My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 26

Tuesday 16 July 1833

As Blackwood and Lynforde were leaving the Haymarket Theater, a tall youth wearing a shiny top hat, a coat two sizes too large,

and trousers six inches too short accosted them.

“Message, yer wership,” he said, and added in a lower tone, “Maggie sent me.”

“This is for me,” Blackwood said.

Lynforde eyed the young fellow dubiously. “Are you quite sure?”

Blackwood nodded.

Lynforde took the hint and stepped out of earshot.

Blackwood signaled to the boy to move aside, toward the shops adjoining the theater, and out of the way of the emerging crowd.

The boy gave a furtive look about him.

“Nobody will trouble us,” Blackwood said. When he wasn’t with Alice, a great many people still tended to shy away.

“Wot she says is, vem traps took up vat lad of yours on account of springin’ ’is plant and d’yer want ’er to stall ’im orf

or do it yerself, only yer better be quick.”

It took Blackwood a moment to make sense of these sounds, because this boy’s speech was even less penetrable than Jonesy’s. It took another moment to grasp the meaning through the cant: The police had caught Jonesy with stolen goods, and did Blackwood want Maggie to get him out or did Blackwood want to do it?

“I’ll do it,” Blackwood said. “Where are they holding him?”

The boy jerked his head eastward. “’atton Garden.”

Blackwood gave him a coin, and the messenger promptly vanished into the crowd.

When the duke rejoined his friend, he said, “You’ll recollect the incident not a year ago, at Hyde Park Corner?”

“How could I forget?” Lynforde said. “It led you down the path to matrimony.”

“The boy Alice defended that day has been taken up. He’s at the Hatton Garden police office. I suspect they caught him with

the goods he obtained during the recent incident at the Hanover Square Rooms.”

“And they assume he stole them. A natural conclusion to jump to, in the circumstances.”

“They jump quickly, indeed. Last year, as I recall, these same Hatton Garden geniuses took up a boy on suspicion of picking

pockets. He had no stolen items upon him, but a police officer said the boy had been in trouble before. On this non-evidence

he was immediately sentenced to time in the house of correction.”

“I suggest we make haste,” Lynforde said.

***

Thursday 17th Instant

My dearest girl,

I’ve got him!

The little beast got himself taken up in Holborn with the heap of fine goods lawfully obtained at the fancy fair. Luckily

for Jonesy, our dear friend Mrs. Proudie sent another young criminal to alert me. Lynforde and I raced to the Hatton Garden

police office, arriving in the nick of time. I explained matters, and Lynforde provided another eyewitness account. In short

order—by police office standards, which is to say, early this morning—they released the brat, and I took him into custody.

Over his vociferous objections, we went straight to the nearest baths. After leaving him in the hands of the largest and strongest

of the attendants, I sent another in search of clean clothes.

I recovered your favorite sewer rat this afternoon. He was not happy, but he was clean. Then I had to decide what to do with

him. Finding myself short of brilliant ideas, I took him to Keeffe. This turned out to be a brilliant idea, if I may congratulate

myself. The boy can’t read or write, but he knew who Tom Keeffe was. The famous jockey is a legend in the back-slums and stews,

as you are no doubt aware. Overawed, Jonesy was a strangely subdued and obedient version of himself.

After a lengthy private discussion with the lad, Keeffe suggested I try him in my stables. I daresay Jonesy will corrupt the rest of the grooms and stable boys, but I did not like to turn him loose without your consent. Keeffe did warn me that Jonesy mayn’t stay. “He’s young, maybe nine or ten, but he’s got the habit of being independent,” I was told. “If he starts feeling crowded or maybe told to do this or that too many times, he’ll be off. Same if he don’t feel comfortable about something or somebody. Just warning you.” These are not Keeffe’s precise words, but I don’t know how to render his unique speech into the King’s English.

He also said he thought the boy’s face was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Given his being nearly trampled to death during

the fateful race, we might consider it a miracle that Keeffe has any memory at all.

Undoubtedly you know as much about the progress of Ashmont’s courtship as I do. Probably more. I try to keep out of it. Miss

Pomfret summoned him while we were at Camberley Place, he obeyed the summons with alacrity, and I left him to it while I lingered

to enjoy several more days of laziness and peace in the fishing house. I even read without interruption a book I found there:

a thought-provoking, well-worn tome by a Mrs. Wollstonecraft. Most enlightening. All in all a refreshing and heartening change

of pace. No doubt the revival of my spirits contributed to my quick and clever thinking today.

They will revive further when you return.

I remain

Your humble and obedient husband,

B

Tuesday 23 July 1833

A little fraud here. A little card cheating there. A false identity. A slight misrepresentation. The trick was to keep moving.

This was the way Lord Worbury kept himself in funds in the year and more that had passed since he was cheated of his inheritances,

as he saw it. Not the best year of his life. He had avoided showing his face in London, sure that everybody would be laughing

at him.

He’d done fairly well since, at various races and elsewhere, thanks to making friends with a few extremely sharp men. The

trouble was, one or two had turned out sharper than he, and he’d found it prudent to move on, not back to Town, but near it.

At present he resided in Chelsea, and not as comfortably as he’d like.

This evening, as happened several times a week, Lord Consett dined with him. Tonight they met at the White Horse Inn on Church

Street, and Consett had news, as he always did.

“My mother says Blackwood’s taken in a beggar child to work in his stables,” Consett told his friend. “She says it’s the same

boy Ashmont had with him at the fancy fair at the Hanover Square Rooms last month. It seems the brat was taken up for thievery

not long ago, and Blackwood actually went to the police office and had him set free.”

This was news, indeed. Worbury knew about Ashmont’s prank at the fancy fair, again thanks to Lady Bartham. She’d been present at the event, and provided her usual scathing observations.

“I wonder how Blackwood found out the boy was at the police office,” he said. “Was it in the newspaper?”

“Not likely. The duke got him out only a few hours after they brought him in. Lynforde was there, too.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Curious, isn’t it? My mother says somebody else saw the new stable boy the other day, and told her he’s fair.”

Worbury’s attention sharpened.

“Don’t know why, but it made me think about that pickpocket you tried to find,” Consett went on. “They’re all so dirty, I

can’t tell whether they’re fair or dark. But you said that one was fair. Blue eyes.”

“Blue eyes. The scars. The nose. The chin. Oh, I’d know the cunning little bastard anywhere, clean or dirty.” Worbury poured

himself more wine while he turned the matter over in his mind.

“I wouldn’t, no matter how close I looked. Not that I’d want to look close. Rather not breathe the same air, to tell the truth.

Don’t know where they’ve been. Like I told my mother, they all look the same to me. You’ve the sharper eye by far.”

And the sharper ear. And brain. Worbury remembered all three pickpockets. He could pick out any one of them in a crowd.

The brat Alice had protected, though, remained distinctly clear in his mind, thanks to the fuss she and Blackwood had made

over him.

But that little troublemaker was under the protection of criminals who’d frightened Worbury sufficiently to make him leave

London and stay away.

All the same...

“I should like to get a look at this felon they’ve res cued,” he said. “He must be special, for them to go to so much bother about him. Then, to take him under their own roof is extraordinary.”

“Mother says they’re asking to be murdered in their beds. The boy will have accomplices, she says, and show them the way.”

Worbury did not object to this outcome. He strongly suspected Blackwood’s having a hand in the changes to Ripley’s will. Ripley

lacked the Machiavellian turn of mind to devise such schemes on his own.

Sadly, the chances of the Blackwoods’ being murdered were minute to nil. Only the boldest, cleverest, and most vicious villains

would consider it—then reconsider, most likely.

He knew all too well what the villains would be up against.

He’d experienced Alice’s temper years ago. He’d never forget the experience, or the humiliation. Both Blackwood and Ripley

had watched two little girls beating him until he wept. The ruffian whose nose she’d broken last year wouldn’t forget that,

either.

As to Blackwood, most men would as soon tangle with the Old Harry himself.

None of which meant that revenge couldn’t be had, especially for a man with years of grievances stored away, not to mention

the more recent indignities he’d endured.

The boy, whoever he was, was the chink in the Blackwoods’ armor.

“If it’s the same boy, the one we saw at Hyde Park Corner, there’s no question he has dangerous confederates,” he said. “Your

mother may well have the right of it. You know I don’t love my cousin Alice, and I’m no friend of Blackwood’s. All the same,

we can’t stand idly by when there’s likely to be murder in Mayfair, can we?”

“Well, I—”

“One crime begets another,” Worbury said. “If one set of villains succeeds, the others will grow bold. Then none of us will

be safe. I’d better get a look at this boy.”

The letter had arrived while Alice was away. Her secretary had sorted the correspondence as usual. This was among the many

applications for help Alice received weekly.

This was not like the others. Not remotely like the others.

Heyshaw, Yorkshire

2 August 1833

Madam,

I take the very great liberty of writing to Your Grace, in hopes that your considerable experience will help guide our group

in establishing the Heyshaw School for Girls.

Aware of the many claims on Your Grace’s time, I shall be as brief as possible. Our society, which we have modeled upon London’s Minerva Society, aspires to carry out, here in the West Riding, Madame Girard’s good work. We intend the Heyshaw School for Girls as an equally inexpensive alternative to the Tollstone Academy nearby, whose distressing reputation Your Grace may already be aware of. Suffice to say the conditions in that place are deplorable and have only worsened in recent years.

We have found a suitable building with sufficient surrounding land. Thanks to generous benefactors, we have begun the process

of acquiring the property. It is small, but one must begin somewhere. Regrettably, small as this beginning is, Mr. Tollstone

has raised endless objections and used his influence to create every possible stumbling block. At present we find ourselves

stymied.

Naturally we are aware of the many obstacles Madame Girard and the Minerva Society have encountered. Rather than repeat methods

that the Society have already discovered to be unhelpful, we apply to Your Grace for guidance.

I keep this short on purpose. No doubt ours is but one of many applications for aid that cross your desk daily, any number

I daresay more urgent than this one. If, however, you can find the time to make suggestions or direct us to those who can

help resolve our difficulties, we—and a number of young girls—will be most grateful. I shall be more than happy to send particulars,

if desired.

I have the honor to be,

Madam,

Your Grace’s most obedient,

and most humble Servant,

Eliza Eccles

Alice set down the letter and covered her face with her hands.

Hyde Park

Friday 9 August 1833

“Yorkshire?” Blackwood said. “You’ve been home not two days.”

“I shan’t go straight away,” she said. “I won’t miss Cassandra’s wedding.”

He knew the two friends hadn’t spent as much time together as they’d hoped. Alice had too many calls on her time, and Miss

Pomfret had her own problems, which consisted mainly of Ashmont.

But His Grace with the Angel Face had performed what amounted to the Labors of Hercules, and the nuptials would take place

tomorrow.

And when, Blackwood wondered, would his marriage become what he wanted?

He and Alice had ridden out before breakfast, to avoid the heat of the day. While Rotten Row was by no means deserted, it

was emptier by far than it would be by late afternoon. The equestrians present were here for the exercise, not gossip and

gawking.

“Why the devil must you be on the spot, every time?” he said.

“Because I can be intimidating. Because I’m effective. Because I’m a duchess.”

“Teach or find somebody else to be effective,” he said. “I have competent people as my agents. I don’t manage the details

of my household, nor do you. We have superior senior servants for the purpose. In this case, especially, I see no reason for

you to become directly involved.”

“Giles, it’s the Tollstone Academy for Girls,” she said.

“And?”

For a time she said nothing. Then she let out a shaky sigh. “I was there,” she said. “For three months. My father sent me because I was ‘incorrigible,’ he said. It was a cheap and easy way to make me somebody else’s problem. Cheaper than nursemaids and governesses. One must not only pay their wages but provide bed and board, you see. I wasn’t worth the expense.”

Blackwood remembered. Ripley had spoken of it, more than once. He’d mentioned it during Blackwood’s first visit to Camberley

Place, the day they’d watched Alice climb out of the window. What had Ripley said? The school didn’t agree with her .

“Ripley said you weren’t there for long.”

“Oh, not long, unless one is a child. I was nine, Giles. And it wasn’t Eton. You know Ripley never had enough money. You know

how shabby he was. But he was at a fine public school, with other boys of the upper classes. He had regular meals. He had

a proper education. He was not ill-fed and ill-housed, and those shabby clothes were of good quality. He had you and Ashmont

and Lynforde and others. You had proper fires in your rooms and servants. You had sports and camaraderie. Shall I tell you

what I had, what we girls had, no matter who we were or where we’d come from?”

She didn’t wait for his answer but told him, briefly and sharply, anger throbbing in her voice, and grief, too.

He listened, while sorrow and outrage built inside, so fierce that he found himself utterly at a loss what to think, let alone

what to say.

He looked about him. The Serpentine glistened in the early morning light. The pall of smoke hanging over London had begun

to thicken. A pall seemed to hang over them as well.

“My aunt and uncle rescued me,” she was saying. “After that, they arranged to keep me away from my parents. I went abroad with Cassandra and her grandparents. She, too, was a difficult child, but her grandparents have never seen her in that light. I was extremely fortunate, you see.”

“Yes, I see,” he said.

He didn’t want to see. He understood now, too well, too painfully well.

“I don’t want you to go back there,” he said.

“Giles! Were you not listening?”

“I was, and I don’t want you to go back there. You’ll accomplish nothing, and that will hurt you. You’re a duchess. Impressive.

The Tollstones and their minions will bow and scrape to your face. The instant you go away, the trouble will recommence. There

are hundreds of such schools. They’re cheap, and they keep unwanted children out of the way, all the year round. ‘No holidays,’

they advertise, and that’s one of the attractions, along with the low fees. I’ve seen the advertisements. I’m not oblivious.”

“You can’t expect me to ignore this.”

“What do you imagine you can do? The schools are notorious. Complaints are made. Inspectors dutifully inspect. They find a

few minor problems. They make excuses. Nothing happens.”

“Kindly remember that I own a brain,” she said tightly. “Even I understand that the school won’t change. But what’s wrong

with the ladies of Heyshaw establishing another inexpensive school in the area? You’d think there were unwanted children enough

to supply any number of schools, but Tollstone is doing everything he can think of to drive them out.”

“And your appearing will accomplish what, precisely?”

She stared at him. “You propose I do nothing?”

“I propose you turn your attention to more promising missions. I thought Madame Girard wished to establish her schools in and near London. Haven’t you enough to do for her? Is it necessary to go to Yorkshire? The lady wrote seeking advice. She didn’t ask you to ride in on your charger and rout the dragons. My dear girl, there’s injustice everywhere. Can you not put on your shining armor and kill the dragons already at hand?”

“This is my dragon,” she said.

He was silent for a time. He had no answer. He was lost.

He shook his head. “So it is. And you suppose only you can destroy it. Very well. Go. I cannot stop you.”

They rode home in a taut silence.