Adam was already trying to comb his curly hair with his fingers, in the places that did not hurt too much to touch. “A minute. Tell her I will only be a minute. Two, maybe, to tie the neckcloth. There is nothing I can do about the bloodstains on my coat, I suppose, or the scuffs on my boots or—”
“I don’t suppose that’s what she came to see.”
Adam gathered his wits and returned to terra firma. “No, she simply wishes to thank me, as you said. A courtesy from a polite lady.”
If the Runner had any opinions, he kept them to himself, pointing Adam to the rear door, and to his office, where Miss Relaford and her maid were waiting. “Oh, and you’ll have to sign for this when you get there,” he said, handing over a small leather purse.
Adam raised his brow in inquiry.
“It’s the reward, a’course. No, I forgot you slept through the hearing last night. There was a bounty out for Fred the Flick, one of the nastiest customers we’ve come across. You’re the one what apprehended the gallows bait, knocked him straight out, you did, so he was quiet as a lamb for us to get the shackles on. None of my men had to face him and his knives, for what we’re all grateful, asides getting him off the streets. So you get the reward. Enough to buy you a new coat.”
To the devil with a new coat. The hogs would not care if his had bloodstains. The purse felt hefty enough for small Christmas gifts for his servants and the tenants’ children, and for a fine feast for everyone in the Standings tradition. Perhaps there might even be a bit left to live on, once Mr. Beasdale had his money. The reward would not extend to seeds and stud fees, of course, but it was something, by George, something more than he had before. And he had Miss Relaford waiting. Hadn’t he been wishing for an introduction, some way to see her again? Why, it was almost worth the broken ribs, the battered chin, and the bashed-in skull.
He hurried out the rear door, painfully shrugging out of his coat as he ran. The Runner called out after him; “Good luck, sir. Good luck to you.”
She was even more beautiful today. Her fur-lined hood was down so he could see the dark brown hair piled atop her head, with tiny wisps of curls trailing across her forehead, onto her cheeks, and down her neck. She still looked like an angel to him, a wealthy angel whose father would laugh at the notion of Sir Adam Standish paying his addresses, if the man did not have him horsewhipped for the presumption. But if a cat could look at a queen, Adam could look at Miss Relaford. And so he did, instead of speaking.
Her maid, waiting by the door again, coughed. Jenna worried that perhaps the poor man had been more injured than the surgeon had declared. Perhaps his mind was disordered, or his jaw was cracked, not just his chin.
She had been her uncle’s hostess for years now, and an accredited beauty before that, so she was used to men: men of rank and fortune and authority, as well as their aides and assistants. One stolid young baronet with sticking plaster on his chin and his tongue stuck to his teeth was not going to faze her. Well, not much, she told herself, feeling an odd weakness in her knees.
“Please forgive my presuming an acquaintance when we have not been formally introduced,” she said when he had still not uttered a word, “but I saw your card. I am Miss Jenna Relaford, Sir Adam, and I am in your debt.” She made a curtsy, then held her gloved hand out for him to take.
Instead of the polite salute she expected, a handshake or a sham kiss inches above her fingers, Sir Adam took her hand—and held it. “The debt is mine, ma’am, for not acting sooner, for allowing that muckworm to upset you.”
“Gammon, it is not your duty to protect every woman you encounter.”
He still held her hand warmly in his bigger one, looking into her eyes. “I would make it my duty. That is, a gentleman always looks after those weaker than he is.”
“How chivalrous, but what could you have done? Attack the miscreant in the store while he still held a knife? Then you might have been injured worse, and all for a silly reticule.”
“It is yours. He had no right to take it.”
“Of course not. But no one should die for my paltry possessions. Bad enough you were hurt in my defense.”
“I do not feel the pain.” That was not a total lie. All he was feeling right now was the slight pressure of her hand in his—and a loathing for ladies’ gloves. Even through the leather, her hand was soft and small, yet strong enough to get a grip on his heartstrings.
“No matter,” she said. “I do wish to thank you for your efforts. I would not like to have lost the coins my late father sent back from his travels. I might have sold them if they proved to have any value, but I did not wish to see them stolen.”