Free Lady Meets Her Match by Gina Conkle Page A

part in a woman’s downfall. Though, not to put too fine a point on it, her own disastrous decisions created the shaky ground on which she currently stood. She couldn’t avoid the painful truth of her circumstances any more than she could avoid Mr. Cyrus Ryland standing in front of her.
    Nor was the matter helped by childhood biblical lessons booming in her head, all meant to rain down fresh guilt. If those storied reminders didn’t keep a woman in line, she faced a sizable man ready to pour his brand of fire and brimstone inside her humble shop.
    At least that’s what she assumed by the sparks shooting from Mr. Ryland’s hard, gray eyes. Unsteady nerves tied her legs in knots, but she’d defend her small slice of independence.
    â€œHow nice to see you again, Mr. Ryland,” she said, lobbing a brazen volley. “And thank you, but you can keep the shoe.”
    The cold, masculine smile stayed in place, but his eyebrows moved a fraction higher.
    Did he expect her to grovel?
    She kept both hands on the counter. The way they stood, both could be squaring off over the same hotly contested territory. A spurt of pride bolstered her, despite the awful squeeze to her chest. Provoking the angry brute was not a good idea, but neither would she show fear.
    Her brain ticked with the best solution to rid her shop of his presence: demonstrate proper success. Didn’t the New Union Coffeehouse reflect midtown prosperity? England’s King of Commerce understood one thing well: money. She was about to impress him with her freshly minted business skills when Mr. Ryland furnished his own announcement.
    â€œThat’s good about your shoe, because it’s with the magistrate.” His arms crossed, straining a fine black coat over broad shoulders.
    â€œThe magistrate?” Her voice thinned. “Why?”
    â€œLet’s see…an unknown woman sneaks into my home, hides in my study, only to flee suddenly at midnight.” He paused, and his voice turned brusque. “Of course I went to the magistrate. I was certain you stole something.”
    She leaned against the counter, needing support. The sharp corner dug into her midsection with welcome pressure. Running off the way she did must’ve caused more of a stir than she had imagined. She had truly believed he would brush off their chance encounter.
    â€œThere’s no need to involve Bow Street. I didn’t steal anything. I assure you, I meant no harm.”
    â€œSomething in your practiced flirtation made me think otherwise.”
    â€œPracticed flirtation?” A shrill laugh escaped her. “I’m nothing of the sort. What you see is an honest woman, an honest woman of business …just as I told you.”
    â€œThen who was that woman rubbing against me while we danced?”
    He asked the startling question with nonchalance, but her cheeks singed from the crude reminder. Mr. Ryland perused her pale gray workaday dress cinched with black ties from her waist to the modest, square neckline, where a neckerchief covered her skin. She didn’t dress the part of a temptress.
    Behind her, a commotion inserted a welcome break in her crisis. Jocular voices, laughter, and the footsteps of young men sounded from her kitchen. Ryland cocked his head at the disturbance.
    â€œIt’s the messengers finishing up their stew,” she explained.
    â€œBusy place.”
    â€œGood for business, don’t you think?” She managed a small smile, glad for the distraction.
    Half a dozen young men, all on the verge of manhood, filed out of the kitchen, setting their Dutch caps on their heads. A few swiped their coat sleeves across their mouths, laughing and talking. But the roughly dressed youths chorused their appreciation for the meal. One of them, Sharp Eddie as he was called, snapped to attention on seeing Mr. Ryland, his hawk-like eyes taking special interest in her patron.
    â€œThanks, Miss Mayhew, we’ll be