My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 9

Early morning of Thursday 3 May 1832

Fog obscured the sun floating up from the horizon as Aunt Florentia’s town coach turned into Piccadilly. Gazing out of the

window, Alice told herself she had nothing, really, to complain of. She’d danced twice with the Duke of Doveridge.

This was no small achievement. Since he always made sure that ladies did not languish, neglected upon the red sofas, he rarely

had time to dance with any lady more than once. Yet tonight, despite the shortage of gentlemen, he’d found time for a second

dance with her.

Furthermore, the notably fickle duke’s continuing interest roused her other suitors’ competitive instincts. Despite the night’s

thin attendance, she’d not only never lacked for partners but had seen her small collection of wallflowers—including Emily

Felpham—partnered for most of the evening.

Under the attention, Emily’s shyness receded somewhat. Of course, after the shock of meeting the Devil Duke of Blackwood in

person, other fears must diminish to near-nothingness.

“Good heavens, he did her a favor,” Alice said with a laugh.

“Which he , my dear, and what was the favor?” her aunt said.

Alice turned back to her. “Blackwood. Emily Felpham.”

Aunt Florentia laughed, too. “I’ll admit I was astonished when he sent up his card. But I could hardly turn him away, after

all he’d done.”

Alice shrugged. “You could, easily enough. He’s accustomed to my ingratitude. But what a treat it was, to watch his face when

Emily was allowed to make his acquaintance! It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.”

“I was taken aback as well. I never thought Lady Felpham would consent to the introduction.”

“Perhaps the shock of seeing him scattered her wits. It scattered mine, certainly.” More than that. A great deal more than

that. A mad urge to throw her arms about his neck and thank him. The echoing voice in her head: Why can you not be this man?

Hope. The small, flickering light that refused to snuff itself out.

A night so long ago. His arms about her. His mouth on hers and the world she knew falling away at the first taste of him.

The scents of the night and the warmth and strength of him, surrounding her. The haven of his arms and a moment of fierce

happiness, then his voice, low and choked as he broke from her: We can’t do this. I can’t do this.

Then he left her, and she stood, shattered, watching him go.

Above her head, stars glittered. For a moment, in his arms, she’d felt she was there, among the stars.

Aunt Florentia’s voice called her back from the past. “He managed well enough, shocked or not. He did not put a foot wrong.”

“His manners are impeccable when he chooses to apply them.”

But he didn’t choose to live among those who prized such qualities. He chose to apply his brain and skills to pleasure-seeking and juvenile pranks.

A waste of his life. A waste of all he could be.

She couldn’t undo the damage, and she certainly had better things to do than let gloom about him darken her mind.

She added more briskly, “At any rate, Emily survived, and the experience might have done her some good. She’ll have noted,

one hopes, that the Duke of Blackwood does not sport cloven hoofs, but is simply a man like other men, merely big and dark

and intimidating. But many gentlemen of rank can be intimidating when they choose. Even Doveridge. Girls like Emily need to

understand their own power, and not let men make them feel uncertain of themselves.”

“I should not say that Blackwood was like other men, Alice.”

“I’ll admit he can change the atmosphere merely by standing there.” Alice returned her gaze to the carriage window. “As to

atmosphere, I wonder if this fog ever means to lift. And is our carriage moving at all? I don’t recall Piccadilly being so

crowded at this hour. We traveled more quickly through King Street, so we can’t blame Almack’s crowd. Not that we constituted

any great crowd tonight. Is there an accident ahead, do you think?”

Despite the fog, Lord Worbury’s carriage had made its way from one of St. James’s gaming hells with little difficulty. Although

Almack’s had begun emptying at about the same time he set out, the journey proceeded smoothly until his carriage entered Golden

Square. There he found a host of adults and children of every age and the lowest levels of squalor.

They swarmed and settled like flies, crowding the pavement in front of his house and spreading out over the west side of the square to Upper John Street.

He sat, stunned, in his stalled carriage, aware of irate neighbors glaring down from their windows.

Somebody must have summoned the police, yet he saw no sign of them.

No surprise there. The Reform Bill disrupted everything. Mobs rioted across London and other towns. Thanks to a lot of softheaded

radicals—Doveridge and his ilk—the police were busy everywhere but here.

One of the taller wretches pointed at Worbury’s carriage, and the crowd surged toward him.

“Found him, yer ’onner,” somebody shouted.

The others took up the cry, with variations. Sometimes it was “Found ’er.” He became “yer worship” and “yer ’ighness” and

other barely intelligible honorifics.

The stench of poverty penetrated his carriage’s interior. He tried to close the window fully, but his hands shook too much.

This day had begun happily enough. Then came the infuriating news at Maycock’s chambers. Shortly thereafter, Worbury happened

upon a satirical print, stuck in a print shop window for all the world to gawk at. It depicted him with tears streaming down

his face as he knelt before Blackwood and begged, “Please don’t hurt me!” Then, when he was nearly home, he discovered he’d

lost his pocket watch, chains, seals—the lot.

Now this, on his very doorstep.

“Drive on, damn you!” he shouted.

The carriage inched on, hemmed in by the hordes who escorted the vehicle as it rounded the corner toward the mews. Grimy hands

waved handbills, the ones he’d ordered printed and plastered about the neighborhoods where thieves roosted.

He dared not disembark. Cholera ran rife among the poor. They carried its miasma, and here they were, a cloud of disease filling Golden Square.

“Send for a constable!” he screamed. “Somebody read the Riot Act! Do something, damn you!”

Not that anybody could hear him above the crowd’s chant: Found ’im. Found ’er.

With a furious struggle, he got the window fully closed. One after another fiend lunged at him, holding up a pile of rags—possibly

human—and shouting, “This ’er ’im, innit?” or “This ’un!”

“Fetch a constable!” he shouted, again and again until he was hoarse.

“A to-do in Golden Square?” Alice said, when the coachman had explained the constant stopping and starting. “Worbury lives

in Golden Square.”

What had Blackwood said?

By tomorrow, he’s likely to decide London no longer agrees with him. In any case, you may leave him to me.

“I want to see,” she said.

“Alice, it may well be a riot,” her aunt said. “Between the cholera and the Reform Bill—”

“In Golden Square?” Alice said. “Not in Whitehall or under the Duke of Wellington’s windows?” She told the coachman to drive

to Golden Square.

Her aunt countermanded the order. “Are you mad, child? A public disturbance—and you mean to plunge into it?”

She couldn’t sit in the coach another minute.

“I want to see for myself.” The carriage had stopped again. Alice put down the window and reached for the door handle.

“Alice!”

In a moment she was on the pavement, stumbling a little from the jump, but she quickly regained her balance and hurried through Lower John Street.

She heard footsteps behind her. Thomas, as usual, required to guard her.

“My lady!”

“Hush.” She quickened her pace.

She heard the chanting voices first. When she reached the corner of Golden Square, she saw the source. A crowd of what many

would call London’s refuse milled about the western side of Golden Square, the greater part in front of Number Twenty-One.

Worbury’s house.

She started to move nearer when she felt a hand on her arm. “I’d keep out of it if I was you, princess.”

The hairs on the back of her neck lifting, Alice turned. She had light enough to make out Maggie Proudie’s unremarkable face.

A groan made Alice glance downward. Behind them, Thomas struggled to rise from the pavement.

“What have you done to him?” Alice started to push past Maggie. One might as well try to push an ox out of the way. Her hand

was like a manacle.

“Well, you’re a bold one, ain’t you? There’s some’d pay good money for little girls who run about looking for trouble.” Maggie

eyed her dress up and down. “And that frock don’t suit this party.”

Large as it was, Alice’s cashmere shawl couldn’t conceal her white gauze ball dress. It was a costly article, embroidered

in green silk, with matching green silk bows on the shoulders and the back of the waist, whence floated ribbons.

People could be murdered for their clothes, she knew.

She adopted her washerwoman’s mode of speech: “It suits me well enough, Missus Proudie, and I recommend you take your hand off of me, if you don’t want some fingers broke.”

A short, tense pause. Then Maggie laughed. “Oh, it’s you, is it? Got up like a queen.”

“My lady.” Thomas had risen to his hands and knees.

“Oh, Thomas, are you hurt?” Alice said.

“Nah, he only tripped over somethin’.”

“Your foot, no doubt!”

“ My lady , is it? Well, you’re a one, ain’t you?”

“Where is he?” Alice said.

“Where’s who?”

“You know who I mean. This has his handprint all over it.” With the hand not encumbered by Maggie’s iron grip, Alice gestured

at the crowd, all chanting and holding up children or signs.

“That would be me,” came a low voice behind her. “She’s always chasing me about. You may let her go, Maggie. I’ll see that

she doesn’t hurt anybody. Kindly help the footman to his feet. It looks as though he went down hard, poor fellow.”

“Well, how was I to know what they was about?” Maggie said. “She come raging through the street, and him behind her. Mebbe

he had something bad in mind for her, you know, and mebbe I was lookin’ out for her. I look out for girls, you know.”

For the brothels, most likely.

“You may leave her to me,” Blackwood said.

Blackwood sent Thomas back to the coach to let Lady Kempton know that Alice was safe and would return shortly.

Then, when a highly amused Maggie and a greatly shaken Thomas had gone, Blackwood led Alice deeper into the shadows of the square.

His heart was pounding, and he wanted to shake her. He made himself very, very calm and said, “Did I not tell you I had everything

in hand?”

“There was a to-do in Golden Square, the coachman told us,” she said. “Worbury lives here. Did you think me incapable of putting

two and two together?”

“You couldn’t do that from a distance?”

“I wanted to see.”

“And what about those who might see you? You are not inconspicuous.” He gestured at her dress, a froth of white, dotted with

green. He was near enough to detect the scent of greenery that belonged to her and nobody else.

“I was sitting in the carriage forever! I’ve been smiling and pretending half the night. Three partners insisted on performing

the steps to the wrong dances, mainly on my toes, but I danced on, as one must. One of the Season’s fair damsels was beastly

to Lady Olympia Hightower, but I could not knock the spiteful cat against one of the mirrors she was so fond of looking into

or even swat her with my fan. I made do with a setdown that probably went over her head. And that isn’t the half of it. You

don’t know what it’s like. I only wanted to get home and out of my dress and to bed. But we were stuck in the Quadrant this

age, and when I guessed why, I wanted to see.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of the rant, and decided not to try. This had been a long day and night.

He looked down at her feet. “You are wearing dancing slippers.”

“What should I wear to Almack’s? Galoshes?”

“Your slippers are made of silk. Men have danced on your toes, which must be begging for mercy. Yet you run through the filthy London streets like one of the urchins you’re trying to save.”

“I don’t care!”

She all but jumped up and down. Inside, she was probably doing so. He knew this Alice very well. This was the girl who climbed

down ivy-covered bricks from second-floor windows. This was the girl who beat unpleasant boys until they begged for mercy,

then dragged them into a river.

He clasped her arms. He wanted to pick her up and kiss her until she melted and clung to him the way she’d done so long ago.

That was the past, and a mistake. What he ought to do was shake her.

“Now you’ve seen for yourself. Being a clever girl, you grasp my cunning scheme.”

The myrtle sprigs sprouting from her coiffure bobbed as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “You enlisted Maggie Proudie

to do your bidding.”

“She rules a vast criminal network. She did in a few hours what would have taken me a week or more to arrange, and she was

delighted to do so.”

“For a price.”

“Certainly. That is not to say she hasn’t enjoyed herself. Meanwhile I’ve performed a public service, you see, in directing

her extensive powers to rid London of a menace.”

“Another good deed, Giles? Will this not bring on dyspepsia? Or an attack of megrims?” She looked from one to the other of his hands. “You may release me now. I shouldn’t dream of disrupting your elegant mise-en-scène. I cannot wait to hear the gossip this afternoon at the Queen’s Drawing Room. And when the topic comes up, you may be sure I shall seek details and be as eager as anybody else to discover what it was all about.”

He was a fool, the greatest fool. Touching her was always a mistake. Letting go was painful. He didn’t want to. But she was

here to find a worthy husband, and he was here to make sure nothing got in her way. He owed it to her.

He stepped back a pace. He could still feel the warmth of her skin through his leather gloves. He drew in her scent with every

breath. “Then you’d better go home and get some rest. I shall walk with you back to the carriage.”

His mind drifted to beds, to the image of a certain young woman in bed, her black hair streaming over the pillows...

He hauled the image into the mental cavern.

“It isn’t a very long walk,” she said.

“You are not going alone.”

“If that’s the case, you might tell me all the lovely details on the way.”

“It’s a prank, Alice. You hate pranks.”

“Not when done for a noble cause.”

“Nobility has nothing to do with it. Duels are tedious and murder is scandalous, and I’m not supposed to make scandal that

could possibly be connected with you. Unnecessary, in any event. You are perfectly capable of creating a disturbance with

no help from anybody else.”

But he did tell her. All the lovely details. She listened appreciatively. And when he handed her up to her aunt’s carriage,

and the door closed, he felt regret and regret and regret.

After what seemed like years, the crowd in Golden Square melted away as though they’d never been, and the fog began to lift. Then, at last, when he could be of no earthly use, a constable appeared, apologetic.

A cartload of bricks had spilled in Beak Street, blocking the way. A drunken brawl had erupted in Warwick Street. A wagon

had got stuck at the corner of Brewer Street. In short, many residents of Golden Square and its environs had been unable to

get home, thereby slowing travel in Regent Street.

Lord Worbury scarcely heeded the excuses. He was too frightened even to abuse the constable. Nigh weeping with relief, he

entered his house. As he crossed the vestibule, he heard a whispery sound behind him. He turned in time to see a folded piece

of paper slide toward him from under the door.

With trembling hands, he picked it up and unfolded it. The paper was cheap, and the message was written in pencil in a rough

hand. Still, the coarse black capitals were clear enough:

LEAVE MY LADS ALONE OR NEXT TIME IT GOES WORSE FOR YOU.

***

When Maggie’s legions had gone, Blackwood joined her in the shadows of Golden Square’s east side.

“Neatly done,” he said.

“Easy enough when a girl has coin enough to manage it.”

“Money works magic,” he said.

“You know that trick well enough, from what I been hearing.”

He and his friends had grasped the simple rule long ago: Pay enough, and people become wonderfully forgiving and cooperative.

Not everybody. Good Society tended to look askance at the pranks, melees, and other rule-breaking.

Their Dis-Graces did not give a damn about Society. That wasn’t where the fun was.

This prank wasn’t for the fun of it.

Maggie didn’t care what it was for. She cared about the money he paid her to bring it off successfully. She’d done so, sending

out a team to follow Worbury and report his whereabouts, summoning minions to block access to the square and a host of wretches

to play their parts within it.

She was formidable, and Blackwood could have throttled Alice for placing herself in this woman’s path again.

“I’ve heard nothing about you, and I don’t require enlightenment,” he said. “It’s enough to know you keep your bargains, for

which I thank you. All the same, I believe we’d do well not to become better acquainted.”

“Right. Don’t want to put your pretty mort’s nose out of joint. Got yerself a handful there, I see.” She laughed. “I’m good

at not being found, yer worship. But if you ever do need me, I reckon you’ll find a way to let me know.” She strolled away.

He, too, walked away, in the opposite direction.

If tonight’s scheme succeeded, Worbury would move to a safe distance. Then, once the Worm was out of the picture... Then

what?

Lynforde could be Ripley’s eyes and ears. He knew London. He knew Alice.

Better to leave the rest to him. Better to go back—to Ripley and Ashmont and the life Blackwood had chosen. He told himself it was the life he wanted, where he and his friends made their own rules. He told himself it was fun. Horse races. Boxing and wrestling matches. Brawls. Gaming. Pranks. Women. Wine. And more of the same.

Fine remedies for every malady. Repeat as needed.

He returned to Blackwood House and went to bed.