My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 14

They made their way westward toward the too-swiftly descending sun, or what one assumed was the sun, behind a vast bank of

clouds. Though nightfall was a few hours away, the clouds would bring an early twilight. Searching would become harder, then

impossible.

Alice told herself it was no use fretting about the darkness until it came.

Meanwhile she waited in the carriage.

Blackwood and Pratt, the larger of the two servants, had entered a ramshackle establishment called the Blue Sow nearly half

an hour earlier.

Elphick stood patiently at the horses’ heads, as he’d surely done countless times before.

“You and Pratt must be hungry,” Alice said.

“I thank you, my lady, but it’s these girls we got to look out for.” He patted them affectionately. “Me and Pratt had sandwiches before, at the Lovedon Arms, and got more for later. Servant girl there packed ’em up for us. What with leaving London so sudden, and not sure where we’d be going, His Grace made sure they took care of things at the inn. They did it properly, too. Good corn for these fine mares. And carrots for treats.”

Undoubtedly the Lovedon Arms proprietors would have packed up the contents of the wine cellar if needed. Clearly Their Dis-Graces

had spread their largesse there, as they did over all the establishments they frequented.

Very well. The dukes might have been worse human beings. True, their motives were selfish: They required cooperation and comfort.

Yet others, ostensibly better-behaved, treated those who served them rudely, unkindly, even brutally.

Generosity to others was all well and good. Nonetheless, it did not undo the damage the dukes did to themselves, day after

day. It didn’t ease the anxiety of those who cared about them.

They had not always been like this. The process of three mischievous boys turning into a trio of reckless pleasure-seekers

had been a gradual one. Perhaps it had started in their Eton days. Then or shortly thereafter.

Her mind was drifting into the past when Blackwood emerged from the Blue Sow and strode to the carriage.

She watched him greet the horses and murmur praise as he petted them and rewarded their patience with carrots. These were

powerful, spirited creatures who could not love the slow pace and the constant stopping and starting. Yet they behaved beautifully.

Their owner understood them, and they liked him, clearly. Even Keeffe wouldn’t find fault in this category.

As Blackwood climbed onto his seat, her mind made pictures of the boy he’d been, the boy who thought of everything and knew

how to do everything. The boy she’d admired. Adored.

But that sweet boy was gone. Only tantalizing hints seemed to remain in the saturnine man beside her.

She kept her sigh to herself.

“It’s gossip, but it’s recent and it fits,” he said as he took up the ribbons. A long pause followed. Then, “One of the local

ne’er-do-wells has acquired an expensive shirt. His bosom companion sports other finery. Both have been flashing their blunt,

and everybody is speculating about where and how they acquired these garments and the coins they spend so freely.”

It took Alice a moment to absorb the news. Then, as she took in the implications, she thought she would be sick.

And being sick would accomplish what? she asked herself, as Keeffe would have asked. After all, this was Ripley they were looking for. Losing his clothing did not necessarily mean what it seemed to mean. He’d done mad things for a wager.

Naked adventures were not unheard-of. His clothes might have been stolen while he slept... wherever he’d slept.

She collected herself. “Any idea where we might find this fine pair?”

“To my surprise, informants were not only many and willing but have also kindly provided directions to the suspects’ lair.”

He nodded westward. “It lies north of the main road, among the potteries and piggeries.”

“You were in there for so long, I assumed the people were uncooperative.”

“On the contrary, they were surprisingly forthcoming. Messieurs Bray and Moss are unpopular.”

“Dangerous men, then?”

He shrugged. “Dangerous or pestilent. I suspect the latter. Dangerous men create fear, and fear breeds silence. All the same,

I believe we need to be cautious.”

“Does that mean I’m to wait in the carriage again?” She didn’t like it, but quarreling with him only wasted time. He could be extremely pigheaded.

So could she, but that was different. A woman had to hold her ground or she’d be mowed down.

“You’ve had a long wait,” he said. “You must be bored witless.”

She wished she were bored. She wished she could stop her mind from imagining terrible things.

“I whiled away the time reviewing my grievances against my brother and imagining suitable punishment for the trouble he’s

caused me.”

There was a silence. It lengthened. He gave the horses leave to start.

At last she said, “I’m not a fool, Giles. I know there are a number of explanations, and not all happy ones.”

“Yes.”

“You believe he’s in trouble.”

“I’m allowing for the possibility.”

“Then the sooner we find him, the better,” she said.

The cottage was larger than others in the vicinity, but no more elegant. It stood at an inconvenient distance from the broad

lane they’d traversed, but at least the ground was relatively dry, sparing Blackwood and Pratt the need to trudge through

the muck.

Smoke drifting from the chimney told him somebody was at home.

Pratt knocked on the door while Blackwood stood a little to one side. A tall, gangly fellow opened the door. Before he could react, Blackwood grabbed him by the front of his coat. Ripley’s coat. Blackwood had only to touch it to recognize the fine wool. He yanked the fellow through the door and out into the yard.

“Get off of me!” the thief screamed. “Murder! He’s murdering me!”

Blackwood heard shuffling and thumping from within.

“Go!” he told Pratt. “Don’t let the other one get away.”

The groom ran inside the cottage.

A minute later, he ran out again. “Climbed out of the window,” he gasped, and raced round the side of the house.

Blackwood shook his captive. “Your friend won’t get away. All the world’s looking for him. What sort of half-wit robs a nobleman?”

Any number of half-wits, he knew. Even royalty wasn’t immune. The late King had had his pocket picked in Manchester.

“Get off of me! I don’t know nuffin’!”

It wanted every iota of Blackwood’s self-control not to throttle the man, or throw him down and stomp on him.

Ripley’s coat.

He thrust the villain against the side of the cottage and lifted him up until his feet dangled.

“Can’t breathe! Get off! Oof!”

Blackwood knocked his head against the cottage wall, then dropped him.

“Ow! You broke my leg!”

“Get up.”

“You broke my leg!”

“I don’t care. Get up or I’ll twist your head off your neck.”

The fellow scrambled upright. “You can’t go about—”

“I can do what I damned well please.” Blackwood grasped the coat lapels with one hand, pulling them tightly together.

“I can’t breathe.”

“You’re talking. Now tell me which one you are. Bray? Moss?”

“You got the wrong one. Never heard of—”

Blackwood tightened his grip, heedless of creases or any other damage. The coat would have to be burnt in any event. The man

hadn’t bathed in some time, if ever. “I’m going to count to five. Then I’ll start breaking your fingers until you remember

your name. One.”

His name was Lewin Moss. He claimed he’d won the coat in a card game.

Blackwood dragged him into the cottage. He did not have to search. The goods were heaped on a table. He had light enough to

see a pair of pantaloons. A hat. Neckcloth. Handkerchief. Purse. They must have been counting their treasures and deciding

how best to dispose of them when he and Pratt turned up.

“Quite a profitable card game,” he said. “Did you leave him anything?”

“I dunno what—”

Blackwood backhanded him, and Moss fell.

“Get up,” Blackwood said. “There’s a sack. Put those items into it. All of them. We’re going for a walk.”

Moss started screaming that he hadn’t done anything. He didn’t know anything.

If only he knew how close to death he was.

“You’re wasting precious time,” Blackwood said. “My patience is running thin. You can cooperate, or you can die a slow and agonizing death, after which your corpse will feed the nearest pigs. If you cooperate, I will leave you to His Majesty’s justice. In that case, depending on what exactly you’ve done and what the judge and jury determine, you might hang, or you might be transported to New South Wales. Or maybe you’ll be lucky and win a few years at hard labor. Choose. I will count to five. One.”

Moss hurriedly collected the sack and started shoving Ripley’s belongings into it.

Meanwhile

“Did you hear something?” Alice said.

“Shouts, like,” Elphick said.

They both looked in the direction Blackwood and Pratt had gone.

“He must have found them,” she said.

I hope he doesn’t kill them , she thought. Not, at least, until they found Ripley.

More noise, from the same direction.

She was debating whether to climb down and make her way to the cottage to try to prevent murder when a half-dressed, scrawny

young man burst into the lane. He stopped short, gave the carriage one startled look, then took to his heels.

In the moment he’d paused, she’d taken in the shirt and waistcoat, too large for him. Too rich for him.

“Elphick!” she cried. “He’s one of them!”

She reacted instinctively, gathering up the ribbons, straightening and separating them.

“My lady, I don’t think—”

She gave the horses the alert, and loosened the reins. “Go along, girls,” she ordered crisply. “After him.”

Keeffe had trained her and Cassandra to maintain absolute calm while driving. No shouting, whipping, jerking on the ribbons.

No panic. No hint of anything less than complete self-control. Horses sensed uncertainty and fear. It was the driver’s or

rider’s job to exude confidence and mastery.

That came from practice and practice and practice. In this case, she had a pair as well-trained as she. They came promptly to attention and started, though a stranger held the reins and a strange voice issued orders.

She was vaguely aware of men shouting behind her, but her attention was on her prey and the cattle. Circe and Sappho were

eager to be on the move again, clearly, after so much stopping and starting. Very likely this wasn’t the first time they’d

set out in pursuit of somebody. They needed little urging to pick up speed. They seemed to know what she expected of them.

Chariot races, that was why. Their Dis-Graces would compete for which of them would come closest to a fatal collision with

a tree, a fence, a wall, the ground...

The thoughts flew through her mind, mere wisps, while she concentrated on her quarry.

The thief—for thief he surely was—turned abruptly into a lane she hadn’t realized was there, and she nearly overturned the

carriage when she rounded the corner. The way was narrower and deeply rutted. A part of her mind was aware of the risk she

took, driving a vehicle made for a man who owned longer legs and arms and a great deal more muscle. In this tight place, the

work would be challenging even for Blackwood. She was more than likely to lame the horses or break an axle, a shaft. Endless

possibilities for catastrophe.

Too late to worry.

She couldn’t turn back. She wouldn’t.

Grasping Moss’s arm, Blackwood led him back to the lane where he’d left the carriage. He would have preferred to drag the cur along the ground and kick him in the head a few times on the way. That would be satisfying but not productive. One must remain calm. One must exert self-control.

They reached the lane.

But no, this couldn’t be the place. He’d got turned about somehow.

The carriage. Not there.

Alice. Not there.

But there was Elphick, staring, as one dumbstruck, down the road.

“What?” Blackwood said. “Where is she?”

The tiger started, and shook his head as though to clear it. “It happened so fast, Your Grace, I—”

Blackwood went cold inside. “What. Happened. ”

Elphick explained.

Alice had nearly caught up with her prey when he turned into another lane. Though not much more than a cart track and badly

rutted, it was somewhat wider. The horses trotted on, easily gaining on the runner.

“Good girls,” she said. “Let’s get him.”

The young ruffian ran, but not as fleetly as before and more unsteadily. Drink as well as fatigue were getting the better

of him. He was no horse, let alone a match for Circe and Sappho. Soon they were neck and neck with the thief, then drawing

ahead. She turned the mares aside to block the way and brought the carriage to a halt.

Stymied, the wretch turned to go back the way he’d come and stumbled. He staggered on, gasping. She laid down the reins and

climbed down, whip in hand, and went after him.

He tried to run, tripped, fell, and picked himself up.

She marched on, heart pounding. “You’d better stop,” she said. “Before you make me truly angry.”

He glanced back at her. “You keep off of me! I didn’t do nuffin’!”

“Then why do you run from me?”

He didn’t answer. He tried to jog along, but he was limping now.

Alice noticed people coming out of buildings to stand in doorways. They watched. It was strangely quiet but for her and the

runaway’s footsteps and his gasping. The onlookers were mute.

He looked about him for a way out. Every door was blocked. No signs of sympathy. Only blank faces.

He turned suddenly, lunged at her, and shoved her aside. She staggered and started to topple toward a wall. She pushed herself

back upright, spun toward him, and swung the whip at his legs.

He shrieked and went down.

She marched toward him.

“You keep off of me!” He struggled to get up. “I didn’t do nuffin’!”

“Down,” she said. “You stay down. I’m done playing with you.”

He rose unsteadily.

The whip lashed again at his legs, and he toppled.

“You bitch! You broke my leg!”

She scarcely heard him. She saw the shirt clearly now. Fine linen. The ruffles at the neck opening. The finely sewn cuffs,

fully visible at the bottom of his shabby coat sleeves, because the shirtsleeves were much too long for him. The pearl buttons.

The whip fell from her hand, and she forgot everything else in the world except her brother.

Ripley’s shirt. Expensive, superior quality. He was so particular about his linen. He would fuss for hours over buttons.

She launched herself at the horrible creature wearing her brother’s shirt.

But he’d already got back onto his feet.

“You keep off!” he shouted. He pushed her away.

She stumbled backward but found her footing and swung out at him. He dodged, laughing, and lifted a hand to strike her. She

threw a punch, wildly, and caught him hard on the nose. Blood spurted. He screamed and staggered backward, clutching his nose.

She stalked toward him. He tottered and fell.

“You. Filthy. Cur. What have you done? Get up and tell me or I’ll pummel you to a streak of grease. Where is he, you miserable

swine?”

“Alice.”

She was dimly aware of the low voice, but it was far away, on the edges of a cloud of rage and grief. She clenched her hands,

nails digging in.

She stood over the wretch. “My brother , you disgusting excuse for a man. Where is he? What have you done?”

“Alice.”

Big hands took hold of her and pulled her back, before she could fall on the—the thing who wore her brother’s shirt, and pummel

him senseless. She wanted to hurt him. Needed to.

“I’ll kill you,” she said.

“Not now, Alice. We need him to talk.”

Blackwood drew her away.

She went, numbly.

“No,” she said. “No, no, no.”

She turned to him and set her face against his chest. And wept.