His Lordship's Secret

by Samantha SoRelle

  “Really Tripner, not all of us can make a living by taking a pounding from other men one way or the other. Some of us got to make it honest-like.”

  Baz sat down on the stool next to Dominick. He swiped Dominick's tankard and took a long sip. Dominick gritted his teeth, but in the end did nothing. He still had to go meet Alfie today, and didn’t want to get blood all over his only clean shirt.

  Well, he glanced down at the spreading beer stains. Mostly clean at least.

  Besides, Baz was faster with a knife than any man Dominick knew, and always had a few of them hidden around his person. The man was as thin and sharp as his blades, more weasel than badger. Dominick eyed Baz’s bulky coat, elbows patched and long hem caked in mud. He wasn’t about to press his luck.

  The man swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of a greasy hand. “Besides, don’t I come here today with kindness in my heart, hoping to share some of my good fortune with my fellow man?”

  Dominick snorted, “What do you want, Baz? And make it quick, some of us got places to be.”

  Baz scowled and glanced around the empty pub. He leaned in, voice dropping to a froggy croak. “Rich bloke, needs some things done, you know? Things that might be a bit… unsavory. But I’ve got no such qualms do I? And you for sure don’t. What do you say? A man of your reputation could make my job a lot easier.”

  “And what reputation would that be?”

  Baz gave Dominick an incredulous once over.

  “I’ll leave you to figure that out for yourself. Tell you what, I’ll give you three shillings a day from what he’s paying me, any day I need you.”

  Dominick laughed. The money Alfie promised him already was more than two month’s wage at that rate, and that was without whatever pay he would be getting from this bodyguard business Alfie had been talking about. Surely he’d been exaggerating though. Who could actually want his Alfie dead?

  At the thought, he glared over at Baz. Dominick hadn’t been the only one he’d sworn to kill that day.

  Dominick stood and yelled toward the kitchen. “Forget that breakfast, Jimmy.”

  He turned to Baz. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

  Dominick couldn’t resist the petty urge to knock Baz with his shoulder as he walked out, but the other man didn’t react.

  “Tripner,” he croaked, still sitting facing the bar, rolling Dominick's tankard between his palms. “Saw that molly chase you after the fight last night. Near panting for it he was, so I’m guessing you don’t need the money right now.

  “But I’m not the only one who’s seen that from you and more besides. Might be a day where your reputation as a fighter don’t outweigh your reputation for other things. Someday soon maybe. So when that happens, you just remember I offered you a chance to be on my side.”

  That warning ringing in his ears, Dominick stepped out of the pub. He had better places to be.

  Chapter 8

  It took Dominick over an hour to make his way on foot to the address Alfie had given him.

  He spent most of the walk cursing Baz’s name and glowering at anyone who stepped too close. He shivered and pulled his much-mended coat tighter around him. It might be nearly April, but London still clung to the wet miseries of winter. The icy wind cut through the worn fabric, letting in the persistent damp. He was chilled to the bone before he’d even passed Moorgate.

  He stuck his stiff hands deeper into his pockets and thought about Baz’s words, which brought a flush of shame to his face. Most folk in Spitalfields turned a blind eye to anyone, man or woman, boy or girl, who took the occasional coin for going down an alley with a man. That the act was a crime bothered few, and a sin even fewer. Everyone knew how hard money was to come by and didn’t begrudge those whose looks—or desperation—granted them another way to earn their supper.

  But now Baz was threatening Dominick. If he went to the constables, it could be a hanging offense. But that was unlikely. It would be almost as bad for Baz as it would be for Dominick if he squealed to the coppers and word got around. More likely, he’d just use the knowledge to make Dominick's life hell.

  Dominick sighed. Nothing new there.

  At least it wasn’t something he was forced to resort to often. He was strong and hale enough that he was usually able to make his living by his back, rather than on it. But when there was no good work to be had and the choice was prostitute himself or starve?

  He’d made that choice before, and doubtless would again. His size and rough looks meant he didn’t attract the same kind of men who’d gone for him when he was skinny youth, never able to earn or steal enough to keep himself fed, but there would always be those sorts of men—rich men—who came down to the stews looking for a bit of rough.

  Rich men like Alfie.

  Dominick groaned. The first time he’d seen his best friend in thirteen years and what had he done? Propositioned and then attacked him. Of course he had. Act first, think second, that was him. Christ.

  At least Alfie had handled it like the gentleman he now was. Well, he did knee Dominick in the bollocks, that was true, but he hadn’t turned away in disgust for the way Dominick had… accosted him. No, instead he’d helped Dominick get home and patched him up. There’d even been a moment where he thought Alfie was going to kiss him, of all the absurd notions.

  Dominick shook his head and muttered at his own stupidity. A clerk, no doubt on his way to work, gave him an alarmed look and hastily walked past.

  The moment had just been in his head. Alfie wasn’t like that. Hadn’t Dominick done everything he could to make sure he would grow up good and right?

  He hadn’t felt that way towards Alfie when they were children of course. He’d loved Alfie, still did love the memory of him. His best friend, so sweet and brave, who’d made Dominick want to do the right thing just to see the pride in Alfie's eyes, looking at Dominick like he was King Arthur and Robin Hood and Nelson himself all rolled into one.

  But last night hadn’t felt like that. No, whatever tension in the air he thought he’d felt as Alfie stood over him, hands on Dominick's skin, those beautiful blue eyes Dominick had missed so much locked with his own, that was just wishful thinking on Dominick's part. He’d been overwhelmed was all. The touch of a beautiful man paired with the joy of reconnecting with his old friend turning his head.

  Dominick laughed. Not that his head needed anymore turning. The Body Snatcher had just about twisted it right off with that last hook. He gingerly touched the bruises he could feel blossoming across his face. With his senses as addled as they had been, maybe Alfie hadn’t been much to look at all. Or maybe it hadn’t even been Alfie, just the strange dream of a confused mind.

  “Well, someone left their cravat behind, I didn’t make that up,” Dominick said aloud as he entered Bedford Square. “One way or another, I’ll have my answers soon enough.”

  Dominick followed the edge of the park around to number 43. He took a look at the row of elegant townhouses with their carved archways and decorative railings and then a look down at himself. There was no chance he could walk in the front door of such a fine home looking as he did. Alfie’s footman or butler or whatnot would slam the door in his face before he even got two words out. And rightfully so.

  That in mind, he opened the little gate in the railing to the side of the front steps and descended down to the servants’ entrance.

  Even the service door was nicer than anything in his part of town. Its paint shone fresh and unmarred by any crude words carved into the wood. He knocked and as he waited, he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back into some kind of order. When he heard footsteps approach the door, he smiled as best he could without splitting his swollen lip. Hopefully, he still had enough charm to impress whatever timid little scullery maid was sent to open it.

  The door wrenched open and a grey-haired woman with the forearms of a young Hercules glowered at him.

  “What do you want?” she barked.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am.
But I have an appointment with Al—” Dominick tried to remember the title Alfie had given him, something silly sounding. “With Lord Crawford?”

  She snorted. “Sure you do, and I got my lovely bonnet right off of Marie Antoinette’s head.”

  Dominick looked up at the plain cap the woman wore. “I’m sure it looks much better on you, ma’am,” he said soberly.

  She began to close the door in his face.

  “Wait, please! I did have a meeting, but I figured the butler wasn’t going to let me in by the main door. If you could just have him check with your lord, you’ll see. Tell him it’s Mr. Tripner here about the job.”

  He hesitated, “And to collect my payment for the fight last night.”

  She paused, “What fight was that?”

  “Boxing, ma’am. A most noble sport.”

  “Mmm. That’s what happened to your face then.”

  “The parts I wasn’t born with, yes, ma’am.”

  She crossed her arms. “And who’d you fight, in this noble sport?”

  “A Mr. William Nunn.”

  Her eyes widened, “Blood and 'ounds! You took on The Body Snatcher and you’re still walking? I’ll be damned. At The Red Dog, was it? Ah, the mister will be sorry he missed it.”

  She eyed Dominick up and down. “Well, I don’t know about any jobs. Can you peel potatoes?”

  “I’m told I’m a quick study.”

  She rolled her eyes, but stepped back so Dominick could enter. “Come on then, I’ll let you work off the price of a hot meal at least, until his lordship wakes up. Still early for the kinds of hours his set likes to keep.”

  Dominick ducked through the door and sat on a stool by a long kitchen table. The cook bustled off, and he took a moment to look around. The kitchen was large and clearly well kept, but empty. Wasn’t a lord supposed to have an army of servants for every need? The woman returned and dropped a basket of potatoes in front of him before pulling a small jar out of her apron pocket.

  “Arnica,” she said. “There’s a mirror just up the stairs. Go rub some of that on your face, then come back here and wash your hands. I don’t need you getting who knows what all over my vegetables. And you won’t even think about lifting any trinkets while you’re up there; I know the look on a man’s face when he has something in his pockets he shouldn’t.”

  Dominick did as he was told. He marveled at the change as he walked up the short flight of stairs to the ground floor. Alfie's home was beautiful. The walls on this level were painted a pale yellow, the colour of freshly churned butter, and paintings of rolling hillsides and people in strange clothing hung in ornately carved frames. On a table under the mirror sat a vase painted with roses that looked so delicate, Dominick was afraid the whole thing would shatter to pieces if he breathed on it too hard.

  He looked in the mirror. It had been a long time since he’d seen a clear image of his reflection. No wonder the cook didn’t want to let him in. One eye was almost swollen shut and his entire face was mottled black and blue. He rubbed in the sharp-smelling paste as quickly as he could without looking at himself too closely, then went back to the kitchen.

  ✽✽✽

  Half an hour later, Dominick had earned himself a fresh scone with jam and the cook’s name, if not her trust. He noticed Mrs. Hirkins kept a good deal of knives and pans between the two of them, although based on the silence from the rest of the house, he didn’t blame her. He also wouldn’t want to be alone with a man looking like he did.

  He jerked as a bell over the doorway rang. It was one of several, all unmarked, but Mrs. Hirkins seemed to know exactly what it meant.

  “That’ll be Master Alfie up then. You wait here, and I’ll go see about this job business.”

  She picked up a large tray laden with a tea set, scones, toast, butter, and jam. Dominick stood to help her, but she shook her head.

  She knocked the kitchen door open with a hip, “And don’t be thinking of stealing the silver while I’m gone. All that’s under lock and key.”

  Dominick sat back down and waited for her return. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Strike me dead, you weren’t lying. Go on, up the stairs to the hall, second right, he’s in the dining room. Here, take this.” She handed Dominick a second tray, this one loaded with eggs, sausages, and some of the potatoes he’d peeled, fried up in sausage grease.

  “Try to see he gets some of that into him. Skinny thing’s got legs like cat-sticks.”

  Dominick took the tray and followed her directions.

  The stairs were tricky to navigate with such a burden, and he wondered how Mrs. Hirkins handled it every day. Surely there should be someone else to help her?

  Fortunately, the door to the dining room was open and Dominick walked in, careful not to over-balance the tray. He kicked the door shut behind himself, wincing at his thoughtless action only after it was too late to undo it without dropping everything. He had a moment to take in the simple opulence of the room, nothing gilded or frilled but clearly all of the finest craftsmanship, before his eyes landed on Alfie and his apology died on his lips.

  His memory of last night certainly hadn’t exaggerated how beautiful Alfie had become. If anything, it hadn’t done him justice. Alfie by dim and smoky firelight was pretty, but in the bright morning sunlight he was dazzling. He rose from his seat at the head of the table and stepped forward into a sunbeam that caught the reds and golds in his hair and glowed like a halo around his head.

  He was in his shirtsleeves, no coat, but wrapped in a banyan embroidered with flowers and birds that glimmered and caught the light. Dominick was reminded of the adventure stories he used to tell Alfie about grand sultans and maharajahs, or the tales the sailors told of the far-off lands they had visited and the fantastical sights they had seen. Alfie looked like that; alluring, exotic, and completely beyond Dominick's reach.

  Then he smiled, and Dominick had to sternly remind himself why he was so out of reach. Alfie had made it out, had a good clean life. He didn’t need Dominick dirtying him back up.

  “I see Mrs. Hirkins put you to work already. You can set that here.” Alfie indicated a clear space on the table.

  Dominick set the tray down, then found he had nothing to do with his hands. Alfie made an aborted half step forward, hands rising to shake Dominick's? Give him a hug, even? Before he clearly thought better of it. They stood a moment in awkward silence until Alfie cleared his throat and waved a hand at the chair to the right of his own.

  “Please, sit. I apologise for keeping you waiting, I didn’t think you’d be by this early. Have you eaten?”

  Dominick squinted at the carved clock on the mantle. “It’s nearly nine.”

  Alfie gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Ton hours. I could be abed until noon and still be considered an early riser. I didn’t sleep very well last night, however.” He took a slice of toast.

  “Mrs. Hirkins says you don’t eat enough.”

  Alfie rolled his eyes. “I eat plenty. She’s been trying to fatten me up since I first came here, but it hasn’t taken. That said, I don’t want either of us to incur her wrath. Split this with me.”

  He took a second plate that Dominick hadn’t noticed out from underneath the one on the tray, and divided everything out onto both.

  They spent a few minutes eating silently. The quiet felt good though. Comfortable. Dominick’s shoulders eased down from a hunch he hadn’t even noticed, the familiarity of eating together with Alfie relaxing him. They’d shared a meal plenty of times before. He just didn’t have to pick gristle or weevils out of this one.

  While Dominick spread the jam thick on his second scone of the morning, Alfie poured himself another cup of tea, squinting a little in the morning light.

  Dominick's curiosity finally got the better of him. “I thought you dukes and such were supposed to have people to do that sort of thing for you. Butlers and footmen in shiny buttoned uniforms, pouring your tea and saying ‘Yes, sir,’ every time you belch. But all I’ve s
een is Mrs. Hirkins, and I’m pretty sure she’d hit you with a spoon first.”

  Alfie smiled around the rim of his cup. “You’re more right about that than you know. She can pretend, though. You should feel honored. The less she likes you the more formal she is. She treats my cousin as if he was the king himself. And I’m not a duke, only an earl.”

  “Only an earl, he says,” Dominick mocked. He glanced towards the door and then lowered his voice. “At least as far as they know.”

  Alfie set his cup down and spoke slowly. “I find myself in a position with few people I can trust. It has always been a danger, my being not exactly who I am supposed to be. As the years have gone on, there’s been less risk of being caught, or so I thought.”

  He turned the cup around and around on the saucer, then sighed.

  “But still, it’s simpler this way. After my father died, my mother stopped throwing parties and being invited to few herself, gradually began to cut down the staff. All pensioned or given stellar references at their preference of course.

  “By the end it was just her, Mrs. Hirkins and myself. I do not socialize much and have, for reasons you understand, never found much in common with my peers. In fact, I could honestly say the only real friend I’ve ever had was a grubby little boy I never even got to say goodbye to.”

  There he faltered and took a moment to collect himself. “I haven’t seen you for thirteen years, Dominick, but I’m hoping I can trust the man that boy grew into. Because honestly if I can’t, I have nowhere else to turn.”

  Dominick's heart lurched at the look on Alfie's face. He ached to go over and hold him, shush his fears and smooth back his hair. It’s what he would have done had they still been boys. But they weren’t, and men did not have the same luxury to provide simple comfort to one another. Instead he moved his chair closer to Alfie’s, and slid one of his sausages onto his plate.

  “Eat up, then tell me everything.”

  Chapter 9

  Alfie toyed with his food, not eating more than a few bites. Tossing and turning in bed the night before, he’d decided to tell Dominick all of it.