by Deb Marlowe
“Relax,” the duke breathed.
“I can’t,” she answered miserably. She was too horribly aware of a hundred small things at once. Of the misery in the streets all about them, of gazes lighting on them and slinking away. She was acutely, wretchedly aware of the duke’s height and strength, of his firm touch warming her through the thin fabric of her gown, of her body’s excited and untimely reaction to it. And of his utter lack of a similar response.
“The more intimate we look, the better this will work.” He blew out a breath. “Tell me something. A secret, perhaps. That will help.”
She could think of nothing less likely to help. “No,” she said firmly. “It won’t.”
“Yes, it will,” he said cajolingly.
“I cannot tell you a secret,” she insisted.
“Of course you can. I’m the besotted fool who is going to take you away from all of this,” he gestured.
Despite herself, she shifted and laughed up at him.
“That’s better,” he said with a grin.
It was the male satisfaction in his smile that wiped hers away. He didn’t even know what he was asking. For months she’d been working to pick herself up, to reform her identity, to make herself strong and competent rather than weak and helpless. And now she was to make herself vulnerable? To this man, who admitted all of his concern in this mess fell only toward his brother? Her every experience had taught her the extreme folly of such a thing. She lifted her chin. “You tell me a secret.”
He sighed. “Very well. What would you like to know?”
Brynne pursed her lips. “Tell me . . . was your father a cold man?”
He stiffened against her. “I beg your pardon? No, absolutely not.”
“Hmm, his father, then?”
“No.” He relaxed a bit. “In fact, my grandfather kept a secret stash of sweets in his drawer, just for when Tru and I visited.” He frowned down at her. “I’d prefer not to discuss my family, however.”
“Very well. Tell me . . . when you last smiled.”
He didn’t blink. “Nearly thirty minutes ago, when you decided against that transparent bodice.”
Brynne refused to blush. “You know that’s not what I meant. Before that. When was the last time that you were truly happy?”
He tensed again. “I don’t know. That’s not the sort of secret we need, in any case.”
“Well then,” she pursed her lips. “I shall keep trying. Tell me why you no longer take your place in the House of Lords.”
He frowned. “I do indeed attend the House. Why would you think otherwise?”
“Forgive me.” She bit her lip. “It was just a bit of gossip. I must have misunderstood.” Frowning, she continued. “Was it that you no longer speak in the House? I understand you were once quite a gifted orator.”
“That was a long time ago.” His expression had gone blank. “Clearly you don’t understand what I meant when I mentioned a secret. We need something interesting, a tale to keep us occupied.” His step hitched suddenly. “Miss Wilmott—look ahead, do you see the woman selling rags from her basket?”
Straightening, she looked. “Yes. What of her?”
“She just made a movement with her hand. The same one that the shop girl made when she heard you mention Hatch’s name. Jenny, was that her name? She repeated the same motion twice, very deliberately. It must be a signal of sorts.”
“And you saw the same one just now? Is that what set that boy off at a run?” Brynne asked, her heart sinking.
“It did rather look like cause and effect.” He frowned. “At university there was always a new secret society forming. They’d develop special passwords and hand signals like that. The masons make use of them, I’ve heard. I’ve seen reports of gangs of pickpockets developing similar ways to communicate with each other in a crowd.” Pausing, he glanced down at her. “The shop girl might have been testing you, waiting to see if you gave the signal back.”
“And I failed to give it, so she went—where? To report us?”
“Is this Hatch so organized, do you think?”
“Hatch is extremely efficient when it comes to both information and violence,” she answered with a sigh. “So do you think news of our presence has been sent on, then?”
“I’d say the chances are high.”
“We’ve no chance at a surprise, then.”
“It’s no matter.”
“A signal. You’d think Letty would have given us that particular scrap of information,” she said bitterly. “The vengeful chit. She’s hoping we fail.”
“Or get ourselves killed. Either way, we’ll have to disappoint her. I think I’ve got the basic sign. We’ll use it if we have to. In the meantime, listen and I’ll tell you something that will help you feel better.”
She leaned her head against him again.
“Would it surprise you to learn that this is not the first time I’ve been in danger of getting my gut slit?”
She thought for a moment. “It would.” She’d imagined his background to be one of titled ease and privilege. She blinked. “Wait, is that what’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It should,” he said with surprise. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” She could hear the smile in his voice before he grew serious. “The first time, I was sixteen.”
She bit her lip. “So young.”
He sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to discuss my family after all. You’ll have heard perhaps that Russell men are prone to gambling—and to all the difficulties associated with its excesses.”
“No.” The only gossip she’d heard had pertained to his icy reserve and his brother’s good looks.
“It doesn’t infect us all, thank goodness. In fact, my grandfather spent a lifetime restoring the depleted coffers and estates. But my uncle, the next duke, lived his life in thrall to the throw of a dice or the stumble of a horse. It took him only a few short years to see everything a shambles again.”
“And your father?” she asked. She shifted casually beneath his arm. She did feel safer here, cocooned in the midst of his strength.
“My father was the younger son, a scholar and the best of men. But his brother was badly bitten and their cousin, by all accounts was worse. When my uncle and parents were lost in a fire, the cousin found himself suddenly and unexpectedly several steps closer to the dukedom. That’s when he decided to take the biggest gamble of all.”
Brynne frowned. “What was that?”
“He gambled that he could rid the world of two boys who stood in his way.” His tone hardened. “Thank the fates that he started with me.”
She gasped, startling a young woman sitting outside an open doorway. A sign propped behind her advertised: Gin. A penny a pint. The girl watched the corner ahead. A crowd had gathered, drawn by an argument between two carters in the street. Brynne barely glanced their way. “What happened?”
“He cast out a lure and I grabbed on with both hands. I suppose that makes it partly my fault.”
“What was the lure?” She imagined a woman, perhaps. Something adult and forbidden.
“Freedom,” he breathed. “A taste of adventure and a chance at an escape.” His fingers flexed against her shoulder and he pulled her to a halt before they mixed with the lingering spectators. “I thought it was meant to be a few days worth of independence. Turned out my cousin meant it to be a permanent vacation.”
It was not the answer she’d expected. Silently she considered. They were at two ends of the spectrum when it came to wealth, gender and standing. How could it possibly be that they both felt trapped?
She looked the long way up to meet his gaze. “How did you escape?”
He squeezed her arm. “A friend helped.”
She hesitated. If their positions were reversed, she wouldn’t want him to ask. But curiosity had got a hold on her. And a much-needed sense of empowerment. So she asked. “A friend in a bottle green coat?”
He stilled. “Yes.”
But Brynne froze as
well—for the briefest moment as she caught a flash of movement behind him. There. It came again.
Her eyes widened, and abruptly, deliberately, she loosened her stance and slid out from under his arm. She lowered her shoulders and looked up at him again. Coyly, this time and through her lashes. “Turn toward me,” she said, allowing one side of her mouth to twist up into a smile.
“What?”
“Just do it. Now.” The crowd at the corner had grown larger. It shifted and surged as one of the carters threw down his whip in challenge. Aldmere was jostled and Brynne took advantage of the fact to pull him closer to her and a few steps away from the stragglers in the back of the group. She slid her hands up against the broad expanse of his chest. She felt his heart beat, strong and steady, and her own, tripping and stumbling its way to a gallop.
“Now bend down,” she ordered with what she hoped was a sultry glance.
Apparently not. The duke was staring at her as if her wits had gone begging.
“Bend down,” she insisted, slipping her hands inside his coat. “You’ve become a target, and I don’t believe it’s random.” Lord, but he was warm. Her fingers skimmed the heat and hardness of him, up and over his shoulders, then down to circle around to his broad back. “Act as if you were going to kiss me.”
She saw the moment he understood. Felt it beneath her fingers. His eyes flicked around them and then fastened on her face.
That look cleaved her in two. Part of her caught, held in thrall as his eyes darkened and her breath grew short. The other part strained to catch what was happening behind him, struggled to ascertain the most precise timing.
Movement again, sly and quick. She tensed and grabbed his shirt, forcing him lower. “Good heavens, your Grace, is it such a hardship?” she hissed. “Just kiss me, damn you.”
His head lowered, even as he laughed. But the atmosphere quickly charged. So easily he captured her with his darkening gaze, she had to struggle not to be consumed. Their eyes locked, they fought a silent battle of wills—and then he was kissing her.
Not hovering, not about to be or pretending to be—he captured her completely with just the touch of his mouth. Pressed his lips to hers with a firmness that tasted of conspiracy and suspense and perhaps just a bit of amusement.
She went rigid. It was too much. She was overwhelmed. Closeness and heat and the catch of her breath. Fear and excitement. And then all at once she gave way. Nearly entirely. She shuddered, went soft even in her hard places, and practically melted against him.
And everything changed. The taste and flavor and mood of the kiss shifted, intensified. Aldmere didn’t seem to mind. He gathered her close and his mouth moved over hers, soothing and easing. But she didn’t need soothing. Her life was about her own choices now. Though it might be for a variety of reasons, this moment—this heated and glorious moment—came by her choice. She felt strong and competent and courageous, so she kissed him back. Let loose the hum of desire that had been coursing through her all day. Asked for the magic that a first kiss deserves.
He responded. Ran his hands over her back and sent want whispering all along her limbs. It didn’t seem possible that he could get closer, but he did. And she tasted something else on his lips—something that lifted her heart and made it sing, something that tightened her nipples into needy points.
Desire. She wasn’t drowning alone. He wanted her with the same slippery silver urgency that was coloring her vision. It was the last thing she saw before she snatched, grabbed and swung away from him, holding on tight.
“Le’ go!” The howl rose up between them. “Get off!”
Brynne clapped her other hand around the thin arm she’d caught in the act of lifting the duke’s purse. It was attached to a hissing, snarling spitfire of a girl.
Another shriek split the air. “Le’ go o’ me, you great, stinkin’ whore!”
Aldmere stared, appalled. Brynne glanced over at the rowdy crowd. No one had turned yet, but the child’s foul and vigorous protests were going to attract attention. “The sign!” she hissed.
The duke glanced at her, startled.
“The signal! Show it to her!”
“Oh, yes.” He stepped close, drawing the girl’s eye and lending a new desperation to her struggles. Brynne’s heart wanted to break even as she held tighter.
Aldmere stopped. Made the signal, quick and clearly visible at chest level.
And the child quit fighting. Just like that. Though she continued to scowl up at Brynne even after she carefully released her.
“Hatch sent you?” Brynne asked, trying to catch her breath.
A sullen nod. “I’m to bring you in.”
She glanced at Aldmere and flushed. “And were you to pick the gentleman’s pocket?”
There was no answer beyond the scuff of a bare foot.
Brynne sighed. “Hungry, are you?”
The girl looked away.
She knelt down, not caring what the street did to her soft yellow skirts. “You come to me, after we finish our business with Hatch, and I’ll tell you how you can eat your fill tonight—without risking your ticklers.” The punishment for pickpockets was often transportation, and occasionally the loss of a hand.
The girl raked her with a hard, measuring look, then shrugged. “Hatch is waiting.”
Brynne met Aldmere’s gaze. Heat still lived in her cheeks, but he was all business, now, as if that kiss had never happened. “It should only be a couple of blocks,” he said, and with a sweeping hand, indicated that she should precede him.
The girl set off, sliding through the crowd and they were forced to hustle to keep up with her. Brynne’s worry about their surroundings faded. Everything passed in a blur as she struggled to forget the shocking rush and taste of passion as easily as the duke did. In no time, it seemed, they arrived at a timber-framed jetty house, old but large and at the end of a street, shoved cheek by jowl with several other similar lodgings.
Brynne slowed, gathering courage. “I recognize the men hanging about in the street,” she whispered to the duke. “Hatch’s bullies.”
Aldmere glared, but it appeared they were expected. The men postured, but waved them through.
They followed the girl in, stepping over a man lying snoring beyond the door. Brynne pretended not to see the couple in the doorway to the right, mere minutes and a scrap of fabric from completing their transaction. She kept her eyes on the rickety staircase the girl started up.
“Let me speak first, when we go in,” Aldmere said in a harsh whisper. “I have a feeling Hatch is a man who understands a bribe. We should at least try to finish this business quickly and easily.”
Frowning, Brynne stepped out of the way of a gentleman descending the stairs. The man doffed his hat and nodded as he passed, as if they strolled on Bond Street instead of in a notorious criminal’s den. “Wait. What did you just say?” she said, putting out a hand to halt the duke’s progress.
“Yes, yes,” he snapped, impatient. “I know you are very capable, but I have deep pockets and if there’s a chance that we could handle this quickly, man to man, then we should make the attempt.”
The girl had stopped on the landing ahead. She’d turned and was looking strangely at Aldmere as well. Her heart sinking, Brynne thought quickly back over the discussions they had held over the course of the day. “Ah, Aldmere, I think you should listen to me for a moment.”
“Is he daft?” the girl asked. She cast the duke a scathing glance and crossed to a door directly across the passage.
“What?” he asked.
“Somehow I think that we’ve managed to leave out a very important piece of the picture,” Brynne whispered hurriedly as they climbed the last few steps.
“Aye,” the girl proclaimed. She knocked loudly. “Doncha know?”
“Know what?” he demanded.
The door swung open.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed. The duke snatched Brynne’s arm and hissed in her ear. “Hatch—the pimp, the bully, the kidnapper�
�is a woman?”
Eight
Ah, First Love. It is often strongest, if not best. The passions of youth flow so deeply and are felt so keenly. And it was passion we felt, hot and stirring. And the sweet strains of love. I was lost, as in a dream, and the captain felt the same . . .
—from the Journals of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Damn. And damn again. Brynne nodded and stood a moment. Here she was again, at another turning point. Another spot in which life changing events waited across a threshold.
She had to cross it with a sharp, clear mind. And that meant leaving the mistakes she’d made behind. Starting with that kiss—and all the textures and spiraling sensations that had lived within it. Her first true kiss—and it had come from the Duke of Aldmere. Absurd, and yet she could not regret it.
She had to gather herself and recover from it, though, and from her oversight in forgetting that the duke wouldn’t know about Hatch what she and Callie and all of London’s lower orders did.
It was as much his fault as hers. Good heavens, but he addled her senses. She stole a glance at him, moving briskly up to her side, his features a mask of granite angles. All of it, his size, his gruff humor, that aura of power and responsibility, they all merged into a battering ram of masculinity that pounded at her defenses.
But she must resist. She had to remind herself and convince everyone else that she was strong and independent. A force to be reckoned with.
One more deep breath and she shook off Aldmere’s hold and moved forward, drawing strength and poise from the jaunty swing of her skirts. Ahead of her, the street urchin scuttled further into a room that resembled nothing so much as the misbegotten offspring of a brothel and an accounting office. High, narrow windows let in the sun and illuminated a mix of tall clerk’s desks and mismatched, faded furniture interspersed throughout the large space. The panels were pulled tight, though, and the room stank of old meals, harsh ink and a heavy, lingering musk. Several carpets had been rolled up against the wall, but the floor was bare, littered in the corners with dirty bottles and crushed papers.