Chapter 2 #2
After bidding her bothersome brother-in-law good day and rushing him out the door, Beatrice tied the ribbons beneath her dark blue bonnet and made to set out for The Angel.
She took one last look in the long mirror atop her narrow hallway bench and pinched her cheeks to bring out some color, something she did every time she left the house.
But this time, she looked harder at how her face had aged since her wedding day.
The life she'd set out upon with so much hope had turned into a sad affair soon after she'd wed.
The only bright hope had turned out to be her eleven-year-old son, Willie.
She refused to call him by his Christian name, Wilfred Rowe IV.
When she swung out of the gate and entered the area in front of the mews, her son greeted her from where he could always be found when he wasn't studying with his tutor. He was brushing his beloved pony, Darby.
"Surely you're not finished with your lessons for today? It isn't yet half-past nine."
Her son bent over as if there were a place near Darby's hooves that needed attention. "Mister Groats let me finish my French class early," he mumbled.
"You will speak up and straighten your spine when speaking to your elders, young man." Her son stood up with a guilty look. "I expect a report on where you are with your math and Latin studies by the time I return this afternoon. Do I make myself clear?"
Young Willie nodded.
"I can't hear you."
"Yes, Mother, I will give you a report this afternoon."
"That's better. Well, for today only, you may be a laggard, but tomorrow..." She lifted her finger as if to lecture him more, but he interrupted her with a fast embrace before slinging a saddle over Darby.
She sighed at her own indulgent ways and joined her waiting coachman who was holding open the door to her simple black, one-horse open carriage.
She could not see the sense in buying a fancy conveyance, since she had no one she wished to impress.
She gave him the directions to The Angel, and as soon as he climbed upon the seat and motioned to the groom to let go of Roland, Beatrice's raven black gelding, they rolled briskly out of the stable and onto the streets of Well Close Square.
September 3, 1827
The Angel tavern
Limehouse, London
Warrick sipped at his ale and stared toward The Angel's front entrance for a good quarter of an hour before it occurred to him he'd never actually seen the Widow Rowe. What in blazes did the dratted woman look like? And why had he thought he'd know her when he saw her?
And then he saw her. Her dark, severe bonnet covered honey blonde curls that peeped out around her face like the edges of a stormy sunrise at sea.
Of course, she was encased in the black silk of mourning, but the huge, puffy sleeves and a tiny bit of delicate white lace frothing from a bow at her neck belied her otherwise somber appearance.
He'd expected a tall, thin scarecrow of a much older woman. Why had Satan decided to send him a woman with soft curves in all the right places in a package so warm, she'd doom any man she chose to allow into her bed? Once you'd had a woman like that, you'd never be able to leave her again.
And then, the closer she came to his table, the more he noticed the grim frown lines around those otherwise pouty, kissable lips. And why would a woman like this have such a hardened look in her soft blue eyes?
He nearly kicked himself beneath the table at the obvious answer.
Someone who was trying to destroy her shipping company had put those lines and hardness on such a beautiful face.
And the delicious Missus Rowe was convinced that blackguard was him.
That moment was possibly the only time Warrick Dyer had ever regretted bringing his boarding axe to a fight.
He had no illusions, though. This was going to be a fight.
He hesitated only a second or so in awe and fear before standing abruptly to introduce himself...and take his medicine.
She extended a slim hand toward him, and he was dumbstruck. What did she expect him to do? He made a brief jerk of a bow before he'd given the puzzle much thought.
"Mr. Dyer, I presume?" she asked, and drew back her hand as if scalded.
Lucifer's balls. Should he have kissed her hand? No, you rum cove, his inner dragon roared. She's out to take you down. Don't turn your back on her. And for the love of Baal, sit down before she notices the bulge in your trousers.
He swept his hand toward the battered table as if they were at a banquet at Vauxhall. "Please sit for a while and tell me what's troubling you."
"Maggie," he shouted, only to discover the owner of The Angel had been hovering close by, idly eavesdropping on the fanciful scene unfolding before her: Warrick, armed only with his boarding axe, faced a fine, apparently wealthy widow, the likes of which rarely darkened the doors of her tavern.
A widow who looked as if she was about to send him to whatever graveyard she'd recently committed her late husband.
Warrick had to ask Maggie twice if she could put together some tea for Missus Rowe, so flummoxed did the normally calm tavern keeper seem at the sight of him with a woman.
He'd no more than tipped back his chair to begin their negotiations when a man so tall, broad, weathered, and hardened, he could only be a man of the sea, braced open the tavern doors and pushed past all the customers crowded around other tables to their side.
Conversation halted amongst the tavern patrons in anticipation of what might happen next.
The giant of a man tipped his hat. "Missus Rowe? Are you all right here? Do you need me to stand by whilst you have your meeting?"
For the first time since she'd walked through the door, Missus Rowe smiled, and the glow lit up the muzzy interior of Molly's tavern like the morning sun.
"It's all right, Captain Jarlsson. Mister Dyer and I have business to discuss.
I'll be fine. My coachman is outside if you'd like to wait with him.
" As he turned to leave, she added, "If you could be so kind, though, would you bring me the ledger that's lying on my carriage seat? "
At her mention of the name Dyer, her captain's body language went through a series of changes...from readiness to fight...to more measured thoughts of self-preservation. The look she gave the man brooked no argument. She was obviously in charge of his fortune and future.
He had to be one of the captains in her merchant ship fleet.
He turned on his heel and wheeled back out of the tavern the way he'd threaded his way through before.
He returned in a matter of seconds and gently laid the huge ledger on the table between Warrick and the widow before loping back out into the street.
Warrick's entire body tensed, and his cock retreated with second thoughts about having its way. This woman was used to giving commands and having them obeyed. If this tower of man could be cowed by the tiny widow, what chance did he have?