Earl of Darby: (Once Upon a Widow #4) (Wicked Earls’ Club Round 2)

by Aubrey Wynne

  Tonight, Colvin had left his carriage, spoken with his hired thug, and continued on foot. Misgiving niggled at his chest; something was off. The louse was making it too easy. Besides the change in transportation, there was an urgency to his walk. He followed the duke at a discreet distance. Colvin’s dark cape and beaver hat blended into the foggy night, his silver cane tip flashing occasionally in the night, a small blinking beacon in the haze that kept Nicholas’s target in sight.

  The street narrowed, and the small shops were dark now with the windows shuttered. The buildings began to crowd together, taller edifices leaning against each other or tilted over the filthy streets and alleys.

  Women leaned against slimy walls, their wares spilling out of stained bodices, smiles of yellow or gapped teeth flashing him as he passed quickly by. A skeleton of a dog scratched at his ear, earning several kicks from a group of boys ambling down the street. A drunk stopped in front of him, tottered before catching his balance, then urinated against the door of a tobacco shop. He had entered St. Giles, a rookery, a slum.

  “Good evenin’ to ye, my fine fella. Buy me an ale, would ye, darlin’?” A young doxy approached him, her eyes much too old for her years, her face creased with hard living.

  “If I didn’t have an appointment, I might consider it, ma’am,” he responded with a nod, never altering his stride. A fit of giggles followed him as he turned a corner, keeping track of the dark figure ahead.

  A pig emerged from a darkened alley and snuffled along the edge of the street, poking its nose in a murky puddle for anything edible. Darby pulled his scruffy brown hat low over his forehead. He doubted he would be recognized in this part of town but wouldn’t take the chance. He passed a cluster of men singing drunkenly in front of gaming hells, more lady-birds strutting in front of would-be customers, their jackets open to reveal their merchandise. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked to see that Walters kept pace with him.

  The stench of human waste, rotting food, and unwashed bodies increased, and Nicholas tucked his nose against his collar. Colvin turned into an alley. The footpad, keeping a distance in front of the duke, stopped at a back entrance. He spoke with someone, then approached the duke, and they both entered the slash house.

  “My lord, do you wish me to go in?”

  “Yes, Walters. It’s his fourth haunt in a month, so he must be looking for something in particular.”

  The Bow Street runners often frequented these places, keeping up with informants and abreast of what was happening in the rookeries. Many establishments like these were also pawnshops and secretly fenced stolen goods. Walters had discovered the duke’s routine through one of his old contacts. Colvin would enter a house, ask for a private room, and “interview” young boys. Walters also learned that this certain establishment had purchased several new lads this week from an orphanage outside London.

  “Yes, my lord. He sits at a table and sips his ale while they remove their shirt. He looks them over like livestock at an auction and asks them questions.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Don’t know. He speaks softly and the boys usually nod or shake their head. I do know that any boys with scars or recent marks from beatings are sent away immediately.”

  “He wants them untouched, to be the first to inflict whatever torture he’s disposed to administer.” Bile rose in the earl’s throat. “It’s not about sex anymore. It’s about pain and control.”

  Walters squinted through the fog over Nicholas’s shoulder. “Mind yourself, sir. Some blokes are coming this way.”

  The men in homespun coats continued by, shoulders hunched against the cold, hurrying home or to a warm tavern. The rookeries were also full of the wretched poor. Families that could afford nothing else, scraping by each week to pay the rent and feed their children. There were more families than criminals in the slums, but one still had to keep his wits about him.

  Walters went inside, and Nicholas hunkered down, pulled-up the collar of his worn coat, and tucked his face inside against the cold. His mind wandered to Hannah, those toffee-colored eyes, bits of gold flashing when she was challenged or the afternoon sun hit her face just right. He was beginning to look forward to their chats, wondering what she did when he was not with her, missing her smile, her laughter.

  A splash behind him, a foot encountering a puddle, but he’d been distracted and turned too slowly to avoid the arm that now tightened around his neck. As he grasped the attacker’s fingers and tried to flip him over, the click of a pistol made him freeze.

  “That’s better. No use both of us gettin’ hurt, is there?”

  The rancid breath of his assailant was moist against his cheek. Stale sweat, tobacco, and old fish mixed together. Nicholas struggled not to gag.

  “I’m to deliver a message, word for word, from my patron.” He chuckled and tightened his hold. “After that, I got me permission to have some fun with ye before I make my departure.”

  “Get on with it,” Nicholas growled. He knew better than to let down his guard. It was his own fault that he was in this position. His fists curled, longing for retribution.

  “I’m to tell ye to take care. Ye don’t want the pretty little country girl to have the same fate as yer wife. But he wouldn’t mind a taste of it on a tedious night.”

  Fury shot through Nicholas’s veins. He slammed his head back, the crack of skull against skull echoing against the damp walls of the alley. He turned, blinking back the pain, and the footpad stumbled backward. Nicholas made a fist and let loose, the frustration and fury finding release.

  Satisfaction rippled through him as his knuckles connected with the man’s jaw. The thug was a brute, holding steady but unable to retaliate. On the third punch, the man teetered. Behind him, Walters appeared and brought the butt of his pistol down on the assailant’s noggin. The lout crumpled to the ground, his pistol clattering onto the stones.

  “Colvin’s gone. I think this was his purpose tonight.” Walters waved his pistol at the unconscious lump and bent to pick up the dropped weapon. “I thought the sound of a shot might bring too much attention. What did he want?”

  “A warning to leave off the duke. I milled his canister well enough before you fibbed him.” Nicholas grimaced as he looked at the unconscious, bleeding man and shook his stinging hand. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

  “I don’t think we should linger here, my lord. Let’s continue this conversation elsewhere, pell-mell.” He grinned as he looked over his shoulder, picked up the weapon, and made his way out of the alley. “Preferably an establishment with decent ale.”

  They left the stink of the alley and bypassed the unmoving form and other piles of refuse along the way. Retracing their steps, Nicholas bid Walters join him in the hackney. He pulled out a flask and handed it to the ex-runner, who sat back and pulled his cap from his unruly brown curls.

  “He knows he’s being followed?” He tipped the flask and took a long pull.

  Nicholas nodded. “I was at Almack’s last week—”

  “Almack’s? Beg pardon, my lord, but I can’t see you going there of your own free will.” He took another swallow and handed back the silver flask.

  “My sister is out this season. I’m committed to oversee her admirers, so it is somewhat against my will. But I digress,” the earl admitted. “He approached my sister and another young lady who is presently under my protection. He has threatened to pursue his old habits with gently bred ladies if I continue my quest.”

  Walters let out a whistle. “A noxious leech, ain’t he?”

  Nicholas nodded again. “I need to proceed with more caution. I want to avoid any innocent victims, but I cannot give up. This pustule on humanity must be stopped. Any suggestions?”

  “Aye, and aye. First off, leave the rookery to me. If I set a new man on him, he may think he’s scared you off.” Watlers chuckled. “He’s just arrogant enough to believe it.”

  “While I hate leaving all the dirty work to you, it may be the
safest plan to keep the ladies out of danger.”

  “We’re making him nervous if he’s resorting to threats. Good sign, I think.” The cab rolled to a stop in front of the Guinea, and Walters stepped out.

  “Thank you for your help. You have been indispensable.” Nicholas paused.

  “Think nothing of it, my lord. I’ll keep in touch in the usual fashion.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Women are armed with fans as men with swords, and sometime do more execution with them…”

  Essay from The Spectator by Joseph Addison

  Third week of December 1819

  Hannah snapped her fan open, trying to create a breeze in the stifling heat of the room. So this was a crush. Bodies crammed into room after room with barely space to turn around. No one could possibly enjoy this kind of party. She searched the crowd for Mattie and her aunt to tell them she needed air.

  An enormous turquoise feather rippled above the dozens of heads. There she is. Making her way through the throng, she found Aunt Bertie and told her she would be outside in the garden. A group had made its way out there earlier, and the baron’s daughter had been in the set.

  As she reached the terrace, the crisp winter air cooled her damp skin. Hannah took in a deep breath and descended the steps, looking for her friend and acquaintances. The garden had nicely laid-out paths, and she found herself walking under a full moon. The black sky, the huge round orb glowing white, and the fresh air away from the press of bodies made her sigh with contentment. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her.

  “I take it you weren’t impressed with the assemblage of titles inside.”

  She turned to find Lord Darby behind her, bang up to the mark in his gray and white striped waistcoat and matching dark gray coat and trousers. His blond hair shone almost white in the moonlight. He was smiling, and she wanted to kiss the dimple in his cheek.

  Stop it! Why would kissing him cross her mind? Hannah beat down the wings in her stomach as he held out his arm.

  “Would you care to stroll with me? I’m in no hurry to return to the mob either.”

  With a giggle, she took his arm. The now-familiar warmth rushed through her. Spying the scraped and bruised knuckles, she asked, “What happened? It looks painful.”

  “Oh, just a boxing mishap.”

  “You should always wear gloves,” she admonished before looking at the flickering stars and letting out a long breath. “I’m used to our country estate. The last time I saw so many bodies penned up was shearing season.”

  “Sheep? I do see the resemblance.”

  Hannah laughed. “You realize we share the same wicked humor.”

  “It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”

  “You flatter me, my lord.” Her fingers clutched one end of her shawl that threatened to slip off her shoulders.

  “I’m surprised you’re out alone. While Lady Roberta is not one to follow propriety, I can’t see her allowing you a stroll alone under the moonlight.” He gripped her hand a little tighter.

  The tone held a hint of reprimand, which surprised her. “I didn’t think you were one to worry about the rules of society either, my lord.” She looked up at his profile, the straight nose, strong jaw, square chin. He was magnificent, and her heart raced at their proximity and isolated surroundings. “I saw a group coming out for air and thought to join them. However, it seems they’ve been swallowed up by the night.”

  “My apology, Miss Pendleton, I overstepped. You have become dear to my sister, and because of that, dear to me. I tend to be protective of her, so I fear it has spilled over on to you.” He stopped at the end of a path and turned to her.

  Her pulse raced. With each evening and afternoon spent with him, each conversation, each shared look across the room, her heart had opened a little more to this man. She longed to wipe the haunted look from those riveting eyes. His face was the last image in her head at night and one of her first thoughts when she woke. She was smitten and no longer afraid to admit it.

  Her brother was wrong about Lord Darby. He did want love; he just didn’t realize it yet. But she would be waiting for him when he did. They were compatible in so many ways, and he stimulated her mind and… A boldness, likely from the champagne, claimed her.

  “Your only affection toward me is because of your sister?” Hannah held his gaze, not allowing him to look away. She also held her breath as she waited for his reply.

  He opened his mouth, closed it, and then shook his head. “No, you have crept into my affections on your own merit.” His finger moved up and pushed a ringlet from her temple.

  The light touch sent a ripple through her, and she found it hard to breathe.

  “But I’m not a fit match for you, and I never will be. I’m…” Darby looked up at the inky sky, clearly struggling to find words.

  Compassion overtook reserve. She laid her hand on his cheek, her eyes misty as he closed his own. A sigh escaped him, blowing gently against her face.

  “Nicholas,” she said softly, “I see the man inside of you. He’s a good man, a worthy man. And I won’t give up on him.”

  He leaned into her palm. Her other hand cradled the other cheek, causing her shawl to slip from her shoulders and fall to the ground. A shiver ran through her, from the touch or the night air, she knew not. But in that moment, Hannah knew she loved this man.

  He pulled her into his arms, his face buried against her neck. She breathed in the musky male scent of him, absorbed his warmth, and clung to his neck. Nicholas pulled back, staring down into her eyes. She felt as if he’d devoured her with a look, and it left her wanting more.

  His head dipped, his lips lightly brushing hers, velvet pleasure sending lightning bolts through her core. She gasped when his tongue traced her lower lip, then dove inside her mouth. He tasted of brandy and lemon, and Hannah thought she would die from the sweet intimacy of it. She leaned into him, no longer trusting her legs to hold her steady, and his grip around her waist tightened.

  Nicholas moaned, a sound that made her smile against his kiss. He tried to push away, but she pulled his head back down, feeling the exact moment he gave in. His shoulders relaxed and his hands began to roam, claiming her lips with urgency, demanding and passionate.

  As he feathered her neck with kisses, her hand lingered on his sleeve, and the bunched muscles flexed beneath her touch. Her palm moved against his solid chest, and when he pressed his full length against her, she felt the hardness of him. He desired her as much as she desired him.

  “By Christ, we can’t do this,” he growled into her hair. “You deserve better than a warped soul. I’ll only hurt you.”

  “It’s too late, so you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you do not.” She traced the cleft in his chin. Oh, how she’d longed to do that for weeks. Standing on tiptoe, she replaced her finger with her lips. “I suggest you kiss me again if you care for me at all.”

  With a groan, his mouth pressed against hers. His hands stroked her bare shoulders, running down her spine and back up to cup her face. His tongue requested entrance, and she willingly obeyed. Hannah was dizzy, her stomach in flight, her limbs like a warm Sunday pudding.

  This was what she had dreamed of since she was five years old. She’d had the face wrong, but it was the same blissful feeling she’d imagined. Everything about this kiss was right and good. It was not a mistake, and she would not let Nicholas sacrifice himself to guilt, not when it meant both their happiness.

  Emotions raged in his chest. Pleasure, guilt, caution…fear. He was a fractured man, and Hannah needed someone who was not afraid to love. Being alone in this garden not only endangered her reputation, but endangered her life if Colvin had any of his spying thugs about. Yet he could not drag himself away, torturing his senses with her velvety skin, petal-soft hair, and delicious scent of apricot and citrus. A ragged moan escaped from deep in his chest, and he tried to step away, only to be pulled back down into the waters of temptation. Her fingers trailed his neck, and his co
ntrol fled, lost in the essence of all things Hannah.

  Nicholas knew the taste of her would haunt him that night, perhaps forever. In the back of his mind, he heard voices. An interruption to their tryst. “By Christ, we can’t do this.” He could hear the rasp in his voice. “You deserve better than a warped soul. I’ll only hurt you.”

  Hannah said something clever, but it was lost on him as her eyes held his, seeing the genuine affection, her gaze willing him to admit his own. She placed a finger on his chin and drew it lazily down the crease, then leaned up and kissed the dent. Lust licked at his insides, his body a traitor as he tried to deny his reaction to her once more.

  “I suggest you kiss me again if you care for me at all.” Her voice, smooth and sultry, made his blood boil.

  He held her face in his hands, her tawny eyes daring him, and he gave in. Gave in to her taunts, gave in to his desire, gave in to his heart. He loved Miss Hannah Pendleton, and it scared the hell out of him. But as their kiss deepened, an odd awareness washed over him. A sense of belonging, as if he were exactly where he was supposed to be. The comfort in that feeling, in her presence, was overwhelming.

  The voices grew louder, and with a ragged breath, he stepped away from her. Her chest rose and fell, the creamy mounds beckoning for his touch. Nicholas swore under his breath and stooped to collect her shawl, arranging it around her shoulders and tugging her honeyed curls into some semblance of order. The actions calmed his nerves and gave him time to get his desire under control. He tucked her hand over his arm, and they moved silently toward the voices.

  “Ah, there you are,” called Lady Roberta as she turned a corner, Mattie on her heels. “We’ve been looking for you. I’m ready to take my leave. It’s monstrous crowded, and the air is stifling.”