by Devon, Eva
“No one is going to jump me in an alley,” Rafe pointed out.
And it was true.
Over the years, he’d been able to go into many dark parts of London. He wasn’t a fool. He didn’t go in the most dangerous areas, but generally, his confidence and status as a duke left it quite possible for him to go wherever he wished.
There was just something about him and his fellow duke friends which suggested that if someone were to touch him, they’d end up dead. Not necessarily through his own hand.
He didn’t need to wield a pistol or a saber at them, or pull a dagger forth, to show them, but it was very clear that anyone of a lower order who attacked someone like him, a duke, would be given a most vile and gruesome death.
It was a generally known and accepted thing in society.
Heath shook his head. “I think you’re being far too proud on this, Royland.”
“Do you, indeed? Well, I don’t wish to be a complete idiot,” he said, “and if you’re so concerned, Heath—which touches my heart, indeed it does—send me a few lads over, and I’ll take a look at them and have a conversation, and we’ll see what can be done. If I absolutely must have someone walk about with me to appease your goodly natured soul, I’ll at least consider it. After all, I shouldn’t like to lose your good opinion.”
Heath smirked. “Why, Your Grace. I am most touched that you would consider doing such a thing on my advice.”
Rafe leaned forward. “Then why are you here if you did not think I would take your advice?”
Heath’s lips curled. “I do agree, Your Grace. You’re no fool, even though I said it before. I had a strong feeling you wouldn’t be a complete idiot.”
“Thank you, Heath. I do try.” And with that taken care of, for he had no intention of taking on guards, Rafe said, “Now, what particular horror should we feature if we run a story about gin in the East End?”
“I don’t think you should run a story about gin in the East End at all,” Heath all but bit out. “Hogarth’s prints and the like are doing quite a good job of exposing all that. I think what you should do is run an article about slavery.”
“Do you?” asked Rafe softly, evenly.
Heath nodded, his strong face, grim.
“It’s getting quite bad,” Heath said. “Young, free African men are being jumped in the taverns in the East End and being pressed into slavery. They’re being swept out of the city and put on ships.”
The Duke of Royland gritted his teeth.
It was a scandal, and he certainly wasn’t going to ignore it. It was a stain upon England’s honor, and he was going to do everything he could to eradicate it.
After all, no one should be put into slavery, not a single soul upon this earth.
The English did not allow slaves on their isle, and they were on the path to stop the trade in their waters. And Rafe was going to do everything that he could to ensure that that path ended in success. He certainly didn’t want to see any more people enslaved. And it was a damned travesty that they were being stolen from London streets.
“Done, Heath,” Rafe said. “Can you send me a few people who’ve witnessed such crimes?”
Heath nodded. “Absolutely, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” Rafe said, meaning it. “Consider the story written. Thompson will run something tomorrow, citing the outrage, and we’ll see what the public has to say about such goings-on.”
And there it was.
The power that one could wield with the pen and not the sword.
Chapter 3
Penelope strode up the sprawling townhouse steps with definitely less decorum than should have been desired from a young lady.
It was no ordinary townhouse. The place was massive. As large as some manor houses that she had seen in the country. It looked quite imposing and spoke of power stretching back before Elizabeth.
It was not the house of the Duke of Drake, her future cousin by marriage, whom she’d become quite familiar with. No. This was the townhouse of the equally powerful Duke of Blackstone.
She had been given the good fortune of being offered a chaperone who was one of the most influential women in the country, or at least, she had recently become so. The Dowager Duchess of Blackstone.
Her husband had been quite debauched and quite a scandal. The family had suffered greatly for it. But the Dowager Duchess of Blackstone was a formidable woman, and it seemed that widowhood agreed with her.
Truth be told, Penelope was most excited to meet her.
And as soon as her cousin and dear friend was wed, she would be moving into the Blackstone residence so that Percy and Drake might have a bit of time together.
The Duke of Blackstone, whom she’d met in passing just that morning, had also proved to be quite a nice fellow. Not like the Duke of Royland, who was an absolute ponce, of that she was convinced. So, as she strode up the beautifully appointed steps and through the gorgeously carved door, then into the immaculate foyer, she drew in a calming breath.
No, it would not do to greet her chaperone with unsteady nerves. How could she? No, she needed the dowager duchess to be happy to sponsor her. Penelope did not wish her to be doing it solely as a favor to the Duke of Drake.
It really had been a remarkable thing, the path her life had taken. Her father, miss him as she did, was now happily ensconced in a cottage in the country.
Well, happily was perhaps not the right word. He struggled to accept the fact that he had financially ruined their small family. It had been an awful blow to him.
Especially since he had done it trying to aid a friend.
And her father did come down to London to see them as often as he could bear it, but he hated the city so.
In the last weeks, he’d developed a lung complaint, and Town air was very inadvisable for him. So, he generally stayed away. The poor man consoled himself with walks by the sea and books and tea and occasional glasses of wine.
She really couldn’t blame him, and she missed him dreadfully, for he was such a good man. So good and kind that he had not thought twice when he gave such a vast deal of money to a friend who had promised to ensure his shipping cargo.
There had never been any chance he might ruin Penelope and Persephone. But his friend had proved false.
Her father had barely been able to lift his head for shame.
It was all down to Persephone, their turn in fortune. Her cousin had quite boldly proposed marriage to the Duke of Drake, who had been searching for a wife, and much to no one’s surprise, certainly not Penelope’s, he had accepted.
It was quite clear he had liked Persephone from the moment that he saw her dashing across a field to save a fox.
So now, Penelope had the opportunity to be presented to society, something that she had never had nor desired before. Her own writings, books, and walks, inspired by her father’s way of life, had always been more than enough.
She’d been quite relieved that she enjoyed London so thoroughly. Well, she quite liked it except for meetings such as that of this morning!
She had not expected to meet such a dreadful, if handsome, man as the Duke of Royland.
Oh, he was handsome, it was true, beautiful even, charming, remarkably clever, but rude. How terribly rude he was to assume such dreadful things about her dear friend and cousin.
She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt then smiled at the older butler who had let her in.
He was gazing upon her as if she’d gone a bit mad.
Clearing her throat, Penelope broadened her smile.
“Do forgive me,” she assured, not wishing the servants to think her a lackwit. “I’ve had pressing matters on my mind.”
“Pressing matters for such a young lady?” he queried, lightly, but with far more boldness than she had expected.
But perhaps she should not have been surprised. For, she was not a lady.
No, she was a Miss. And he was used to the highest pedigree in all of the land. And in all truth, it was only sheer chance and luck whic
h allowed her entry into such a powerful family. She certainly wasn’t about to take offense at his reticence.
“Well, even young ladies do have their problems.” She laughed.
And much to her delight, the butler smiled, causing his forehead to crease with wrinkles. “We all do, Miss Finley. We all do.”
With that, he guided her down the hallway.
It was an immaculate hallway of beautiful proportions and turquoise silk brocade walls. Gold filigree artfully emphasized every corner.
Pictures of horses, exquisite ladies, and landscapes hung everywhere. They were not quite like the singular paintings at her father’s house.
These were far older. Some of them dated back to the time when portraiture had just begun. She even could swear she saw a Holbein, which was remarkable in and of itself, even if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing to behold.
Its historical importance was what made it beautiful and interesting.
They walked slowly, as if they had all the time in the world.
Perhaps they did.
Given that she generally bounded places, the forced pace was a bit tricky, but somehow, she managed not to ride the butler’s heels in her state of anticipation.
At last, they turned into a beautiful salon.
The walls were a stunning, soft yellow. The silk reflected the sun coming in through the tall Italianate windows, bathing the room in a glorious warm glow. And she was certain that even if the dreariest day of winter were to touch this room, it would not be able to darken it.
That, of course, was why the walls were covered with mirrors. With the polished surfaces and bright silk, the room would always be cheerful.
The furniture was a beautiful, buttery cream to match. The whole room cried lightness. There wasn’t a single sad thing about it, and she found herself enjoying it quite much.
Penelope dared to assume the reason why the room was so bright.
The Dowager Duchess of Blackstone had had a tortured life. She had lost her eldest son to debauchery, and her husband too had died a dreadful death due to drink and ruin.
It was her younger son, Robert, who had managed to pull the family up and to turn everything around for them.
It was a remarkable thing, that the family had risen, phoenix-like, from such ashes. And Penelope felt certain that darkness, any sort of darkness, had probably already entered in the dowager duchess’ heart. Likely, the lady did not feel any need to reflect it in the furnishings.
Point of fact, the dowager duchess was now sitting at the end of the long salon, before a beautiful marble-top table that had most certainly come from southern Italy. She sat upon a beautiful damask chair, the oak feet and arms carved to perfection.
The mature woman’s gown was of teal silk, and it hugged a frame that had not seen the worst for wear. The dowager duchess’ beautiful dark hair was piled in soft curls upon her head. Only touches of silver traced through her dark locks.
It was true, though, that life had left its marks upon her face. Even so, it was clear that, once, that face had been the most beautiful in London.
Now it was care-worn, but at least, it was no longer, as she understood, full of worry.
“Do sit down,” the dowager said after Penelope gave a perfunctory curtsy.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Penelope replied.
Quickly and with as much grace as she could muster, she perched herself on the edge of the opposing delicate chair.
The dowager duchess nodded towards her butler, and Penelope was fairly certain that meant tea would soon be imminent.
As if a footman had been waiting just off the room in the hall for this moment, suddenly, a young man appeared in a beautiful sapphire livery. His bewigged head looked as fresh as powdered snow.
The young man crossed the room and placed the massive silver tray on the table before the dowager duchess.
Penelope thrilled, for she did love food. There were beautiful cakes, and toast with butter, and a stunning pot of tea that looked as if it had come straight from China itself.
With as much grace as a dancer in the Royal Ballet, the dowager took up the teapot and poured the liquid carefully through a silver strainer.
Penelope all but had to hide her country enthusiasm. There was really, truly something remarkable about a well-made cup of tea.
The dowager duchess lifted the beautiful peach-colored cup and gently pushed it towards her.
Penelope took it appropriately, holding the saucer in her palm.
“Thank you for having me, Your Grace,” she said.
“It is my pleasure,” the dowager duchess replied easily. “It is always good to have another young person about the house. My daughter desperately needs friends of her own age.”
Penelope nodded and took a sip of the tea.
Its delicate fragrance wafted around her nose and bathed her tongue in the most delicious of tastes. She had to stop herself from sighing with pleasure.
“I am eager to meet Lady Mary,” Penelope finally said.
“I’m sure Lady Mary is eager to meet you too,” the dowager duchess informed, though with a little bit less enthusiasm.
Penelope noticed it and wondered if perhaps Lady Mary felt herself above meeting with a girl who was not equal to her station.
The dowager duchess seemed to notice, and she held up an elegant, ivory hand.
“No, no, dear girl. You must not think that Lady Mary is reticent to meet you specifically. You see, Lady Mary has had the most interesting few years, and she’s not particularly bothered by the goings-on of the ton.”
“Oh, I see,” Penelope said, intrigued. “That is most interesting. I have not had much concern about it myself until recently, but now I find that—”
“You must find a husband,” the dowager duchess put in, her lips turning mischievously.
“Yes, it would seem so,” Penelope agreed, taking another sip of tea. “I have no fortune of my own, as you know. I am only here through the good graces of the Duke of—”
“Never mind, my dear,” the dowager cut in easily as if such things didn’t matter. “We needn’t discuss that. I am aware of your financial situation. It is true that it might be difficult to find an appropriate man for you based upon this fact. However, I know for certain that the Duke of Drake does plan to settle a small amount upon you, one which will give you dignity and respect. Thus, I’m sure that if anything were to ever go amiss, you would be well taken care of.”
Penelope stilled, her throat tightening.
Drake had done that?
It seemed too much, too good, too kind, and she felt her eyes spring with tears.
“Now, now, we mustn’t be watering pots,” said the dowager, who had clearly been through far worse things than a little hint of ruin. “Yes, we must take these things in their stride and be glad of them. So rather than allow yourself to be overwhelmed, simply allow yourself to be filled with anticipation of a bright future. To enjoy what we’ve been given and seize what we can, is the best thing we can do in this life.”
Penelope stared at the older woman, amazed that she had this point of view. It wasn’t generally thought that ladies should seize anything, let alone a good fortune in life at the behest of someone else.
No, they should be full of gratitude and apology, and full of tears and weeping, shouldn’t they? That was what young ladies were supposed to do? Be full of emotion.
But the dowager duchess did not seem to think so.
And so, Penelope squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “How wonderful. I am so glad that my prospects have improved and without my own knowledge.”
“I agree, it is a very good thing,” she said. “After all, there are quite a few men about who would like to marry you but will never be able to support you. It is the truth, and I would not see you live a beggar’s life.”
“Nor I,” Penelope declared, “considering I have just escaped one.”
The dowager stared at her, surprised, but then she smiled. �
��How very intelligent of you, my dear. I’m glad that you understand the ways of the world.”
“I do.” Penelope bit her lower lip then ventured, “I could marry a poor good man, of course. But there are many risks that come with it.”
“How right you are.” The dowager gave a rueful smile. “There are even risks that come with marrying a very wealthy man.”
Immediately, Penelope was certain that the dowager referred to her own husband.
“So what is to be done about me?” Penelope asked boldly.
“Well, my dear, what we shall do is take you out slowly into society, so you warm up a bit to it.” The dowager studied her kindly. “As I understand, you rusticated quite seriously in the country.”
“It’s true,” Penelope agreed happily and without embarrassment. “I do not have a great deal of exposure to company, but I think I might be better for it.”
“As do I. You’re not going to be like anyone else, and it’s wonderful to be unique, a bit unique, anyway,” the dowager said pleasantly as she took a slice of buttered toast. “There are certain things one must conform to. After all, there are a great many rules to remember.”
“Oh dear,” Penelope said. “Rules. Why are they so very important?”
“Because without them,” the dowager said, “we would not be very important now, would we? It would only be our money and our land that kept us apart from others. No, you see, with our rules and our traditions, we make ourselves special.”
“Oh, I see,” said Penelope, and she should have seen it sooner.
Surely, her father had mentioned some sort of similar thing before.
It made sense, given the fact that he so disliked going into society. He was a man who did not care for most rules, at least not the rules of the upper classes.
No, he preferred to read his Rousseau and contemplate future times in which there might be far fewer strictures upon the lower orders.
“Well, what shall we be doing first?” Penelope inquired eagerly.
“You’ve already selected a number of beautiful new gowns, which I think is quite good,” the dowager began. Her eyes twinkled. “My spies have even told me whom you selected them from. I’ve seen the plates, so I know that they are appropriate choices. You have excellent taste, my dear.”