by Deb Marlowe
A similarly ragtag group of people occupied the place. An Asian woman dressed in silks sat at one desk, bent over a ledger. Closer, a young woman sat quietly sewing on a sagging settee, a lit cigar hanging from her lips,further polluting the air in the room. Their young escort moved quickly to perch beside her even as a movement drew Brynne’s eye to the back of the room, where an enormous man lounged on a red velvet chaise. He didn’t bother to look their way, just continued to eat from a pottle of strawberries.
But all of that was peripheral, taken in at an instant. For Hatch herself stood at the center of the room, demanding attention as she always did. Each of those others looked to be well occupied, but there was a subtle tension to each of them, a sense of awareness and wariness all directed at the figure at their midst. Brynne tried to look upon her objectively, as if seeing her the first time, as Aldmere would.
Head to toe, Hatch wore masculine attire. The shine of her boots would have rivaled the duke’s—before the puddles. Her breeches fit as snug as any gentleman’s. Her waistcoat had clearly been made to her measurements. Yet perhaps to her frustration, she didn’t look like a gentleman. She looked exactly what she was: a fine-featured, fair woman adopting all the accoutrements of a man.
It was shocking, or it had been the first time Brynne encountered her. Until the pimp had spoken, and then she’d realized that the other woman had lost, or never possessed, an ounce of feminine softness, warmth or empathy.
Or until one met her eyes. Hatch turned at their entrance, and Brynne thought once more, as she met that hard, flat gaze, that beyond lacking femininity, there were times the bawd looked barely human.
“Sally Jenks is short again this month,” Hatch said to a bespectacled young man standing close, notepad in hand. “Hasn’t learned the difference between business and pleasure, that one. Send Spriggs ’round to see her, with a warning. She’ll be making up the difference next month, or she won’t enjoy the consequences.”
The lackey dutifully made a note, while his mistress cocked an eyebrow in their direction. “Well, here she is,” Hatch purred. “Hestia’s little bird.” Her hand smoothed over the tight blonde queue of her hair. “You very nearly caught me by surprise.” She smirked. “Letty is smarter than I gave her credit for, sending our little Jenny with a warning.” She waved her hand and a figure detached itself from the shadows in the back of the room. The shop girl.
“Are these the ones you spoke of, Jenny?” Hatch asked as she beckoned the girl forward.
Never taking her gaze from the floor, Jenny nodded her head.
“Well done, then. You can go.”
The pale girl scurried quickly past.
“Wait!” The call, loud in the tensely quiet room, came from the young urchin. The woman with the sewing shushed her.
“But she didn’t get her shillin’,” the young girl complained.
Hatch, ignoring the outburst, focused on Brynne. “I believe you’ve surprised me after all, Miss Wilmott, bringing a great, strapping specimen like this along.” She transferred her appreciative gaze to the duke. “He’s too fine to be one of Hestia’s footmen. Where’d you find him—and how far are you willing to let him roam?” She smirked. “This is a new game, is it, down in Craven Street?”
“I know it is difficult for you, Hatch, but do try not to be foul. And do forgive my manners, won’t you? I don’t suppose you’ve had the opportunity to meet his grace, the Duke of Aldmere?”
He stepped forward, his expression a study of ducal disdain. “No, we’ve not met. Although I do believe you are more than passing acquainted with my brother.”
Only a small reaction. A tiny tightening of the skin around her eyes. But Brynne glanced over at Aldmere and caught the barely perceptible nod meant for her. They might be at odds over philosophy and their primary goals here today. They might be in for an awkward word or two about that kiss, but right now, in this moment, they were in accord.
“In fact,” Brynne continued, “we’ve come because we’d like to hear all about your acquaintance with Lord Truitt.”
“Would you?” Hatch looked back and forth between the two of them and Brynne saw the moment some sort of decision was made. “Well, I have met the gentleman. Briefly. In passing. He seems a decent fellow.”
A bit of Aldmere’s forced affability slipped. “Well, that’s as lukewarm a reaction to my brother as I’ve ever heard. Surely there’s more you can say.” Brynne recognized the clenching of his jaw for the sign of danger that it was. “Especially after all the trouble we’ve been through to ask.”
Hatch raised a brow. “I’m not sure, then, what sort of response you are looking for, your Grace. Lord Truitt has been popular enough with the women about here, but cheeky young noblemen are scarcely the sort to set me aflutter.”
The lout on the chaise let out a guffaw, but Hatch only frowned. “If pressed, I suppose I could call him clever. He did write some genuinely amusing descriptions of my girls for his List.”
“His list?” Aldmere asked, before shrugging a shoulder as if it were no matter. “Well, then as you say, we aren’t familiar with each other, I suppose I must ask if you commonly try to drug the decent, clever fellows of your acquaintance? Or set your henchmen to harassing them?”
Hatch came instantly alert. “No indeed, your Grace. I usually save that treatment for men who try to cheat me. Or for those who get too rough with my girls.”
“You’ll never convince me that my brother did either,” he growled, taking a step nearer.
“No? Well, I am known to make exceptions.” She eyed the scant space between them. “For those who get too close, as well.”
At her words, the big man in the back thrust his snack aside and lumbered to his feet. He stayed there, still glowering, when Hatch raised her hand. The pimp shot Brynne a disdainful glance, then twisted her mouth in a semblance of a smile. “People being what they are, your Grace, it won’t do to believe everything that you hear. There are a shocking number of lies floating about out there.”
Brynne took a step to come even with the duke. “There are a shocking number of truths not being told, as well, but that hasn’t stopped us from hearing them.”
The other woman stilled.
“Yes, that truth,” Brynne said. “We know who’s behind the List.”
Hatch froze, for the briefest moment. “Everybody out!” Her sudden command rang sharply through the room.
Clearly, the order shocked them all. The young man at her shoulder froze, pen poised in mid-air. The Asian lady looked up from her figures for the first time. The woman with the sewing stared. The hulking lackey crossed his arms.
Hatch raised a finger and pointed toward the door. No one moved for another long moment, then, like floodwater over a dam they quickly all filed past Brynne and the duke. Brynne tried to catch the urchin’s eye as she passed, but the girl was staring speculatively at Hatch over her shoulder. Only the large man balked, coming to a stop at Hatch’s side, but she snapped her fingers and he grumpily followed the rest and pulled the door closed with a bang.
“How—?” Hatch began. She halted and furious color rushed into her face. “Ah, Letty. I will—”
“No,” Brynne stopped her. “The foolish girl stayed loyal to you even when we confronted her.” She raised a brow. “It would seem you have a serious problem, Hatch, for we heard it from another source entirely.”
“Nor will we hesitate to share it,” Aldmere rumbled. He paused and cocked his head. “Such an unusual color she’s turning,” he said to Brynne. “Do you suppose Marstoke will produce a similar shade when we speak to him?”
Hatch flinched at the marquess’s name.
“I hope not,” Brynne mused. “He never looks his best when he’s in a fury.”
The other woman’s complexion had gone mottled now. Clearly, stifling anger was not one of her strong suits. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice raspy with effort.
“I want my brother, damn you.” Aldmere’s mask of calm fell away and the transforma
tion to utterly masculine strength was swift and captivating. Abruptly, the duke was all boldly cut lines and insistent demand. Brynne’s brain stuttered and stumbled. Heat flared inside her and she barely kept her mouth from dropping open.
“Enough games. I want Truitt. Now. Within the hour, Hatch, or . . .” mockingly, he used her own words against her, “you won’t enjoy the consequences.”
But Brynne tore her attention away from the duke just in time to catch the startling mix of emotions that crossed the other woman’s face. Surprise first. Followed by a flash of cunning, which rapidly dissolved into fear.
“You don’t have him?” Hatch asked with gasp.
The sound of frustration that came from Aldmere sounded almost like a growl. “I don’t play games, Hatch. I’m deadly serious.”
Hatch visibly gathered herself. Bristling, she waved a hand. “What shall you do, your Grace, talk me to death? Read me a speech until my ears bleed?” She laughed. “I’ve heard of you, you know. You might have been known once for your fancy persuasions in Parliament, but words won’t do you a bit of good in these streets.”
Brynne didn’t know how the bawd dared. Aldmere stood braced just ahead of her, a veritable wall of menace and male aggression. Her breath came a little more ragged as he drew his broad shoulders back.
“That’s why you’ll never be anything but a back street bully, Hatch,” he said with hard-edged condescension. “Only a fool would deny the power of words. Words linked your name with Truitt’s, and led me straight here. Unsaid words just had you clear all of your people from this room, leaving you alone with us.”
Something changed as the duke spoke. She looked closely. It wasn’t that he stood taller or broader, but he definitely loomed larger, occupied more of the room, and all without a single movement.
“What will I do to you?” he asked, and Brynne suddenly understood that it was his voice, the rippling power in his words that wrought the real change in the room.
“Indeed, I do have words and a great many resources besides. I am the Duke of Aldmere. I could squash you flatter than a bug. In an hour’s time, I could own this house, this street, this block. I could have you and your crowd of thick-witted miscreants shoved cheek by jowl into a prison hulk.” He spoke with clarity and absolute conviction, and she and Hatch were helpless to see anything but the bleak, hopeless picture he painted with such passion. “Easier than drawing a breath, I could wipe even the memory of your name from these streets, until your own mother would deny ever hearing of you.”
Hatch had paled. She stared a moment, unfocused.
Amazingly, Brynne felt a twinge of sympathy for the other woman. Unwisely, she felt a stab of violent, clear longing for the duke.
“Now, you get the word to your bullies out there and you bring me my brother right now, damn you,” the duke ordered, his tone now harsh with fury. “You hand over Truitt or I will start to make good on those promises, one by one.”
For a moment, Hatch only stared as her chest heaved like a bellows. “You really don’t have him,” she gasped. “But I don’t . . . we didn’t. . . Wait! If not from Letty and not from the young lordling . . .” Panic flared. “How did you know? Who the hell told you?”
Aldmere took the last, menacing step closer. “Enough games, I said—”
Brynne wrapped her fingers around the bulge of his arm. “She doesn’t have him,” she said low. “Look at her.”
He stared. Hatch’s wild eyes must have convinced him and though it wasn’t visible, she knew the duke must be suffering a similar wave of conflicted emotion. “Then we’re done here,” he stated baldly. He pivoted on his heel.
“Wait!” Hatch snarled. “You don’t dance in here, threatening me and blurting dangerous information so casually. And you don’t leave yet, not until you tell me what rotten blighter is talking out of turn.”
Aldmere’s gaze fell on Brynne first as he paused to look over his shoulder. “Tell me what you know of Truitt. He’s been gone for two days.”
“Not a thing,” she said, tossing a hand in exasperation. “I’ve had men looking for him for at least that long.”
Aldmere shrugged and started moving toward the door again.
“One word from me,” Hatch threatened, “and the entire house will be upon you.”
“Call your lackeys, then,” the duke answered, reaching for the door. “And I’ll inform them just how hard Marstoke is about to come down upon you all.”
With a last, long look, Brynne turned to follow him.
“You’re a satisfied pair, aren’t you?” Hatch had begun to sound desperate now. “Do you think you’ve made a wise move, Brynne Wilmott? Only a fool would choose to be a duke’s doxy over wife to a marquess. Go, then!” she shouted. “There’s a new day ahead, and a new order.” She let loose a laugh that spilled over with hate. “I’d have no wish to be in your shoes, in any case. Not even your high and mighty lover will be able to protect you from what’s coming.”
Aldmere held the door for her.
“You’ve made an enemy of me now, girl,” Hatch cried. “And you’ll live to regret it!”
Brynne paused. “None of us is your enemy, Hatch,” she said sadly. “And neither is Marstoke your friend.”
A sneer twisted the other woman’s features. “Do you think I don’t know that? Or that I’ve been stupid enough to keep only one fish on my line?” Her expression turned crafty. “You might reconsider your position, girl. Change is on the horizon, of a magnitude you cannot imagine. I’d consider giving you a chance to choose the right side.”
The bawd tilted her head. “Do you think your high placed friends have done well by you? Mine are higher.” She said it loftily, with a lift of her chin. “The highest in this land and others.” She raked Brynne over with a hard look. “All you need is a bit of sprucing up. The right gown. A bit of rouge. Come over now, with me, and I swear, you’ll rise higher and fly farther than even Hestia Wright.”
Brynne felt only pity for the bawd as she shook her head.
“Watch your back, Hatch,” Aldmere warned. “I don’t want to hear of you coming within ten feet of this girl again.” He shot her a hard look. “And stay the hell away from my brother.”
She gave an inelegant snort. “The lordling hasn’t a prayer. In fact, you’re all doomed now. You just sealed all of your fates.”
Brynne jumped as a hand clamped down on her shoulder. She wrenched around as Hatch’s bully gripped her harder and scowled a warning at the duke.
“Let them go,” Hatch ordered wearily. She waved a beckoning hand. “The situation has changed. We have other, more pressing things to do. And they have far worse enemies than us to worry about.”
Brynne feared the woman was right. Mind whirling, she followed Aldmere out into the hall to the stairs.
Nine
But the path of true love never did run smooth, did it? My mother objected to so serious a suitor, and to one so poorly set up in the world. She bade me end the affair. But, reader, how could I? . . .
—from the Journals of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Aldmere strode through the cramped and twisting streets with purpose. He kept an eye out, but there was no indication that anyone saw anything but what he wished—a man and his woman with business to attend to. A couple with a destination, but no particular urgent need to reach it.
His mind raced, though, moving twice as fast as his feet. He should be furious at their failure to retrieve Tru. Or swamped in frustration. Instead, fierce hope bubbled through his veins. The emotion was as unfamiliar as it was unexpected, and it threatened to spill out of him in a torrent of plans, speculation, and tentative joy as he pulled Brynne Wilmott along in his wake.
He should take the girl straight back to Craven Street. He had an idea to pursue. He should just leave her and proceed with the search on his own. His reluctance to do so hung strangely heavy in his chest.
Or perhaps not so strange. Neither of them had accomplished their objectives, after all.
He let his eye linger on the curves delineated by that yellow dress and the loose, inky swirl of her coiffure, stealing light even from this dim atmosphere, and knew that none of that explained why he felt no urgency to be rid of her.
She did something to him, this girl. The flash of her ankle distracted him and he looked down at his own outlandish outfit. Even before he’d donned the odd clothes, he hadn’t felt like himself. All day he’d felt different, like he was playing a part. The role of a man who could feel again, perhaps. Not The Duke. Not the institution that he’d deliberately allowed himself to become.
Beside him, Brynne Wilmott’s steps were faltering. Her small hand, tucked in the crook of his elbow, gave a tug. “Can we slow a bit?” she asked. “It would seem we’ve emerged back into a more respectable neighborhood.”
He looked about and saw she was right. “Of course.” His eye fell on a busy coffee shop ahead. “There. We’ll sit for a moment and recalculate.” He pulled her inside, ignoring the speculative looks caused by her attire, and took a table in a back corner.
“Thank you,” she breathed. She stretched her feet out in front of her and wiggled her toes. “I can feel every pebble through these slippers.”
Her eyes darted about, cataloguing the lay of the room and the people in it, in the way that she had. Clearly she did not realize that more than an ankle, now a good length of her shapely calves were on display.
And Aldmere’s breath was suddenly coming too fast. His pulse pounded loud in his ears, and abruptly his temper surged dangerously close to the surface. He glanced around and noticed more than one intent male gaze fastened on her.
A harried server approached. “Whatcher pleasure, today, sir?”
“Two coffees, if you please.” He paused. His companion, he noticed, had tucked her feet back under the table, but was looking pale and tired. “And what does the kitchen offer today?”
“A fine oyster stew, sir, and good, brown bread to go with it.”
Brynne Wilmott’s eyes lit up at the mention of food. “Two,” he said with a nod for the serving girl. The servant whisked back to the kitchen and Miss Wilmott pressed her lips together in worry. “I’m sorry we didn’t learn more from Hatch,” she began.