My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 5

It was, Blackwood decided, most assuredly a bad idea, because he could watch Alice climb the stairs above him. He ought not

to look. He did it anyway. He was a man, after all, and no saint. And so he studied the way her black half boots’ snug fit

revealed the neat turn of her ankles. And because women’s skirts were shorter these days (a small compensation for the rest

of their overblown dress), he could discern a few inches of the pink stockings encasing her lower calves. He could imagine

the rest.

Some would suppose that a glimpse of practically nothing couldn’t possibly excite a man of his age and experience. Some would

be wrong. A man’s age and experience had nothing to do with anything concerning women. Furthermore, this was Alice.

He made excuses to himself: He needed to know more about the Defenseless Child, because complications could result, such as Murder and That Sort of Thing. He needed to know more about Doveridge and whether Ripley ought to take him seriously as a suitor. If not, if the man was only playing with Alice the way he’d played with so many other women, Blackwood would have to damage him.

Those were weak—nay—laughable reasons. Furthermore, though Alice had invited Blackwood, she seemed to withdraw the invitation

shortly thereafter.

Very well. He’d erred. He was a man, and a woman could disrupt his brain’s proper operation, and Alice was better at that

than any other woman.

They reached the viewing platform soon enough. There the ladies, clearly no worse for the climb, promptly attached themselves

to Lynforde.

That explained the invitation and the apparent withdrawal. Alice had aimed the withdrawal at Blackwood. Lynforde was the one

who was wanted. No surprise there. The widowed earl was handsome, charming, and welcome in Society. Aunts and mamas didn’t

view him as Undesirable.

Not that Blackwood wanted aunts or mamas to look kindly upon him. He’d devoted years to achieving the opposite effect. One

day, he might be ready for a respectable girl and marriage, with its suffocating responsibilities and all the Correct Behavior these entailed. One day he might find himself in a suitable state of mind—or weary enough of life—to be a proper husband.

That time was not today or, possibly, this decade.

An improper husband was out of the question. If a gentleman decided to do the Right Thing, he followed the Rules.

The matter being settled, he used his solitude to organize his thoughts. He pushed aside ankles and pink stockings and reminded

himself why he was in London instead of carousing with his friends.

Worbury.

Murder or That Sort of Thing.

Unacceptable beaux.

The pink stockings hadn’t fully dislodged themselves from his mind when Alice abandoned Lynforde and joined him.

Blackwood’s heart gave a short, painful leap.

“Quite as described,” she said. “I feel as though I’m on top of a cloud, looking down on London.”

From where they stood, they could look out upon the royal gardens, the vast circular reservoir, the lake, and the pavilion.

London’s smoke hung over the scene, though not thickly today. All in all a fine view.

The one closer at hand was better. He caught a faint scent, one he remembered all too well, of something fresh and green.

Which Alice was not, he reminded himself. She was no green girl. He wasn’t sure she’d ever been.

With one brief, unhappy exception, she’d been educated abroad, primarily, safely distant from her parents. She was more sophisticated

than other English maidens. He supposed she’d drawn legions of foreign admirers, in between whatever clandestine activities

her best friend, Miss Pomfret, devised. Ah, yes. Miss Pomfret. That might explain the Defenseless Child.

“You seem to know more of London than most would suspect,” he said. “The foul-smelling little boy.”

Her expression softened. “Madame Girard’s Minerva Society.”

He’d heard of Madame Girard and her extensive philanthropy.

“Minerva, the goddess of trade,” he said. “And strategy in war. Among other things.”

“Madame’s fortune derives from trade. The war she fights is for London’s unwanted.”

“And you and Miss Pomfret learnt their language, and very likely their ways, from Keeffe.”

Miss Pomfret’s tiger-cum-bodyguard had grown up in London’s rookeries.

“It’s been a help to Madame,” Alice said. “I can talk to them and understand them, to an extent.”

“Luckily for that boy today.”

Her brow furrowed. “He had a narrow escape from my unpleasant cousin. If you hadn’t turned up, the crowd would have pounced,

and I should have had my hands full. Quick as he is, I’m not sure he’d be quick enough. As soon as somebody cries ‘Thief!’

all the world is ready to catch culprits, guilty or innocent.”

“He was not innocent,” Blackwood said.

“He did not pick Worbury’s pocket.”

“He was one of the distractions or lookouts.”

“He did not pick Worbury’s pocket.”

“What does it matter?” Blackwood said. “The brat’s vanished, and will lose himself in the stews easily enough. Does Doveridge

know about your unsavory associates?”

She threw him a lazy glance, then turned back to the view. “You’ve been reading gossip.”

He studied her profile and thought of Sphinxes. She hid something from him. He could feel it throbbing beneath the cool facade

she presented to the world.

“Always, though unnecessary in this case,” he said. “You’re the talk of the clubs. Even as we speak, gentlemen die of despair,

left and right.”

“The Duke of Doveridge is fully aware of my involvement with the Minerva Society,” she said. “He made a sizable donation only

last week.”

“And won your heart.”

“He’s generous. Intelligent. Witty. Kind.”

“Oh, he’s charming, no question,” Blackwood said.

With so many decades of practice, the old flirt ought to be.

“Have you passed along the news to Ripley?” she said.

“Of your impending engagement? There’s no great hurry. It may impend for a longer time than you anticipate. Other women have

tried to lead Doveridge to the altar.”

“Other women aren’t me,” she said. “Have you quarreled with my brother?”

“Hardly. We don’t live in one another’s pockets.”

“You had me fooled.”

“As I said before, I had business in Town.”

“Then you’ll rejoin them soon.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll stay on, to follow your progress with your new—well, he’s not so new, is he? Your progress with your

beau, I meant to say. The question is, Shall I wager on your success or his?”

She lifted her green gaze to meet his, and once again he caught a flicker of emotion in her eyes, a hint of what thrummed

beneath the surface.

He might have imagined it—a trick of the light, no more. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and all she gave him was

the Egyptian statue smile.

“I recommend you wager anything you like on my being wed by the first of August,” she said.

An ice sliver formed in the pit of his stomach. “You’ve set a date already? Does Doveridge know?”

“I set a date a month ago.” She walked away.

“Well, Aunt, have you seen enough?” he heard her say. “I have.”

Meanwhile, not far away

“By gad,” Lord Consett said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “By gad, I thought—”

“Think later,” Lord Worbury said. “For the present, I recommend you waylay your mother before she tells the world what happened at Hyde Park Corner.”

Consett gazed at him in consternation. “Waylay Mother? I don’t think—”

“Let me do the thinking,” Worbury said. “Unless, that is, you want to act as my second in the very near future, and carry

the bloodied remains away. If your mother makes an unflattering report about Lady Alice’s doings this afternoon, Blackwood

will blame us, and we’ll pay.”

“But we didn’t—”

“He won’t care whether we did or didn’t. We’ll pay, I promise you.”

Consett all but ran to join his mother. They hadn’t far to go, in any event, and as Worbury had supposed, they found Lady

Bartham quite ready to share her barouche with her favorite son. Now that Worbury’s prospects included a dukedom, she’d acquired

an affection for him, too.

The barouche was more or less a coach with the top missing. Since Lady Bartham’s footman sat in front with the coachman, on

a seat raised well above the passengers, one needn’t be concerned about servants following private conversations. Fear of

eavesdropping wasn’t what kept Consett tongue-tied. Like a great many other people, he was afraid of his mother. The prospect

of telling her what to do terrified him.

She didn’t intimidate Worbury. Growing impatient, he applied a surreptitious elbow to his friend’s ribs, to remind him of

his task.

Consett swallowed and said, “I must urge you, Mother, in the strongest terms, to say nothing to anybody of what happened today

at the arch.”

Her expression darkening, she looked from him to Worbury.

Worbury said, “You noticed, of course, the Duke of Blackwood, and wisely chose not to linger to chat.”

“Chat, indeed,” she said. “With that debauchee? He pollutes the very air about him. I wonder at Lady Kempton’s allowing her

niece to speak to him, brother’s friend or no. But the girl is indulged to a shameful degree.”

“He is by no means delightful company,” Worbury said. “The caustic wit. The pranks. You will understand, then, our wish to

avoid giving him reason to seek us out. For instance, if you happen to report today’s events in a way he construes as reflecting

discredit on Lady Alice, he’ll remember that Consett and I were on the spot.”

Consett chimed in, “Truly, Mother, we—Worbury and I—have had a pair of exceedingly narrow escapes from a meeting at dawn.

And this over the smallest things. Over nothing, really. But he—”

“Twice?” she said. “And the fiend back in London only—what? Three days? The man’s unspeakable.”

“Had to endure insult,” Consett said. “No choice. In front of my friends. ”

“Really, Alfred.”

“What would you have me do? Fight him?”

Her eyes widened. “Certainly not. Duels are illegal. You know how your father feels about them.”

What she meant was, the Duke of Blackwood was a deadly shot and dear Alfred was not. The duke’s fists were not to be underestimated,

either, a lesson he’d taught Consett and Worbury years ago at school.

“Would dearly love to keep in one piece, you know, Mother, with all parts in working order. Best if you overlook today’s doings

at Hyde Park Corner.”

“This is not to be borne.” The rose-and-cream complexion, so religiously maintained, darkened to brick red. “Those three dukes ought to be stripped of their titles. They belong in a lunatic asylum.”

“I beg you will not distress yourself, Lady Bartham,” Worbury said. “There are other ways to pay debts of honor. We shall

do so, if you would be so good as to say nothing of today’s events.”

Her gaze moved to the passing scene while she considered. Finally she turned back to them, her countenance once more serene.

“I was at the top of the arch,” she said. “All I saw was some sort of commotion. Beggar children bothering people. But really,

looking down on their heads from so great a distance, I could hardly make out who was there and what transpired.”

Minutes later, close by a hackney stand, the two gentlemen disembarked from her ladyship’s carriage.

“Now we shall square an account or two,” Worbury said.

He summoned a hackney coach and directed the driver to the Temple.

“The Temple?” Consett said as the vehicle set out. “Don’t you want a drink? I do.”

“Later. At the moment, I want a lawyer.”

“Not much else thereabouts, is there?” Consett said. “But whatever for?”

“You heard the brat, laughing at me. Mocking me.”

“Well, not exac—”

“Pretending he was going to warn me, the little bastard.”

“Yes, but I don’t think a lawyer—”

“I’m going to teach that young criminal some manners,” Worbury said. “I’ll teach him the unwisdom of trying to make a fool

of me.”

“Yes, but how the devil—”

“I know. First we have to catch him.” Worbury patiently outlined his plan.

Sussex Place, the Regent’s Park

Early evening of Tuesday 1 May 1832

Three women stood at a table in Lady Kempton’s drawing room, their expressions troubled.

Before them lay a dozen handbills, all the same, headed Missing Child .

According to the text, eight-year-old George Foster, who had disappeared some weeks previously, had been seen on Monday afternoon

at Hyde Park Corner. A ten-pound reward was offered for information leading to Master Foster’s recovery. Those with information

were invited to communicate with Mr. Maycock, solicitor, of the Fisk Building, Inner Temple. There followed a detailed description

of the missing boy: height, build, coloring, and facial features.

Alice looked up to meet Liliane Girard’s gaze. “It’s Jonesy, beyond question,” Alice said.

“It is most fortunate that you wrote to me yesterday about him and those boys,” her friend said.

She had arrived at Lady Kempton’s town house as Alice and her aunt were preparing to go out, to the theater.

“I didn’t like his new friends,” Alice said. “They worried me.”

“You were right to worry,” Liliane said. “You were right to tell me. Otherwise, I should have failed to perceive the connection.

Who would expect him to be at Hyde Park Corner, so far from his usual haunts?”

Frowning, Aunt Florentia looked at Alice. “Maycock. We know this name, do we not? Was there not something in the newspapers

recently?”

At the mention of newspapers, Alice remembered.

“A dispute about an annuity,” she said. “We recall the name because he acted for Worbury.” To Liliane she explained, “He’s a cousin, not as distant as we’d prefer. Not a nice man.”

“He’s the one whose handkerchief was stolen yesterday,” Aunt Florentia said. “The fuss he made!”

“He wanted Jonesy taken up for theft,” Alice said. She tapped one of the handbills. “Hyde Park Corner. An exact description

of the boy. Maycock is Worbury’s solicitor. You may be sure this is no coincidence.”

“So petty,” Aunt Florentia said. “So unlike his father.” She shook her head. “I can hardly credit it. To print scores of bills.

To have them distributed everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” Liliane said. “I found them in Covent Garden, but it seems they have been posted and handed out in neighborhoods

where thieves congregate.”

“Yet to go to so much trouble and expense!” Aunt Florentia said. “Over a handkerchief! The man seems to have satisfied his

creditors, but he’s hardly thriving. I wonder how he affords the house in Golden Square, and that a modest establishment compared

to his father’s.”

“He’s vindictive enough to go to any trouble, any expense,” Alice said. “Not that he’d care what it cost. Peers can’t be arrested

for debt.”

A month or so after Uncle Charles’s funeral, Worbury had disappeared from England, and nobody knew where he’d gone. Apparently

he was deeply in debt. Since he needn’t fear sponging houses and debtors’ prisons, he must have feared his creditors, which

meant they were the sort who break arms and legs.

Once Worbury got money—however he got it—the dangerous creditors would be the only ones he paid.

“We must get to the bottom of this,” Liliane said. “That child was never stolen from any family able to afford a solicitor. I am certain Jonesy has no family. I had better call on Mr. Maycock.”

“That will not be a helpful conversation, supposing you can contrive to see him,” Alice said. “A woman? Without a man to speak

for her? Even you will have trouble getting past his clerk. And if you do manage the feat, you’ll be dealing with a person

whose ethics must be questionable, given his client.”

“Yes, of course. I was not thinking clearly.” Liliane gave a huff of exasperation. “What are we to do, then? You know these

bills will get results. Ten pounds! A great fortune to ordinary people. And the thieves and such will sell their mothers,

aunts, sisters for half this amount. If Jonesy is in a gang, he’s a new recruit, expendable. If they believe he’s a stolen

child, they’ll want to be rid of him. They will not want him calling attention to their activities. And we know what will

happen once he falls into the hands of the authorities.”

He’d be deposited in an overcrowded orphanage or workhouse, then farmed out to one of the so-called schools and asylums outside

London.

The conditions in these places were too often unspeakable.

Alice knew, better than she ought to do, what they were like.

Even now she could see and hear it, as clear as if it played on a stage before her.

The Tollstone Academy in Yorkshire. Mrs. Tollstone smiling down at Alice, nine years old. Not a loving smile. Even the child

she’d been had realized that.

“We make no distinctions here,” the lady said. “All of our girls are treated the same, and all are expected to obey. If they do not, they are punished.” She stuck the knuckle of her index finger under Alice’s chin to make her look up at her, into that cold, smiling face. “Do you understand, girl?”

Alice remembered the hand, covered in rings. She remembered Mrs. Tollstone in her fine dress, while the girls all wore the

same cheap uniform, too flimsy for Yorkshire winters. Girls fell ill and were punished for it. She had been terrified of falling

ill. She’d been terrified and grief-stricken the whole time, but young as she was, she’d known enough to hide her feelings.

Only for three months. Only a lifetime before she was rescued.

What had become of those who were not?

Alice shook off the recollection. Dwelling in the past accomplished nothing. She brought her mind back to the present problem.

Liliane didn’t know about Alice’s time at the Tollstone Academy. She didn’t need to. She dealt with children in immeasurably

worse circumstances. She’d lived in London long enough to understand both its underworld and the Poor Laws better than most

Londoners did.

Not quite so well as Keeffe, though. What would he do in a situation like this?

“I doubt you’ll find Maycock at his chambers now, in any event,” Alice said. “A solicitor representing noblemen is unlikely

to keep late hours. The bills appeared only a few hours ago, you said. We’ve time. Jonesy is safe for now.”

So she hoped. She couldn’t search for a street child at night. She wasn’t sure where to begin. She wished Cassandra and Keeffe

were here.

They were far away, but she had allies, she reminded herself. She had her aunt and Liliane as well as her own wits to rely

upon.

“We’ve promised to attend the theater,” Aunt Florentia said. “Lady Felpham will arrive soon to collect us. We cannot change plans at this late hour.”

That would be unpardonably rude. Lady Felpham was sweet and kind, and her shy daughter, Emily, needed a friend.

Even if this hadn’t been the case, Alice couldn’t afford missteps. She needed to be everything her brother was not: responsible,

courteous, rule-abiding. She needed to be a paragon, damn him and his two partners in crime.

“Nothing can be done until morning,” she told her friend. “But I’ll come early. By then, I’ll have a plan, I promise.”