“How are you and Lady Beaufort related?” Aurelia found her voice at last, though it was made shaky by the intense ice-blue stare of Mr. Black as he considered her question.
“My father was the Duke of Blackmore,” Mr. Black said curtly. Seeing the impressed look on Aurelia’s face, he quickly cut her off.
“My mother was an Irish Scullery maid not a Duchess.”
“Oh,” Aurelia tried to keep her voice neutral as Mr. Black explained his back-story, though the only thing worse than being the bastard son of a maid was being the bastard son of an Irish maid. Perhaps his Celtic roots were what gave him his air of wildness; despite his fashionable clothing and haircut, he still had a devilish aura about him. Mr. Black’s hair was as dark as night, and Aurelia longed to run her fingers through it. She blinked in surprise as she registered that fact – she had never wished to do something so scandalous in her life!
“And Lady Beaufort is the niece of the Dowager Duchess of Blackmore,” Aurelia spoke aloud, answering her own question as she realised the connection – though it confused her even more.
“My brother,” Sebastian said, as though reading her mind as to why he came to be in the Dowager Duchess’ home; “Entrusted the safety of Lady Beaufort to me when he left for the Peninsula.”
His brother…it went without saying that Mr. Black was referring to the Duke of Blackmore, the notoriously aloof war hero, who had recently returned from abroad after negotiating a peace treaty with the French in Vienna.
“And what a shoddy job you did.” Lady Lydia was back, a wicked grin upon her face; “ He’s not back a wet week and you’ve already turned up with hooligans and run-aways for morning tea.”
The Marquess of Sutherland took on a look of indignation at the term “Hooligan”.
“I have been accused of many things my Lady,” he said as Lydia took a seat, whilst a liveried footman set tea upon the table; “Rauffianism. Rakishism. Alcoholism…but never hooliganism.”
“How will you cope with such a slur upon your person?” Lydia’s tone was dry as she poured tea into delicate china cups for her guests. Despite her droll exterior she seemed excited to have visitors, her cheeks rosy, her copy of Hours of Idleness cast aside.
“He’s been called worse,” Mr. Black said, throwing the Marquess an amused look; “In fact I could add a few more isms to his list, but ladies and gentleman I suggest we get down to business.”
Mr. Black turned and looked at Aurelia, his blue eyes glinting; “The business of what to do about Miss St. Claire.”
Sebastian left the Mayfair home where Lady Beaufort resided with the Dowager Duchess an hour later, his mind a whirr. There were pieces of her story which made no sense to him. If Theo St. Claire was truly alive, and had not died on a field in France, how was it that he came to be seen walking in Covent Garden? Why had he not reclaimed his seat? And did the current Baron of Epsom know that his nephew and rightful holder of the title was safe and well in London Town?
All these things had Sebastian scratching his chin thoughtfully as he strolled the sloping streets towards the docks. He caught a few glances of surprise as he walked, though he was used to them by now. Well dressed, obviously wealthy men never traipsed the streets of London on foot – out of both snobbery and fear – so to see a man of his ilk strolling, nonchalant, towards the Isle of Dogs was something of a surprise to some.
Sebastian wondered for a moment what Miss St. Claire would think of him traveling without a carriage, or even a horse. Would she wrinkle her nose in distaste? There was something about the chit that had caught his attention, and he could not for the life of him figure out what it was. She was very pretty, in that classic English Rose way, but she was not the type of woman that Sebastian usually preferred. He adored women with a bawdy sense of humour, who knew how to spar with him – verbally at least. Actresses mostly, never Ladies of the Ton - not after the last time. Miss St. Claire was the very opposite of an actress – she was the epitome of prim and proper – and yet, beneath her restrained exterior Sebastian was sure that something wild was lurking…He shook his head, to clear his mind of the image of Miss St. Claire with her hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back tightly in a bun.
“Now is not the time,” he scolded himself – the poor girl was in enough trouble, she didn’t need him salivating over her like a smitten puppy.
The offices for his shipping company were located on Manchester Road, and the front of the building faced out onto the West India Docks, where he could see two of his cargo ships being unloaded.
“Morning Cedric,” Sebastian called to his man of business, who was seated behind a large mahogany desk piled high with papers. The balding man took a time-piece from his pocket, and squinted at it over half-moon glasses.
“It’s after-noon by my watch Sebastian,” he said; “Perhaps in St. James’ it is still morning, but in the real world we rise before the sun if we want to catch any fish.”
Sebastian refrained from rolling his eyes; Cedric Hurst had worked for him since the first day that Black Night Shipping had opened its doors, and he accepted nothing less than hard work from everyone he worked with…even Sebastian. Who he technically worked for.
“I had dealings elsewhere,” Sebastian replied easily, walking behind the desk, and resting his head against the window pane, as he watched the activity on the docks below. He had spent huge portions of his childhood on these docks, running errands for sailors, pilfering fallen cargo and generally getting into trouble. The fresh sea air had felt miles away from the squalid, stifling grime of the slum he called home.
“Any news on the consignment from China?” he asked casually. His fortune had been built on importing tea from the East, a complex task which involved the trading of smuggled opium from Calcutta through brokering agencies in the major port cities of the Orient.
When Sebastian had finished down in Eaton more than a decade ago his brother had wanted to send him to Oxford or Cambridge to study further, like all the Blackmore men. Sebastian, having had had his fill of the upper classes, had other plans. He had taken the savings he’d saved over the years, mostly from cards and games of chance with his fellow class mates, and headed straight for Dog Island and a life at sea. Under the advice of Cedric Hurst, Sebastian had taken his monies to the exotic lands of China and had bought a massive consignment of tea. Unlike the other wealthy merchants abroad however, Sebastian was reluctant to entrust his precious cargo into anyone else’s care and so had accompanied the ship on the year long voyage back to England.
As he reached the British Chanel, news that several East India Company vessels had lost their cargos at the most dangerous spot of the Clipper Route – Cape Horn – reached his ears. Sebastian and his crew docked in London not a week later, with the only consignment of tea due to reach England for six months: he was rich beyond his wildest dreams. Never one to rest on his laurels, he quickly reinvested his money into his Black Night Shipping Company, along with several other ventures, like a gaming hell in his old haunt of St. Giles’. Thanks to wise investments and street smarts, it took him less than five years to become one of the richest men in London – bested only by his brother the Duke, and Prinny himself. His wealth had never affected his work ethic or sense of responsibility, and Sebastian still daily visited the offices of Black Night, though he no longer sailed. He had everything he wished for as an urchin child – and yet he still felt as though something was missing. It wasn’t a material thing – he knew this, as he could buy and sell anything he wished for – it was a sense of belonging.
“The captain from The Jolly Molly said he sighted the Exotic East just a’fore they crossed the channel. She’ll be home and dry in a day or two.”
Mr. Hurst’s update on the long-awaited for arrival of the Exotic East jolted Sebastian from his reverie.
“Wonderful,” he replied distractedly, before clapping his hands together briskly to focus his thoughts; “Make sure the men receive a small portion of their wages when they
return to shore, with the rest being given on Monday morning, on the proviso that they turn up sober…or that their wives collect it.”
Sebastian knew that some of his sailors were capable of spending a years’ worth of wages on drinking, gambling and whoring in less than a week, and so he rationed out the pay until his men had found their “Land Legs” – or at least until their wives had discovered they were home and safely stashed their wages. Mr. Hurst nodded absently, he would have done that without Sebastian’s instructions but he at least pretended that the owner of the shipping company had some say in the day to day running of things.
“Have you heard any tales of missing soldiers returning from France of late Cedric?” Sebastian asked thoughtfully, gazing out the window to the docks.
The older man shrugged; “It’s not unheard of – but I’ve not heard of any of late. Any reason you’re asking?”
Sebastian could visualise the cogs and wheels turning in Cedric Hurst’s brain; the older man had been instrumental during the war, when Black Night Shipping had delivered spies and secrets to mainland Europe as well as cargo.
“I know a young lady who thinks she saw her brother in a crowd, despite reports of him having died in France. I was wondering if there was any credence to what she thought she saw…”
“There’s always been some men who use war as a means to disappear,” Cedric replied sagely, shifting in his chair and peering at Sebastian intently over the rims of his glasses; “Would this young lady’s brother have any reason to play dead? Any debtors, cuckolds or bastard children he’s hiding from?”
“Not that I know of,” Sebastian shrugged, picking up his hat and strolling towards the door: Cedric had given him a lot to think about. Theo St. Claire had nothing to gain from playing dead, his Uncle however…Now that was a different story.
“I’ll bid you adieu Cedric,” Sebastian said loftily, tipping his hat as he left. He tried to ignore the high pitched and sarcastic “Oh la la” that followed him down the staircase, but laughed despite himself – he wouldn’t know what to do if any of his staff were respectful of him.
CHAPTER FIVE
.
When Aurelia awoke the next morning, she was slightly disorientated by her unfamiliar surroundings. The room in which she had slept was decorated in soft shades of yellow, and the sun which was now shining through the windows cast everything with a soft, golden glow. It took her a few minutes to remember where she was: the home of the Dowager Duchess of Blackmore.
“Oh,” she sat up quickly, throwing her legs out from under the covers and shivering as her bare feet were exposed to the chill morning air. From what she could tell by the sun’s position in the sky it was late morning, meaning that she had slept for much longer than she intended. When Mr. Black had left her in the care of Lady Beaufort yesterday afternoon he had promised that he would return to them if he discovered anything about Theo. Afternoon had turned into evening, and while Lydia and the Dowager Duchess had been most accommodating, Aurelia had found herself anxiously awaiting the sound of footsteps that never actually materialized. Before she had fallen asleep she had decided that the next day she would search Covent Garden from top to toe herself…despite Mr. Black expressly forbidding her from leaving the house.
“Brrr” she said with chattering teeth, performing her own toilette with the water which had been left in the pewter on the washstand beside the armoire. A small fire crackled cheerfully in the grate of her fireplace, and the water that she washed herself in was slightly tepid meaning a maid had been in and out whilst she slept. Aurelia blushed, she didn’t want the staff to think she was idle.
With deft fingers she neatly pinned her hair back from her face and took an assessing glance at herself in the mirror. Her figure was neat in a plain grey morning dress, her skin glowing after a vigorous scrub. Satisfied that she was presentable, Aurelia turned to her bed. It was not usual for women of her class to dress their own beds, but Aurelia was quite particular. She liked everything to be neat and orderly – a fact that Theo had teased her mercilessly about – and menial tasks like straightening bed-linen wasn’t beneath her if it meant that she did not have the thought of a messy bed haunting her for the rest of the day.
In less than three minutes the bed was made perfectly; sheets straightened, pillows plumped. Aurelia gave a satisfied sigh as she surveyed it - cleaning always calmed her. Perfect.
Now she just had to find Lydia in this maze of a house and convince her to accompany her to Covent Garden to hunt for Theo.
“I think it’s a splendid idea!”
Convincing Lady Lydia to leave the safe confines of Mayfair and hunt for Theo had been much easier than Lydia had anticipated. In fact she had barely formed the question before the dark haired girl agreed eagerly, her dark eyes dancing.
“I know that Mr. Black forbade me to leave the house,” Aurelia ventured, smoothing down the front of her dress with nervous fingers.
“Oh pshaw,” Lydia replied rolling her eyes mutinously; “My cousins run off to China or War whenever the fancy takes them – they can hardly forbid us from taking a stroll on a Spring day now can they? Let me run and fetch my hat.”
Aurelia did not know how to respond. Covent Garden was not the type of area that ladies regularly strolled, though perhaps if they were accompanied by a footman it would not be so bad. And the Bow-Street Runners that Mr. Black said were searching for her would not dare accost her whilst she was in the company of a member of the ton.
“Do you think I should wear the blue ostrich feather or the green?”
Lydia returned with a garish turban upon her head, a colourful feather in either hand which she held aloft for Aurelia to survey. Apparently, the Lady Beaufort did not believe in dressing down for potentially dangerous assignations.
“The green,” Aurelia said firmly, hurrying from the room to fetch her own demure bonnet before she changed her mind.
They traveled the short distance in The Dowager Duchess’ carriage, which was a rather large, obvious vehicle pulled by two bay geldings.
“Do you think we could ask them to leave us off somewhere,” Aurelia asked, nibbling her lip anxiously. Outside the window of the carriage door she could see passers by throwing curious glances at the splendid vehicle and its elegantly liveried driver and footman. The morning crowds were filled mainly with maids and servants, out to buy vegetables from the farmers’ carts which lined the streets.
“I don’t see why we can’t stop and buy some flowers” Lydia said lightly, rapping on the roof for the driver to stop.
“Miss St Claire and I wish to peruse the stalls,” Lydia said imperiously to the rather startled looking footman who opened the carriage door.
“Beggin’ your pardon m’am,” he said, casting a dubious look at the horse drawn carts filled with turnips and the like; “But there’s not many things here for a young lady to buy.”
“I shall be the judge of that Henry,” Lydia replied imperiously, with a hidden wink to Aurelia; “You may wait for us here until we return.”
Aurelia felt awfully sorry for the poor footman, whose mouth opened and closed in shock, but who did not have the authority to question Lady Beaufort’s decisions.
“Be careful of pickpockets my Lady,” Henry said nervously as he assisted both women from the carriage; “And thieves. And if anyone says anything to you, just scream and I’ll come running.”
“We shall Henry,” Lydia said, carelessly linking her arm through Aurelia’s and dragging her into the crowds.
Aurelia had never visited this part of London during the day, let alone on foot, and for a few minutes she was overwhelmed as she took in the bustling crowds. How was she supposed to find Theo here she thought as she took in the sheer number of people milling around the market and passing in and out of the coffee houses and taverns which lined the square. Many of the establishments also housed brothels, but thankfully it was too early in the day for whoremongering – or so she hoped. Despair threatened to overwhelm her as
she realised the task, but she calmed herself and tried to focus on where she had been when she had glimpsed Theo over a month ago.
“We need to go towards the Theatre Royal,” she said firmly, steering a wide eyed and curious Lydia away from the main square towards Russel Street, in the direction of Catherine Street. An elderly Gypsy woman, draped in glittering scarves materialized from thin air and grabbed Lydia’s wrist.
“I can see the future,” she said, her brown eyes boring into Lydia’s; “I can see the past…I can talk with the dead. Do you want to speak to those who have passed on, pretty lady?”
Lady Beaufort seemed momentarily hypnotized by the hunched woman’s promises, but Aurelia yanked her away with a sharp tug, continuing them on their path.
“Look at all the children,” Lydia hissed, alarmed, as they hurried along. The cobble stone streets were awash with urchins, some in rags and bare feet. Their faces were thin with hunger, and some of the older ones watched Lydia and Aurelia pass with shrewd, calculating gazes, which made Aurelia nervous.
“Hold on tightly to your reticule Lydia,” she hissed, as they walked quickly down a narrow alley way towards Catherine Street. It wouldn’t do for them to be robbed whilst they looked for Theo.
The walls of the alleyway were dirty and it led not to Catherine Street as Aurelia had anticipated but rather into a courtyard of sorts, which seemed to function as a communal back yard for the ramshackle town houses which backed out onto it.
“Drat,” Aurelia whispered, she had no idea where she was.
“It’s rather dingy,” Lydia was saying, her nose wrinkling at the smell of dirty dishwater which rose from a puddle in the centre of the courtyard. The high buildings blocked the early morning sun, and the small yard was gloomy and cold. Aurelia was only half listening to what her friend was saying, for her attention was caught by the sound of footsteps scuttling up the narrow alley-way.
The Duke's Brother Page 4