by Mary Brendan
‘I expect he’s not yet ready to meet his maker, or his dragon of a wife.’ Constance smiled. It was common knowledge that the blacksmith’s late spouse had ruled him with an iron fist. ‘He’ll curl up his toes in his own good time.’
‘Indeed he will,’ Vincent replied, rather charmed by the young woman’s blunt philosophy. He glanced at Rockleigh, wondering whether to mention their mutual acquaintance. But the Squire’s hard-eyed stare seemed to caution him not to talk about Lady Joan Morland. With a nod Vincent took his leave and walked on in the direction of the vicarage.
‘Come...let’s go home.’ Constance tugged at Drew’s arm to make him rise. ‘Out of sight I’ll do a better job of making you feel better.’ She nuzzled his bristly cheek.
‘I’m in need of a drink and you are needed in there.’ Drew disentangled himself from her clutch, nodding at the tavern’s doorway. He’d no intention of Constance losing her employment on his account; in a short while he’d no longer be around to provide for her because his time in Ratcliffe Highway was finished. But that wasn’t the only reason he felt immune to her seduction: the sensation of another woman’s smoother skin and sweeter lips were constantly tormenting his mind and body, and although he was damned if he knew why he should feel faithful to Lady Joan Morland, he did.
‘Have you tired of me, Drew?’ Constance asked as though she’d read his thoughts.
Drew carried on winding a bandage about his bleeding knuckles. ‘Why do you ask?’
Constance shrugged, twirling a pearly tress about a finger. ‘I’ve not know many toffs down on their luck, but Mayfair or Wapping, I reckon you men are all the same, anyhow. You feed a girl a good dinner, then sweet talk her into bed, and so it goes on until your eye lands on your next fancy.’
From beneath her sooty lashes, Constance watched his impassive profile. ‘Your eye’s already landed on somebody else, hasn’t it?’
Drew continued fixing the bandage, but jerked his head at the door of the pub. ‘Time you started work, Connie. I’ll have a mutton pie and a quart of ale, if you please.’ He gave her a slow smile. ‘And you can treat yourself to the same; there, I’ve done my job of feeding you, according to your rules.’
Constance tutted, flouncing to her feet. It was his way of telling her to mind her own business about his private affairs. He might joke with her now, but she knew he’d turn cool if she got too impertinent in her questioning. She had learned little from Drew Rockleigh other than his name and not to pry into his past. For all she knew he might have a fine lady waiting for him when he got back on his feet.
Drew watched his mistress’s curvaceous figure disappear into the saloon, then looked about at his seedy surroundings that nevertheless had been his birthplace. From where he sat he could see the ramshackle house where his mother had reared him and his sister in their early years. He’d never discovered who’d sired him; he doubted his late mother had known either. When he’d been a boy Rosemary Wilding had attempted to satisfy his curiosity about his deceased father by telling him she’d been a soldier’s child bride. Drew hadn’t swallowed his mother’s yarn, although he knew she’d been very young when he was born.
If his father had been Private Wilding, Drew couldn’t remember him at all, but he could recall a succession of scruffy, sly-eyed men who’d turn up at night, bringing a smell of the sea and a fistful of coins, with them. Then the curtain would be drawn across the room they all shared and he’d see no more of them and try not to hear their grunting either.
Once Drew had been obsessed with knowing his sire’s name, but now he no longer cared enough to want to find out. His paternal line was certain to be tainted with coarseness and devilry. And perhaps he, too, had villainy in his veins, despite his stepfather’s good influence during the latter part of his childhood. His sister had also been beneath Peter Rockleigh’s care for more than a decade, yet Bertha was indisputable proof that bad blood would out.
Drew stretched his legs in front of him, conscious that the honourable gentleman who’d bestowed on him his name and an education, then all his worldly goods, should dominate his memories. But still his eyes and his thoughts wandered back to the hovel in which he’d spent the first nine years of his life with his mother and sister.
Abruptly he stood up and entered the pub, elbowing a path through the rabble to a table in the corner. A moment later a rat-faced fellow slid on to a stool opposite.
‘Rum do that, the Squire losing to a fat tinker,’ the fellow snarled sarcastically.
Drew shrugged. ‘Win some...lose some.’
‘I reckon you could’ve knocked him down after ten minutes. Now I’m out of pocket.’ Barnaby Smith had a ferocious glint in his eyes. ‘I’d put a tidy bit of blunt on you to win. And I reckon you must’ve wagered on yourself to lose.’
‘Unfortunately I didn’t,’ Drew replied truthfully with a hint of a smile.
Barnaby’s hand slithered across the table to the coins by Drew’s elbow, but his wrist was gripped in vice-like fingers before he could snatch them. ‘So, you’re quick enough when you want to be.’ Smith wrenched himself free.
‘You’d do well to remember it.’ Drew pocketed his money. He took a gulp from the ale that Constance had plonked in front of him along with his mutton pie.
‘The next fight I line up for you, I’ll want a bigger cut to make up for it.’
‘I’m retiring.’
‘Then I’ll take payment now—’ Barnaby didn’t get to finish his threat. Drew had anticipated the man’s move and pinned his sleeve to the rough-hewn table top with a blade before Barnaby could whip his own knife from his pocket.
‘You’ll be sorry you crossed me,’ Barnaby Smith hissed.
Drew gave him a quizzical look, but yanked the knife from the wood, allowing the struggling fellow to surge to his feet and stalk off.
Before Smith left the tavern he jerked his head at the landlord. With a shifty glance to and fro, Charlie Clarke shuffled from behind the counter to converse quietly with Smith by the exit. Drew dropped his gaze to his tankard, apparently uninterested in the conversation between the two men. But he saw money change hands and Barnaby pocketing the cash as he went out of the door.
* * *
Constance had anxiously watched the dangerous altercation between her lover and the boxing promoter. She had been on the point of taking the vacant seat when Barnaby Smith got up, but her boss had been glaring at her. While she was collecting empty pots she’d been keeping an eye on Drew as he ate and drank a few yards away. Forlornly, she noted that he rarely looked her way and continued brooding into his tankard.
He’d made a good living off these shabby streets in the past months and Constance was sad that it seemed his skill had deserted him. But she reckoned the fault wasn’t in his fists, but in his head.
Drew had seemed different after the swanky coach took a wrong turning into Ratcliffe Highway. Then the fellow from the detective agency had started coming round looking for him. Drew had been casual about the fellow’s first visit, but angry on the next occasion Thadeus Pryke had turned up.
Constance had been cheering Drew on when the coach got ambushed that day. The Squire had thrown in the towel, bringing the boxing match to a premature halt, before driving the coach and occupants to safety. Her brother Benny had been one of those who’d clambered on to the coach and he’d described the young lady passenger as a real corker. Constance had assumed Drew had felt obliged to help his own kind, but now she wondered if there had been something more personal in it.
* * *
Drew drained his ale, while thinking of Lady Joan Morland—something he seemed to do with damnable regularity, he sourly mocked himself. As far as his business and his pleasure were concerned she’d messed him up. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman, yet however readily she might succumb to his seduction he knew there could be no real future
for them. Sometimes he felt like damning the consequences and that he’d go ahead and propose to her. But he knew his conscience wouldn’t allow him to tie her to him dishonestly.
Bearing in mind his upbringing, he knew it was laughable to imagine a boy from the slums marrying a duke’s daughter. He’d not risk seeing disdain in her eyes when she learned the truth. People knew that Peter Rockleigh had married their widowed mother and that the estimable fellow had reared her children as though they were his own. But nobody knew that Rosemary Wilding had been plucked from the gutter to be his mistress before the besotted fellow made her his wife. When the marriage was announced a romance had been concocted of the couple, both having few friends or family, meeting and falling in love at a coastal town while taking the air for poor health. It was a plausible tale; Peter Rockleigh had been at Brighton suffering lung disease and he did have a dearth of relations. Apart from her children, Rosemary had no kith and kin who wished to acknowledge her, and by then had been frail from disease got from servicing low-life. But she’d never seen the water at Brighton, just the Thames where it flowed through the East End of London.
Had Joan’s father been acquainted with his past, Drew suspected he’d have been ejected from Thornley Heights on the night he had delivered the man’s daughter safely home. In the event he’d been offered a serious talk about a marriage contract and a drink from the man’s decanter.
Drew had felt attracted to her from the start, but the feelings she aroused in him ran deeper than lust now. She was sweet and honest, beautiful in character as well as looks. If he took her as his mistress, he risked not only sullying her reputation but destroying her relationship with her family. And he wouldn’t do that. She’d reignited a fire in him that he’d believed he’d doused years ago...yet the memory of her had remained a ghost at the back of his mind. But she was no longer just a phantom lover and the memory of her taste and shape made him burn to finish what he’d started.
His palms grew hot from the thought of her silky body moulding against them. A redolence of lavender and rosemary seemed to be teasing his senses, reminding him of when he’d buried his face in her thick lustrous tresses on that coach seat. He curled his fist about the empty glass to cool it, a sound of frustration rasping in his throat. He wanted to believe that Joan would forget about the conversation she’d overheard between Stokes and Bertha. But she wouldn’t. She’d fret over it, then unburden herself to somebody in her family because she wanted to help him and couldn’t do so alone. Her father or her brother-in-law would be her first ports of call. As the Duke was out of town Drew wondered if he would soon hear from Luke Wolfson.
The only people alive who knew of his sordid lineage were his sister and his best friend. Luke’s unhappy early life had made him respectful of a person’s wish to leave questions unanswered and skeletons in the cupboard. Early on in their friendship they’d made a pact not to delve for clues about each other’s histories, but wait until information was volunteered. As for Stokes, he knew, of course, that Bertha was a harlot from the wrong side of town and had capitalised on it. But Drew imagined his sister would have been too ashamed to admit to her lover that she was the spawn of a dockside whore and an unknown tar.
Saul Stokes was likely to turn vicious when cornered. The villain already had a catalogue of misdemeanours to his name, but he’d so far stayed a step ahead of the law, evading arrest. With luck a rope awaited the villain, though, and Drew knew it was his job to hurry him to it.
* * *
‘There is a gentleman caller for you, my lady.’
Joan had been lounging on her bed, idly sorting through the pieces in her jewellery box to find some silver earrings that needed repairing, when Anna tapped on the door.
Quickly she swung her feet to the floor and stood up, her insides tightening. Surely Drew would not have risked coming here to see her? She craved a meeting with him and she was sure he wanted the same...but not here.
Earlier in the week her museum trip and drive in the park with Cecilia had proved unfruitful; Mrs Denby had been between them the whole time, monitoring what was said and preventing Joan unearthing a morsel of information from Drew’s niece.
‘Did the visitor give his name, Anna?’
‘He did not, my lady. He said it was a confidential matter. He is waiting in the small library, but I can have him shown out...’ the maid suggested diplomatically.
‘No! I shall be down directly,’ Joan quickly replied. ‘Is the Duchess at home?’
‘Her Grace went out with your aunt, about fifteen minutes ago.’
Joan imagined her thoughts coincided with Anna’s: it was an odd and fortuitous coincidence that her stepmother had left the house only minutes before her visitor turned up. It was more likely that he’d waited for the Duchess to leave before knocking on the door.
After Anna left Joan frantically set about tidying her crumpled appearance. Her nervous fingers pressed creases from her dimity skirt, then attempted to secure stray tendrils of glossy hair in their pins. She tilted her face to inspect her reflection in the dressing-table glass. A moment later she rushed from her chamber as it had occurred to her that, given time to think, he might rue his arrival and leave before she’d had a chance to speak to him.
‘Mr Stokes! What...what do you want, sir?’
After hurtling down the stairs Joan had managed to steady her pace when entering the small library. The sight of the swindler, standing with his chest puffed out and his hat beneath his arm, brought her to an abrupt standstill.
It took just a few seconds for the ramifications of this man’s presence to penetrate Joan’s disappointment. His smug expression increased her suspicions that he’d not called to arrange a social engagement with his ward, but rather to stir up trouble.
‘Did my stepmother invite you to call?’ she asked pointedly. ‘I wasn’t aware you had our address.’
‘I am here on your account, not the Duchess’s. As for knowing where to find you... I’m happy to say I received that information from a relative who observed you entering these premises with her Grace earlier in the week.’
‘And why would that sighting seem to you to be serendipitous?’
‘I believe we will come to that in a moment, Miss Morley.’
Joan’s heart ceased beating and colour fled from her cheeks. The only way that Cecilia’s guardian could know of her alias was from Mr Pryke.
Stokes struck a pose, thick forefinger pressing his lips as though he were considering something important. ‘May I call you by your correct name now the intrigue is over, Miss Morley?’ He almost winked at her when adding conspiratorially, ‘If the intrigue is unfinished and you’d sooner continue with your alias, you’ve only to say.’ He licked his lips suggestively.
‘I would sooner you immediately leave, sir. There is no reason at all for you being here. A servant will show you out.’ Joan quickly approached the bell pull, but his next words, gruff with faux humility, prevented her yanking on it.
‘I beg your pardon for this intrusion, but if my cousin’s services as a go-between are no longer required, I will conclude his business for him, then take my leave.’ Again the sly smile undulated on his mean lips.
Joan felt her hackles rise at the same time that lead settled in the pit of her stomach.
‘Your cousin?’
‘Thadeus Pryke. He has recently been employed by you and your father, I understand. Through your patronage he has become privy to some sensitive information. The poor fellow feels out of his depth and unsure what to do about it, so has enlisted my help.’
‘I imagine you refer to my family’s acquaintance with Mr Rockleigh.’ Joan felt anger overcoming her apprehension. For two pins she’d tell the odious fellow that she held some sensitive information, too, about him! But she must bite her tongue because Drew had demanded her silence and she would not let him down. ‘We are not ashame
d of our friendship with a street fighter. You may tell your cousin he can rest easy on that score and that our business is concluded. Had I known Mr Pryke to be too timid to conduct his own affairs I would not have employed him.’ Joan gestured angrily at the door, indicating he should leave.
‘But the business is not finished, my lady,’ Stokes purred. ‘I am here to present my cousin’s bill and when I receive payment then it will be over.’
‘I’ve already settled his account.’ Joan felt ice stalk her spine. So the crux of the matter was money...or blackmail to be more precise.
‘Ah...but that was remuneration for escorting Miss Morley to meet Mr Rockleigh. Since then both Thadeus and I have undertaken more for you, have we not?’
‘Explain!’ Joan burst out, marching closer. ‘I’ve not asked him to perform other duties. And as for you... I owe you nothing!’
‘Well, you may not have asked, my lady, but being two diligent fellows we have used our own initiative on it.’ He slid an insolent look at her. ‘Mr Pryke took you to meet the Squire, unaware of your true identity and the real nature of your business with the boxer.’ He resumed perambulating over oak boards. ‘My cousin agreed to act as an escort, but not to be a keeper of secrets, and now that he has told me about it my conscience is also burdened.’ Stokes swivelled on a heel. ‘You see, we are sure your father would be horrified to discover that you and a street fighter are intimate friends.’ Stokes propped his jowls on a fist, adopting a reflective air. ‘I know your father is at present away from home, but soon he will return. A great scandal is just a whisper away.’ He sighed. ‘Thankfully the cab driver is ignorant of your identity and we must keep it that way or a great calamity would ensue, would it not. The fellow has related at length on how you found the Squire’s company very pleasant.’ Again Stokes moistened his lips while a lascivious gaze flowed over Joan. ‘Rockleigh didn’t hold you against your will; that might give your poor father some relief. Nevertheless, should he ever find out about what you got up to with the rogue in a Hackney cab he is sure to be greatly distressed...’