Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  Froze Wynne to the point she could hear the blood pounding in her ears, feel her eyelid blink, hear the wood plank creak under her.

  Her mother.

  A gasp broke free from Wynne’s chest and ripped her from her shock. She jerked, finding the strength to sit upright. Not able to believe the sight in her one good eye. Not able to believe she wasn’t hallucinating.

  Her mother. Her nose crooked. Gaunt. Pale. But her mother.

  Wynne mouthed a “mother,” but no sound escaped.

  Her mother’s eyes were on the window, glassy, unfocused. A soft smile played on her lips.

  Wynne realized then that the man was holding her mother up, holding her steady.

  Why would her mother need to be held up?

  Why was her mother alive?

  Words weren’t possible, so Wynne grunted. Grunted just enough to get her mother’s attention. It took eons, but her mother’s eyes left the window, drifting down to Wynne.

  Still glassy. Still unfocused.

  Her mother stared right at her, but it was as though she looked at air. No recognition of Wynne. No recognition that anything other than dust floated in front of her. Glassy eyes and a soft smile.

  Her mother looked from Wynne to the man. “Dream?” Her voice, gentle as ever, floated to Wynne’s ears.

  Wynne realized in that moment that her mother was drugged. Drugged to the state of incomprehension.

  Dragging herself forward, trying to gain her feet, Wynne heaved an attempt to get sound out of her lungs.

  The man’s hands moved up, and her mother swayed. The swaying stopped the second his hands went around her neck. Tighter. Tighter.

  Wynne found her feet, stumbling forward, and then fell.

  “Stop.” A word finally formed.

  She fought to her feet again, watching her mother’s face turn purple.

  Her mother didn’t struggle. The smile stayed on her lips, even as life was being choked out of her.

  Wynne gained another step forward before dropping to her knees again. Her hand went up, pleading. “Stop, please.”

  Trying to clear her mouth, Wynne gulped blood, clearing a path from her lungs. “Stop—let her go—I will paint.”

  He did not loosen his hold. A vein on her mother’s forehead bulged.

  “I swear I will paint.” Desperate words tumbled, almost incoherent. “I swear—I swear I will paint. Just let her go.”

  His hold loosened, and he looked down at Wynne.

  “I imagined you would say that.”

  One hand going around her mother’s shoulders, the man leaned forward.

  “For my trouble,” he said, and smacked his fist across her face. A crunch vibrated up from her nose, the pain overwhelming as she fell to the floor.

  “I expect to see progress soon.”

  Wynne could only watch through one foggy eye, stuck in a limp puddle, as the man guided her mother out of the room. The door clicked closed behind them.

  Unable to move, Wynne lay on her side, her temple on the floor. Her brain was spinning in her head, creating a fog she could not see through.

  Maybe it was time to die. She had always been a fighter. But this pain—it was too much. Maybe it was time. Just close her one good eye and let it all drift away.

  Slowly, her lashes collapsed.

  Darkness took over, and Wynne welcomed it.

  But the pain remained.

  She opened the one eye she could see out of.

  “Not so easy to let it go, little bear?” Her grandfather sat on his heels in front of her, his arms resting on his knees, his beard as long as ever. He had a wood carving in one hand, a small knife in the other. He looked down at the piece, flecking free a chip of wood with the tip of the knife.

  Wynne’s fingers twitched in his direction. This was either the afterlife, or she was hallucinating. She couldn’t be sure which world she was in.

  “It appears you can do one of two things, little bear.” He looked from the wooden figure to her. “The first, is fight to survive. Fight to free your mother—to get back to those you love. The second, is to lie down and die at the hands of the devil.”

  His voice, gravelly, weathered but gentle, filled her head. The voice she missed so much. The voice that had been her guide for so long.

  He pointed at her with the tip of his knife. “The granddaughter I know would never let the devil win. Never.”

  She nodded, her cheek scraping against the floor. It tore at her throat, blood trickling from her lips, but she forced words. “I know. But I…I hurt. I fought, but he…he is too strong.”

  “You are right, little bear.” A smile split his haphazard grey beard and he whittled a few more shavings from the wooden figure. “You cannot win this fight with your strength. This is a fight you have to win with your hands, your brush.”

  He moved forward, bending on one knee. He set the wooden figure onto the floor and tapped her forehead with his forefinger. “This is how you win this fight. With your mind. You know how to get out of this, little bear.”

  “How?”

  “You only need to trust in the one that you have sworn to trust.”

  In that instant, he started to fade, his body shifting into smoke. Wynne reached out, trying to catch him before he left her.

  “Grandpapa—how? How? Do not leave. How?”

  He smiled, full with a twinkle in his eye as he inclined his head and pointed. Wynne followed his crooked finger downward, only to see the wooden figure he had set on the floor in front of her.

  The start of a horse. The nose, the head, the mane, appearing out of the block of wood. Beauty out of nothing.

  Her eye went back up. He was gone.

  Only dust hung in room, floating in the light.

  She looked down. The figure was gone as well.

  Shutting her right eye, she tried to quiet her mind against the pain racking her body. She had to think.

  Trust in the one I have sworn to trust. What the hell did that mean?

  Irritation began to replace the pain in her gut. Since her grandfather had bothered to appear in the first place, he could have been a lot more specific about what she needed to do.

  She latched onto a deep breath.

  Sworn to trust.

  Rowen.

  If she could reach him, send him a message—he would come for her. He had to. He would not abandon her again. She had to trust that.

  He knew where the shop was. He had to be searching for her. And he could find her. She just had to find a way to reach him. Send him a message.

  He could find her.

  Grimacing against the pain, Wynne crawled over to the easel, foot dragging the chain. She lifted the lid on the wooden crate.

  Paints. Good.

  She needed to get started.

  { Chapter 26 }

  Rowen stared at the hanging jowls of the man behind the sleek mahogany desk. The man’s elbows sat propped on the desk, and he did not look up at Rowen and Luhaunt for several minutes, instead, staring at a fat stack of papers bound in leather. A ledger, from what Rowen could see at his angle.

  In the back of the rookery tavern, the Flashing Crow, Rowen resisted the urge to cover his nose—the stench of sweat and rotten ale and sewage and decomposition overwhelmed him the second they stepped into the dingy room.

  But there sat the gleaming desk in the middle of the room, proud against the surrounding squalor. Red Bastnum leaned backward, and his bright red overcoat, trimmed in gold, stretched against his weight as his elbows left the desk. He clasped his hands over the mound of his belly.

  “Ye wants to know about me paintin’ shop? Where the art be comin’ about from?”

  “Yes.” Rowen refused to let his hand clench into a fist. They had already been through this conversation twice with Red, and had been interrupted twice by a squirrelly little man poking his head into Red’s ear.

  “Ye be diggin’ in things ye no business to be diggin’ in.”

  Rowen could feel the four thugs
behind him and Luhaunt take a step inward, collapsing on them.

  They had come into the Flashing Crow undermanned, with no alternate plan. But Rowen was desperate. And Luhaunt, to his credit, had not let Rowen come here alone.

  “I will pay,” Rowen said, his voice even.

  “Ye, ain’t be payin’ me ‘nough to ruin me right business. Me reputation. Ye ain’t ‘nough even for proper clothes.”

  Both Rowen and Luhaunt had changed into rags of clothes so as to not draw attention in this part of town. They had both learned to play the part of nondescript drunkards during the war—and to great accomplishment.

  But right now, that facade was hindering Rowen’s progress with Red. Rowen wasn’t about to tell Red his identity—he liked his own life too much and he knew the dowager would happily refuse to pay a ransom for his safety—but he needed to impress upon Red that he did have the means.

  “I can assure you, sir, I have the funds. And I will be willing to pay a more than generous amount for the information.”

  Red’s eyes narrowed at Rowen. “Ye got the funds, then ye got a noose for me as well. Yer language be too fancy for me establishment.” His forefinger sprung from his belly, and he swished it at the four thugs.

  Blast it.

  The tip of a blade poked into Rowen’s back. He could feel cloth tearing as the blade dug in. His hands flew up. A clear signal to Luhaunt they weren’t going to fight.

  They normally would in this situation, but he wasn’t about to chance his only lead to Wynne.

  “We are leaving,” Rowen said.

  “Aye. And they be makin’ sure of it.” Red nodded to his thugs.

  Seconds later, a foot went into Rowen’s back and he joined Luhaunt splayed out in the muck by the tavern’s back door.

  Rowen sat up. Again to his credit, Luhaunt just looked at Rowen and laughed, shaking his head.

  “It has been far too long since this particular scene has played out.” Luhaunt’s thumb jutted at the tavern. “Fond memories, my friend.”

  “You regard this scene with much more humility than you would have in the past, Seb.”

  “A man can mature, Rowe.” Luhaunt got to his feet, his hand extending down to Rowen. “Besides, a foot in the back is a gift compared to how that could have ended.”

  “We are rusty.” Rowen grabbed his hand. “That is not the confidence I am accustomed to from you.”

  Luhaunt chuckled, hauling Rowen to his feet. “Of course we would have fought them and been successful—it is just the aches and bruises along the way that I am happy to avoid. I do not recover like I did years ago.”

  “Next you will be telling me how you are going to settle down with a wife and babes.”

  “Do not go drastic on me—I only said I like to avoid fists to my face.” Luhaunt brushed his chest and chunks of mud flew off. “The ladies do not like the bruises. That is the extent of my settling down.”

  Walking out to the main thoroughfare, Luhaunt surveyed the night traffic. Drunks and whores and thieves. He looked at Rowen. “So what is the plan now?”

  Rowen shrugged. “Patience. Like always in this situation. I follow him. For his instant refusal of my money, there is something he knows. He will slip up. He has to.”

  “He will.” Luhaunt clamped his hand on Rowen’s shoulder. “And I will keep watch on the docks and the leaving ships, just in case.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We will find her, Rowe. I have never known you to fail on a mission. And I do not believe you will start with this one.”

  Rowen nodded, mouth grim.

  “It is good to see you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Torn up. In angst. I saw it at Notlund, but this is different. You have come to terms with how much you need this woman. It is good to see the passion in your eyes.”

  Rowen sighed, not answering.

  He did need Wynne.

  And while Luhaunt saw some of it, he had no idea the depths to which Rowen truly needed Wynne.

  No idea at all.

  ~~~

  Five days, and no leads.

  Rowen had camped himself outside of the Flashing Crow, following Red Bastnum to and from his business in the rookeries—whorehouses, gaming hells, thieves’ dens—the man had his thumb in any and every business that would make him a coin.

  But not once did Red venture to the gallery. Not once had someone with a painting walked into the Flashing Crow. Rowen had fed Luhaunt every location that Red visited, so Luhaunt could dig deeper, particularly in the gaming hells, but to no avail.

  Of the bits and pieces they did uncover, they were quickly finding out that there was a web of illicit artwork trading that most did not know of, and those that did, dared not to speak of.

  Rowen took a sip of brandy from his tarnished flask, picking at the threadbare trousers he wore. He looked the part of the drunk, wedged into a sitting spot under some stairs a half block from Red’s tavern. Clothes that weren’t fit for a mudlark. Cap pulled down, almost over his eyes.

  No one had noticed him, save for the pity glances, which was how he needed it. Following Red around was much easier this way. But Rowen was sick of sitting in this hovel. Sick of the cold. Sick of smelling like a drunk. Sick of not finding Wynne. Sick of imagining what had happened to her.

  Endless hours spent staring at the battered black tavern door had given him too much time to think, too much time to dwell on what his life had almost been—a life with Wynne.

  The way her hazel eyes lit up when she saw him. How she adored him without judgment, without asking for anything from him save for his love.

  It was all she ever wanted from him, and he had been so close to making her his. So close to a life—a true life with a family, with children. With the hole that had always been in his soul, filled.

  Five days, but Rowen wasn’t about to give up on finding Wynne. Wasn’t about to bow to the demons in his head. Demons telling him she was gone. Telling him too many days had passed. That she was not coming back to him.

  Rowen refused to entertain those demons, not even for a second.

  He took another sip of brandy, stretching out his legs as he glanced at the tavern in the early morning light. Red had been in there for hours, and Rowen had watched as the lanterns on the level two floors above the bar went out. For once, Red was in bed before dawn.

  Rowen hadn’t been by the art gallery in two days. After he had broken into it to look through paperwork and then found nothing, he had Luhaunt keep an eye on it and the clerk. But there had been nothing unusual to report.

  Rowen looked up at Red’s windows again. All was quiet there and on the street. It was a good time to check the gallery for himself.

  To his feet, Rowen hurried west past Charing Cross, and was soon walking along the street of the art gallery.

  Before he reached the front window of the gallery, he could see several of the empty spots from the other day were now filled. The first two new paintings were pedestrian, the usual gardens. Rowen slowed his gait, now before the shop’s windows. At that moment, his eyes caught sight of the painting on the far right.

  Rowen sprang before it.

  Phalos.

  It was unmistakable. A dark horse. Haunted. Dramatic. Eyes that told of greatness. The odd ring of white around his left ear. Phalos.

  Just the stallion’s head, filling the canvas, larger than life.

  Rowen looked in the bottom left corner. An odd splotch of black paint cut across the corner where Wynne would usually sign her work with a humble “WT.” But Rowen knew it was hers. He knew it was Phalos.

  Blood pounding in his veins, Rowen resisted the urge to smash the glass and grab the portrait. He had to be smart.

  Wynne could not be sending him a clearer message than if she were standing in front of him, yelling his name.

  But what was the message? She sent him Phalos. There were no words on the canvas, no scenes buried in the peripheral as she liked to do. Just Phalos.

&
nbsp; He had to get his hands on the painting, but he also knew he couldn’t just walk in and buy the painting after the other day. And neither could Luhaunt.

  Loathing to turn from the painting, Rowen ripped his eyes away and spun on his heel, taking off down the street.

  If he was going to be smart, he needed someone he could trust.

  At least as far as Wynne was concerned.

  ~~~

  Wynne shot upright, eyes open and the blanket falling from her chest. The creek of the door now instantly sent her body on guard, even from the deepest sleep.

  She had orientated herself before the door fully opened. By the light in the window, it was early morning, much earlier than the man usually appeared.

  He carried the usual bowl of porridge, setting it within her reach.

  Her eyes fell to the floor, docile.

  “It sold,” he said, walking further into the room.

  “What?” She couldn’t control her head from jerking up to look at him.

  “It sold. It was not there but a day, and it sold for a tidy sum.”

  Wynne dropped her head, collapsing inward on her excitement. She couldn’t let him see it. Couldn’t let him see the smile on her face.

  “You will paint more. And you will paint faster.”

  Wynne kept her head down, wrapping her arms around her ribs, trying to control her breathing.

  “Do not look so distraught,” he said. “This is a good life. You can paint. You are fed.”

  I am a prisoner. She swallowed the words, instead, nodding her head, but refusing to let him see her face. No reason to poke the devil. Not when she had hope. Not when the painting had sold so quickly.

  It had to be Rowen. It had to be.

  “The woman that bought it liked the horse. She is a collector and wealthy. She asked if there were more like it. And it was promised to her.”

  A woman? Maybe someone had bought it for Rowen? Or maybe it had been random. Either way, she needed to send him another painting.

  Her excitement tempered, Wynne looked up at the man. The swelling around her left eye had gone down enough that she could see out of both eyes again. There had been no more beatings. As long as she was painting, he let her be.