threads glinting in his brown hair.

The texture looked soft and touchable, not coarse and wiry or sparse and absent, like some men's hair. A black silk ribbon wrapped around his queue's length, the silk line trailing down the middle of his back. A silly flutter in her chest kept time with her visual exploration of Mr. Ryland's wide shoulders.

Her lashes dropped low when he faced her again. “Thank you…about the custards,” she said, calm but wrung dry. “They're a pence each.”

They were at a standstill. He could be naught more than a male patron lingering at her counter for friendly conversation—except for the heated words they'd exchanged earlier. The little interruptions of the messengers, other patrons, and Annie's sweet praise had defused hot tempers, but Claire didn't fool herself. Matters were far from resolved with Mr. Ryland.

She made quick business tying the wrapped tarts with twine and stretched out her hand to accept payment. He set two shillings in her hand, his fingertips brushing her palm. The brief touch tickled her skin. Claire hadn't forgotten the play of attraction the night of the masked ball, but she was not that woman: neither a woman of pleasure nor a woman of substantial means with idle hours for flirting.

The mask and gown made a ruse; her gray broadcloth and apron were real. Best she left their sensual conversation, the midnight dance, and, yes, provocative flirtation behind. The coins dropped with a clink in the till box, and she rubbed her palms slowly down her apron as though she could wipe away his tantalizing touch.

“What do I need to do to convince you?” she asked. “About the shop?”

He tucked his coin pouch in his coat. “Meet me at Ryland House—”

“I'll do no such thing,” she blurted.

His hand paused inside his coat, amused gray eyes pinning her. “—because I conduct business there with my secretaries. And I keep financial records in my study.”

“Oh.” Claire shut her eyes.

She wasn't sure what mortified her most: that her mind pounced first on the idea of a sensual meeting, or that Mr. Ryland meant no such thing yet was amused by
her
lascivious presumption.

He laughed, a low and pleasant rumble, the first sound of genuine amusement since seeing her again.

“I don't mix sex with business, Miss Mayhew.” His Midlands accent dropped to an intimate note. “But I'll admit, I want to see your…accounts
in
full
.”

Her gaze snapped open, meeting his. Sparks flew between them, hot and hard as a hammer hitting iron. Mr. Ryland leaned close, but his voice playing with those words messed with her senses. He sounded exactly the way he had in the study, when he had asked about her talents. With men.

“My accounts, sir, are private. And as such, will stay that way.”

Mirth faded from his eyes—eyes that glimmered dark and hot. “I'm not mistaken about our mutual interest the night of the ball, am I?”

Her skin tingled everywhere at the memory, and he knew very well the answer to his question. Never had she flirted as boldly with a man as she had with him at the masked ball. Of course, he wouldn't know that. To reignite their mutual interest would be a dangerous path to tread with a man like him. A woman could lose herself and everything she wanted if she said yes to Mr. Ryland.

To what end? Mindless sensual pleasure?

What woman in her right mind would sacrifice independence for that?

She linked her fingers together, adopting the same prim stance she did with footmen who had made the unwise choice of flirting with her when she had been the housekeeper at Greenwich Park.

“You ask a question, Mr. Ryland, yet from you, it sounds curiously like a statement. This seems to be a habit of yours.”

“Then answer the question.” His voice could be iron wrapped in velvet.

“My answer.” She paused, resting her clasped hands on the counter.

Somehow facing him was nothing like taking an errant footman to task. Mr. Ryland was not a man a woman could easily bend to her bidding.

She took a measured breath. “That evening was a singular event, never to be repeated. We are landlord and proprietress. Ours is a business partnership, if you'll allow it. Anything else would be most unsuitable…in fact, simply forbidden.”

“Like forbidden fruit?” He smiled at her, a tolerant turn of his lips. “But if you returned to your home in Greenwich Park and lived with your father—”

“Out of the question. I'm a grown woman of twenty-six. I'll not hang on my father's sleeve.” She spread her arms wide. “
This
is what I want. Is that so hard for you to imagine?”

Mr. Ryland stood up straight, his shoulders blocking her view of the shop—no, he filled her view. She couldn't read his shuttered expression, but he nodded slow acknowledgment.

“Very well. I need to understand your finances then, before I take a risk and change my leasing rules. I have considerable doubts about a woman operating a business by herself, especially in London.” He frowned at the stairs. “Nor should a woman live alone in Town. It's not safe.”

Her finances?

“My accounts are a stack of notes to pay and the till you saw me drop coins into. I pay Nate and Annie from the till.”

“You don't keep any books? No record of income and expenses?”

She winced at the scattered mess of notes due at the end of next week, all jammed under the counter. Perhaps she shouldn't have revealed so much information?

She wasn't about to add more fuel to his argument that she was out of her depth running a business. She understood how to make appetizing pastries and how to create a warm, inviting shop, but she kept no account books—not yet anyway.

There'd been so much to do to open the New Union Coffeehouse. She worked alongside Nate and Annie, giving a hand to most tasks. Between roasting green coffee beans to the right shade of brown, tending her counter, and helping in the kitchen, her days had been filled with exhausting, but pleasurable, tasks. By evening, fiddling with columns of numbers had held the same appeal as cleaning chamber pots.

Thankfully, Nate approached just then with the broom in hand, saving her from having to respond.

“Everything all right, Miss Mayhew?”

The dear lad squared his shoulders, glowering at Mr. Ryland, but she couldn't take another confrontation at her counter. She needed to sit down and figure her way through this muddle, something she couldn't do with an imposing male examining her every move. Nate's courage was contagious, heartening her.

“We're fine, Nate.” She picked up the wrapped package and handed it to him. “Deliver this to Mr. Ryland's carriage, if you please, and tell the coachman Mr. Ryland's ready to leave.”

One eyebrow arched high at her bold dismissal, but her oversized patron told Nate where to find the carriage. Her deft assertiveness met with quiet, gray-eyed assessment absent of male bluster and indignation.
Interesting.

Mr. Ryland's mouth curled with bemusement. “You and I have unfinished business.”

Claire's body sparked with warmth. Under her plain garb, her stays teased sensitive skin, brushing her breasts with an agonizing reminder of how long it had been since a man last touched her. She wrapped a protective arm across her waist, not wanting to absorb the strong attraction simmering between them. Silence was her best ally.

“I'll grant you this,” he said. “Want a chance to prove your mettle? Rents for this quarter are due end of next week. That'll be your first test.”

She gave him the first easy smile since he had walked through her door. “I'll make the rent. You can be sure of it.”

From under the counter, she pulled out a heavy, earthen jar. She removed the lid and the aroma of dark-roasted coffee swelled from the plain vessel, the most pleasant perfume.

“I may not keep excellent records,” she said, cheerfully scooping coffee beans. “But I have my own surety.”

Mr. Ryland crossed his arms, following her every move. Did he spy the aquamarine stones sparkling among the roasted beans? She couldn't be sure. The heavy earthen jar provided the best hiding place for the necklace; she alone handled the coffee beans. The irony was she valued the savory coffee more than glittering jewels.

She dumped beans into the grinder on the counter. Going about her work, she tried to ignore him, but the effort was futile.

His presence made breathing a little harder. Or was that because she cranked the coffee grinder? She sneaked quick peeks at him under her lashes. He looked tired. Faint shadows fell under his eyes, and he rubbed his shoulder as though the spot ached. She wanted to ask him how he fared, enjoy small talk the same as when they had sat together in his study. But they couldn't be two more different people. His garb alone could pay her rent for a year.

A large sapphire the size of a small egg pinned his shirt together high on his chest. The stone shined the same dark blue shade as his fine waistcoat, a garment embroidered with scarlet-and-gold threads, all marks of success.

A black carriage rolled up to her shop's front window. The thing was as big as a mail coach and as brutish in size as the man who owned it. The stark conveyance boasted no flourishes and no noble crest on the door but gleamed everywhere with rich, burnished-brass fittings and trim: door hinges, elaborate handle, and fine candle lamps for evening rides. Even the wheel hubs and spokes gleamed with brass trim.

Her hand slowed its rotations on the grinder, meeting with less resistance. Maybe things would go smoother for her? Ryland moved off the counter, his guarded stare roving her cap, her face.

He set his hand over his heart and tipped in a bow. “You can be sure I'll pay close attention to this business experiment.”

* * *

Cyrus leaned a shoulder on the window sash, his hands jammed in his pockets. Behind him was the rich world of London's finer gentleman's clubs, though not the finest. This one accepted commoners. Leather seating arrangements ensconced the elite within a dark-paneled citadel for men. North and his scoundrel of a brother sat enthroned in a cluster of four armchairs, waiting for another acquaintance to join them.

Conversations stayed at a murmur; even the footmen whispered. Yet, beyond the glass square, Cyrus glimpsed men and women walking and talking, enjoying twilight. How easily the sexes mixed from where he stood. Would that ever happen for him?

He breathed in, convinced he could smell sugared apples and cinnamon, the aroma of one very determined woman's coffee shop. The taste was something he could savor for a long time—like a taste of her.

Or was she smooth like custard?

One corner of his mouth curled at his not-so-innocent thoughts.

Miss Mayhew aroused him, yet beyond the obvious surface attraction, he couldn't figure out why. Was his fervent interest because she stood her ground, facing him like some fine-boned fighter in a skirt?

Or was this entirely about parts hidden by said skirt?

He took his seat with the brothers. At least bothersome questions were answered, questions that had pestered him since the woman had invaded his home. But, as with most things in life, when one question was answered, several more demanded gratification like an itch refusing to go away.

Bowles lounged in his chair, stretching his legs and flexing one booted foot before crossing it over the other. His heavy-lidded smile a sure sign trouble brewed.

“The coffee shop used to be Tottenham's,” he said. “But of course, you knew that, owning the property and all.”

“He owns so many,” North countered, accepting a message a footman delivered on a silver tray. “One can't expect him to pay attention to the signage of each establishment.”

Bowles linked his hands in his lap, his stare speculative. “Odd how she was Miss Tottenham at the ball, but today she's Miss Mayhew.”

Cyrus gripped the chair's arms, the need to protect Miss Mayhew surging.

“Sneaking a lightskirt into a proper ball…and here I thought you were all work,” Bowles went on. “Bold move on your part.”

“She's
not
a lightskirt,” he stressed.

North stuffed his message into his coat pocket, glaring at his brother. “As if you'd be one to counsel him on what's proper.”

“Guilty as charged.” Bowles grinned and faced Cyrus. “You did know your pretty shopgirl used to be in service…housekeeper to the Earl of Greenwich?”

Cyrus snapped his fingers. “That's where I've seen her. Last winter. I visited the earl over a patent question.”

Was the reclusive earl the one who gifted her with the fine necklace? And what had she given in return? Whatever was done in the past was no more. The prickly Earl of Greenwich was supposed to be famously in love with his new countess.

“If you wanted to find your masked lady, you should've come to me,” Bowles said. “I'd find her a lot faster than Bow Street for half the reward.”

Cyrus glanced at North, who sat mute and properly rigid, brushing off an invisible speck from his breeches. Cyrus bristled at his private matter becoming fodder for discussion between the brothers. He'd confided in North about his hunt for the mysterious woman in confidence.