Chapter 6

A jax stood at the appointed place. Waiting. Again.

He felt Winifred to be a bit of an elusive character, as if she was a fairy creature who would appear out of the mist. Or in this case, the busy hub on the outskirts of the city.

The busy London road teemed with people of every variety. Chimney sweeps passed, coated in dust, their brooms perched on their shoulders. Milk sellers carried their large jugs, going from door to door. Young girls sold posies, thrusting small bouquets at passersby.

The din was an orchestra of humanity. And he loved it. He loved the calls, the cries, the shouts.

Women leaned out their windows and called across the street to their neighbors.

Children dashed back and forth, barefoot, through the crowd.

And he knew he could be pickpocketed at any moment if he didn't keep an eye on his purse, his watch, and his handkerchief.

Carts, coaches, and people on horseback choked the muddy road.

Voices filled the air from every corner of the globe.

The colors filled his vision with delight.

It was a sunny day in London and a rare treat. The weather was fine, his spirits were high, and yet he felt a moment's trepidation.

He looked about, searching for his pert Lady Winifred.

Where was she?

The coach was waiting. She had hired a private one. He had no idea how she'd done it, but here it was just as she said it would be. It wasn't luxurious but serviceable. In hindsight, he should have offered his own. It would have been more comfortable, and he wanted to relieve her of the burden of the expense. But it struck him that perhaps she was reveling in her independence.

And she certainly was exercising her capability at said independence.

For the meeting at this intersection at this time had just been the start of the lengthy letter she'd sent.

As a matter of fact, she had said a great many things in the itinerary that he'd gone through. It had been quite a read. Details had filled every page, and he wondered how she had managed to put such a thing together. The mind reeled at her attention to each little item. How long had she dreamed about such a chance?

It had done something to his heart and his head, taking in how passionate she was about Shakespeare, how much she must have read about him, his plays, and his life.

He got the sense that she had clung to Shakespeare as a friend in a world that was not kind to her. He'd ached for her pain but also felt deep admiration for her resilience.

He scanned the crowd, then opened and closed his fists. He felt a sort of trepidation. A trepidation he'd never felt at the start of any sort of affair before. Only, he reminded himself, this was not an affair. This was simply an adventure, and yet he could not deny that a part of him—a large part, really—truly wished that it was…more.

And he wondered if he would be nefarious if he tried to convince her of that more. He would think on it later. He wasn't about to have that sort of debate with himself on a crowded London street corner, especially if she didn't come.

Had she lost her nerve? It was a shocking undertaking, one which might prove too much for a young lady.

And then his gut twisted.

What if her mother had found out her plans? Was she locked away in some tower like a maiden being kept prisoner? If so, would he, like a knight of old, charge forward and rescue her? He rather thought he would, though he had no idea how as of yet, for he hated the idea of Winifred being caught and kept away from the world.

He'd never seen anything so appalling as Winifred in that clutch of old ladies being told to be quiet. He didn't understand how anyone could do that to another human being. How was it that her own mother could not see how wonderful and remarkable she was? Families were very, very odd. He was incredibly fortunate in his.

"Are you ready?" a voice asked.

He whipped around and nearly stumbled into the person speaking to him. He lowered his gaze to the young man, blinked, and then let out a guffaw of laughter. "How do you do? Are we acquainted?" he drawled, even as his admiration grew to a whole new degree.

Lady Winifred stuck out her gloved hand and said, "How do you do, sir? I am Win Tucker."

"Win Tucker?" he replied. "That name sounds as if it is from a novel."

"Doesn't it though?" she said with a smile.

And there was a pithy joy to her that was so infectious he could not stop the smile that suddenly parted his lips.

Ajax could barely believe his eyes.

She beamed with pride at her own cleverness. And at his clear surprise.

She was dressed like a young gentleman. Excellently stitched fawn breeches clung to her hips and thighs. Polished black Hessians shone on her feet, covering her no doubt slender calves. A bright green coat was just loose enough to hide any curves she might have. And a jaunty hat, tilted at an angle, sat over what he could only assume was an excellent brown wig.

She looked, well, remarkably boyish. If she'd tried to pass as a man, she would have failed, but he was guessing that she was trying to look like a young student of about sixteen years of age, and she was triumphant.

"Are you ready to depart?" she asked, her voice a low plumy sound.

He blinked, then gave a quick nod. "Indeed I am, Mr. Tucker."

"Good," she said. "Then let's go. Are you ready, driver?"

That voice of hers was a study in a reedy young man's notes. How long had she practiced to get that just right? His admiration grew again. For this was no lark to her. He could see that. From the way she held herself, to the pitch of her words, she appeared every inch a boy on the cusp of manhood.

The driver lifted his whip and touched his cap. "All ready," he said.

And then, much to Ajax's surprise, she stared at the door for a moment, her lips parting in a slow smile.

He started for the handle, but before he could grab it, she seized it. She turned the handle and opened the door with considerable effort, then hauled herself in.

There was an air of pride and accomplishment to her as she did so. And he realized that she'd likely never opened a coach door before.

As he watched her cross into the coach, he was quite amazed by her determination and also the way her limbs looked under those breeches.

He cleared his throat.

This was going to be a very interesting journey indeed if she was dressed like that. He couldn't get over her ingenuity. He had thought that she might show up in some strange disguise, perhaps as an old lady who wielded judgement upon all those around her. After all, Winifred had spent so much time with such a person.

But no, this was something else altogether, and he found his lips twitching. Yes, she really did belong with a family like his.

Young ladies dressing up as men, play-acting, pretending, daring to want a bit more and loving Shakespeare?

She was perfect. Had she had any idea when she'd sent that note to him, or had that been the universe laughing uproariously as it put the idea in her head to seek out one Ajax Briarwood?

He groaned inwardly.

Was this his fate then? Was it to be inescapable? If so, should he just yield to it? He wanted to. Oh bloody hell. He did. Now that he'd met her. Now that he'd seen her in all her full glory, how could he not wish to give in to the fate of every Briarwood when faced with their mate?

He stood before the open coach door. Oh, how he wanted to give in if this was it. If she was indeed the one. And there was so much about her that veritably screamed that she was; he'd be a fool to ignore it.

He'd seen the happiness of his brothers and sisters as they had found love, and yet he'd begun to believe that perhaps he would never really find that because he wasn't like his brothers or sisters. He wasn't as deep as they were or as interesting, or at least that's what people seemed to think. And so in his most secret fears, he'd thought he might not find a great love as they had. That perhaps he was not as worthy.

And yet as he stood here on the precipice of surrendering to the life of a Briarwood who could not outrun the one, outside the coach on the cacophonous London street, he felt as if he was about to be launched into something. Something great. Something unknowable like a river. And if he was tossed in, he would find himself downstream, coursing towards some great beautiful unknown.

Suddenly, she leaned forward and poked her head back out the door. "Are you getting in?" she asked, her brows drawing together. "Or are you getting cold feet? Please say you're not. I've gone to a considerable amount of trouble to do this and, well, I'm looking forward to getting to know you."

Getting to know him.

His heart leapt at that. How many people had wanted to know him over the years and not just a Briarwood? Not just someone who was a bit notorious in the ton. His lips began to part in a slow smile. She made him smile. Oh, how she did. Over and over.

Ajax didn't look back. He grabbed the edge of the coach doors and he climbed in.