Illuminating His Grace the Duke of Fenmore, who looked altogether different up close—bending forward and then away with every stroke—than she had always pictured him.
He was handsome, in an austere sort of way—all long, lean, relentless strength. All sharp cheekbones arcing across his face, all shadow and high relief. All penetrating obsidian eyes.
But his cool, nearly haughty looks were a visible contradiction to the warm, if vehement, compassion of the man.
And she was sure now that the vehemence was compassion. His kindness had been evident in everything he had done, every movement he had made toward her.
And why else would he be rowing them all the way to Chelsea? For a dead maid?
Why else would he have helped her—saved her from Rosing—if he were not absolutely filled with a very human, gentlemanly compassion?
How strange that she’d never suspected him of such honorable feelings, never sensed any sort of deeper emotion in the silent, stoic man.
Who kept them moving silently, efficiently onward. Time ticked along with the silent thump of her heart and the quiet rhythmic cadence of the oars, until the tree-lined banks of open farmland began to give way to more and more buildings, hulking shadows in the mist. Lights began to be visible on the north bank, wavering over the water.
And then out of the fog the thin rickety span of a footbridge loomed high overhead.
“Are we there—Chelsea?” She didn’t even like to say the name of the place.
“Battersea.” With one quick glance over his shoulder, His Grace angled the boat toward the illuminated steeple of a church shining dimly in the watery distance. “Though Chelsea is not much further.”
He rowed on until they neared the north bank, where a dark stair jutted out into the silvery water, leading upward onto the dark embankment.
In another few minutes, he laid them smoothly alongside.
Claire looked up at the brown bank hulking out of the mist above, and tried to overcome the creeping unease chilling her skin and making the pale, fine hairs on her arms stand up.
She’d never had the occasion to venture so far south of the city as Chelsea. She’d never wanted to—the name alone was anathema to her ears. It brought to mind the hospital there—full of maimed old pensioners, like the one-legged man who leaned on buildings on the corners of Oxford Street, holding out his hat for passing pennies.
The uncomfortable shiver seeped under her skin and into her bones.
All she could think when she saw one of them—the maimed men—was that, but for the grace of God, her brother Will, who was in His Majesty’s Royal Navy still, might have been one of them. Might yet be one of them.
She knew Will came down here, to the hospital, when he was in town—part of his duty to visit armless friends and legless comrades who had served in his crews.
But she was giving way to worry and an excess of sensibility, for His Grace had also served in the navy it seemed, and he still had all his long, sinewy arms and legs, moving out of the boat and onto the steep stone steps with a lithe, fluid agility that still surprised her.
He tied off the lines, and came back to crouch down next to the boat, and take up the pistol she had left on the seat.
“This is where we disembark.” He held out his hand to assist her, as if he could sense her unease.
Claire could only hope the darkness hid the heat in her face. But still she hesitated, putting off the moment as long as possible.
“Yes. Or, ought I to keep the skiff steady again, so you might get the— So you might get her out more easily?”
“Ah.” His quick brows showed his surprise. He cocked his head a bit, as if he were trying to see her from a different angle. “Good thinking. Yes. In a moment. But first, let me reload—and teach you how to load—this gun.”
He took the pistol up with his long, fingers, and turned it in his hand. The dull gleam of gunmetal winked wickedly in the clouded moonlight.
“I’ve measures of powder ready for priming.” He reached into the folds of the coat she still wore, and pulled out a small sueded leather roll, much like the one in which her mother kept her jewelry when she traveled.
His Grace’s articulate fingers unfolded the leather to reveal cleverly organized little compartments with all the necessities.
He took up a small square of chamois, and wiped down the pistol’s mechanism while he talked.
“I have twists of paper with pre-measured amount of powder, as well as wadding”—he pulled the lock to half cock, and tapped the powder out of the paper twist; then he plucked a small piece of fabric out of the pouch, placed it over the end of the bore, and thumbed a lead ball in behind it, before tamping it down with the short ramrod—“and priming powder.”
He tipped the brass tube into the firing mechanism, and pushed the cover down onto the pan before he held the loaded pistol out to her in the palm of his hand.
Like a particularly lethal gift.
All in less time than it would take for her to clean her teeth, or pull the pins from her hair. His competence in this, as in the other things he had already done that night, left her confounded. What an extraordinary duke he was proving to be.
“You can load it the next time.”
Claire wasn’t sure it she liked the sound of that—the surety that there would be another time they would need this skill—and this pistol—this night.
“Is Chelsea really that dangerous?”
“One never knows. You’ll have to carry the stick—to have at the ready and keep well shut of the nypers and foysters—while I carry the body.”
“Nippers and...foys?” Was this buckish slang, of the sort her brothers used when they didn’t know she was listening?
But the duke’s cadence and ease sounded nothing like her brothers. “Nypers be thieves who might think to steal from you” He slid the cant words on like a well worn shirt.
Claire sent another wild glance into the surrounding mist. “Thieves? Are we like to be set upon?”
“Not if I can help it.”
This, however, seemed to give him some pleasure or humor, for his mouth curved again into that small, almost-secret half smile before he turned that penetrating stare of his on the dark beneath the stairs. “Cry beef there.”
At that cryptic direction, a quiet, almost-disgusted voice piped up from behind the shadowy wooden slats.
“You needn’t rag, Tanner. It’s only me.”
“Ah.” His Grace’s smile slid sharply upward. “I’ll tip you a scrope to watch the paddler whilst we’re afoot. And another to keep your red rag stowed.”
“Done,” came the swift, low answer. “I’m no peach.”
“Right so,” the duke answered. And then he slanted that secret smile at Claire. “Friends are everywhere if you know how to look for them. You steady the boat. I’ll get the girl.”
It was as if he were a different man—a different man entirely from the aloof duke in the ballroom. Even different from the kind friend of the boat.
He sounded to Claire’s untutored ears, as if he were quite at home, entirely at his ease in cryptic chats with thieves, and transporting a corpse across a dark city in the dead of night—it took him only a moment to collect poor Carter’s lifeless body up in his arms, and then, with a sharp nod in Claire’s direction, set off up the stairs.
Claire clambered onto the bottom of the stairs in his wake, but found herself reluctant to leave what felt like the sanctuary of the boat. Which was silly. Because she did not particularly want to remain, alone on the misty riverside with whoever was sheltering under the stair.
But neither was she ready to discover exactly what the bloodless word post-mortem might mean.
And in his omniscient way, he saw her hesitation. “Lady Claire? I’ll keep you safe, but you’ll want to keep close. It’s not a particularly unsavory neighborhood, but neither is it particularly savory.”
“Yes. I understand.” But still she didn’t move, hovering on the cusp of the decisi
on. Feeling it would be irrevocable.
“The mudlark will keep a close eye on the skiff, Lady Claire. And this may take...some time.”
Some time more than they had spent away already.
Claire could only hope her reputation could withstand the blow if the truth of the evening came out. The duke had said that no one would talk. And he had kept all of his promises, so far.
And in the grand scheme of the night, she was alive. Poor Maisy Carter was not.
And Claire wanted to have something more than a penchant for putting herself into danger—she wanted to have some of that agile competence to get herself out.
This was her chance to be brave. Braver than she ever had before.
Claire gathered her resolve as if it were His Grace’s coat, still wrapping her in its comfort and protection, and firmed her grip on the pistol. “I understand.”
His Grace gave her his quick almost-smile—a pleased tug at one corner of his mouth. “Right so. Ready then?”
She swallowed her trepidation. “Yes.”
“Then follow me.” And away he went into the mist.
Claire had to shove her arms through the overlarge sleeves of His Grace’s coat so she could gather up her long skirts to hurry after him.
But when she reached the level of the embankment, he had paused in a crouch, waiting for her, and looking around—though how he could see anything in the eerily shifting, rising damp from the river, she did not know. He was absolutely still, and in another moment she realized he was listening, gathering information from the sounds, just as he had urged her to do earlier.
She made herself crouch down, and listen with him, and found herself sorting out the sounds.
The regular lap of the river against the bank was there, but there were city sounds now, as well—the creak of a door being opened, and the splash of a bucket being emptied on to the street, followed by the closing of the door. The low rumble of a carriage off somewhere. The thin scrape of a fiddle even farther away.
“Right so.” His Grace shifted poor Carter’s body up and over his shoulder, and then nodded to Claire. “Hold close.”
He set off across the dirt street at a steady but fast pace, moving purposefully, as if he had every right, as if there was nothing remotely wrong or sinister or tragic about him carrying a poor dead girl’s body through the night.
Claire didn’t know whether to be amazed or appalled by his audacity and seeming lack of compassion now. But compassion was likely to do them no good should they be caught by a night watchman or constable. This strange amalgamation of buckish swagger and ducal audacity would have to do.
Claire followed as closely as she might—though she didn’t like to get too close to him, with poor Carter slung over his shoulder like so much grain.
But neither did Claire want to let him out of her sight. She had no sense of place slinking so quickly along these narrow lanes, no way to get her bearings.
“Where are we going?” Her voice sounded strident and over-loud in the emptiness.
He turned and put a finger to his mouth, and then whispered, “Round the back and down the alley.”
He led her down a varied row of tall, prosperous houses that towered over them out of the dark night, and around a corner, before he ducked into a dark, unlit alley.
He steered her tight against a low brick wall, and paused again.
She sorted out the sounds—the more distant mull of the river, but now she could pick out the clack of a pot or pan, or two, the slam of a door, the splash of a pail being emptied.
He seemed satisfied by the ordinariness of the sounds, and started off. “Hold close,” he urged again, and she tried to keep close, filling her hands with her skirts to lift the silken hems of her ball gown well clear of the dirt while trying keep her grip on the gun and emulating his posture, crouched low, close up against the alley walls.
When he darted to the side for no reason, but Claire could see nothing, and so kept to her path, with one elbow touching along the wall for guidance, until she promptly stepped ankle-deep into a chilly puddle that instantly soaked her thin dancing slipper through.
“Ooh, bloody hell—.”
“Not a sound.” His low whisper whipped at her through the dark.
And then his hand found her, pulling her up hard against his side, holding her still against him, as two fellows with lanterns crossed the far end of the alley.
He had clearly put Carter’s body down, because Claire felt both his hands on her shoulders holding her still. When the lantern light at the end of the alley winked out, she released the breath she did not know she had been holding.
But His Grace was not at all relieved. He muttered another blue oath before he whispered low. “Stay here. And no matter what, don’t say a word.”
He moved no more than a few feet away before a lantern suddenly shone in their eyes.
Claire put up a hand to shield her gaze, and saw two men—one large and bald, and another one larger still—smiling from behind the beam of the light.
Every part of her felt stripped cold.
“Show me your hand, your lordship. And I’d advise you to fill it with guineas.”
His Lordship did indeed show his hand, stretching his long, articulate fingers out in what Claire assumed would be an attitude of beseechment.
But one moment his hand was empty, and in the next it held the haft of a deadly-looking blade that winked wickedly in the moonlight.
“Filled it with something else entire, haven’t I? Something you’d better mind, Robertson, you buggering bungler.”
The miscreant couldn’t hide his startlement—which was second only to Claire’s. Or his amusement—his head jerked back before he narrowed his eyes and peered more closely into the misty murk. “Jesus God. Tanner? That you?”
“It is.”
Claire could hear the sly smile in His Grace’s voice, even has his hands reached back to herd her into the shelter of his height.
“Well, fuck me blind.” The miscreant gave a wheezy chuckle. “Look at you all toffed up like a flash cully. Why did you not cry beef?”
“Didn’t ask, did you?” His Grace’s cool, amused baritone eased over the top of his crooked smile, but his accent was still rough around the edges.
“Didn’t, did I?” Claire saw the yellowy glint of the footpad’s grinning teeth flash in the watery light. “What in seven hells are you doing out on a night like this? Though fuck me, it’s good to see you again. And yer lovely dolly mort there, as well.”
The footpad canted a wiry eyebrow in her direction, before he reached a meaty paw out to His Grace, who actually took it.
“I’d rather not fuck you, if its all the same to you, Rob. And neither would my lass.” The cadence of Fenmore’s voice was sliding into the same dockside gurgle as that of his strange acquaintance.
“Your lass, eh?” The bald footpad wagged his shaggy eyebrow at her admiringly. “She looks like she could butter a man’s parsnips nicely with—”
“Shut it.” His Grace pointed that wicked blade at the miscreant’s heart. “My lass. So treat her gentleman-like.”
Astonishment was a pale description of what Claire was felt at His Grace’s words. She felt strange and tingly again, not with cold, but with warming heat—that lovely feeling of safety.
“Oh, easy lad. That’s the lay o’ that land, is it?” The miscreant nodded his head respectfully toward her. “I wish you joy, missus.”
“Thank you,” she said because she didn’t know what else to say.
“Listen to that. Quality she is, Tanner. She’ll do the governess for you nice. Hain’t seen no one do a governess like yer sister, and old Nan herself, back in the day.” The bald man seemed to think this was a remarkable accolade he was bestowing upon Claire. “Yer man’s a dab hand—a damn good knuckler, missus. Best there is. You stick with ‘em. The Tanner’ll see you right in the end, he will. Even if they hang ‘em in his fancy togs at the end. Hang us all, won’t they, Tanner?”
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“Not if they don’t catch us.”
“Ha ha,” the miscreant barked. “Too true. Too bloody true. Stay on our toes, then, won’t we? On our toes.”
“Will do. Now off with you, before you ruin my rig with all your palaver.”
“Ha-ha!” the man chuckled again before he shuttered the lantern. “Good to see you in the old roads, Tanner. Good to see you.”
And then he and his silent partner shuffled off down the alley.
In the moment after they were gone, Claire realized that His Grace had come to stand so close, she could register his heat and solidity through the material of his evening coat.
“You weren’t supposed to speak,” he admonished.
As if her speaking had been the strange thing.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, because she was brought up with manners, and politeness was always her first refuge.
He nodded sharply, accepting her apology. And then if the confounded man didn’t smile, and toss her a wink. “Not to worry,” he whispered directly into her ear. “It’s all sorted now.”
And then he was off again, patting her on the back, and slinking as sure-footed as a cat down the rutted, foggy way.
By the time she caught up with him two houses down, he had laid poor Carter’s body on the ground, and was vaulting over the top of an ivy-covered wall in one single, agile leap.
And he was gone.
And Claire had no refuge left at all.
Chapter 5
Claire waited what felt like forever for him to reappear, but he did not.
There was no sight, no sound. Nothing. Nothing but the empty alley, the pitch darkness, and the hard hammering of her heart in her ears.
He had left her.
And left her alone with Maisy Carter’s body.
Claire’s palms went damp and clammy. Heat prickled and then chilled her skin. Her breath sounded short and harsh in her ears.
Without His Strange Grace of Fenmore, she was completely on her own. And entirely out of her depth. She did not dare to call out to him after he had cautioned her so sharply.
After the Scandal Page 6