Daring the Duke (The Seven Curses of London Book 7)

by Lana Williams

  “For what it’s worth,” he said as he trailed a gloved finger along her jawline, “I only see beauty inside and out when I look at you.”

  “Oh.” Her stomach danced at his words. “That is kind of you, but I—”

  “The proper response would be to accept the compliment.” His smile encouraged her.

  “Thank you.” She said the words in a rush before she could reconsider.

  “Not so quickly. You must say it as if you mean it.” He raised one of those dark brows, sending heat through her entire body. “Can you?”

  “You make it sound like a challenge.”

  “It’s not as easy as one would think.” He took both her hands in his, his gaze steady on hers. “Try again.”

  “Thank you.” Her heart squeezed as she said the two simple words.

  “Lillian, you are beautiful inside and out.”

  This time, his compliment washed over her, settling somewhere in her middle where it stayed, a small flame that warmed her. So different than when she allowed his words to roll over the top to shrug away. “Thank you, your grace.”

  “Would you do me the honor of calling me by my given name? At least in private?”

  “Elijah?” Oh dear. Somehow, his request took her to a new level of intimacy with this man despite the fact that only their gloved hands touched. The idea stole her breath.

  He gave a slow smile as though she’d given him a wonderful gift.

  What could she do but say it again? “Thank you, Elijah.”

  His satisfied look made her chuckle. “What?” he asked.

  “I never realized the way words are said hold such importance.”

  “The way they’re said, the ones that are chosen—all of that matters. Words are important. I’m certain your brother would agree.”

  “Yes, he would.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, causing her stomach to dip. She wanted him to kiss her more than anything. Then perhaps she’d know what the right path was.

  If he were anyone but a duke, perhaps he would.

  If they had some greater measure of privacy, perhaps he would.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he turned and walked a little farther along the bank.

  She pushed aside her disappointment, realizing she’d misread his thoughts. It was for the best. Truly. Besides, she wasn’t seeking a lasting relationship with him. They were merely becoming friends because of her goal. And once that reason was over, they’d be past acquaintances. She’d return to the country and marry. He’d make an impeccable match, marry, and do whatever dukes did. Revenge was the only reason they were together at all.

  Without warning, he drew her a few steps into a nearby group of trees and took shelter beside one, his body firmly against hers. The forcefulness of his action pleased her in the most delightful way. The trunk was broad enough and the branches were low enough to provide a significant amount of privacy.

  His eyes locked on hers, the sparkle in them shifting to a penetrating focus directed solely at her.

  Goals, friendship, and other thoughts fell away in an instant, leaving only Elijah.

  “Lillian, you are bewitching me.”

  Her mind blank, she managed, “I am?”

  “You are. I find my thoughts consumed by you at the oddest moments.”

  “Odd.” Her brain latched onto the word. Perhaps because she’d never felt like this. Never longed like this—ached for more down to her toes.

  The heat of his body seeped into her. She wanted him pressed against her harder. In fact, she ached to feel that. Odd. That was a very apt word for what she felt. What she wanted. What she needed.

  “I cannot resist any longer,” he whispered. He leaned closer, so near their breath mingled.

  She teetered on the brink until suddenly she let go and fell into the moment, releasing the tight hold on her emotions and allowing herself to speak her mind.

  “Then don’t, Elijah,” she said, his name still foreign on her tongue. With a bravado she hadn’t realized she had, she raised up to press her lips to his.

  His lips felt perfect against hers. Warm. Firm. Enough pressure to make her think he meant the kiss.

  Perfect.

  Just when she thought it couldn’t feel any better, his tongue tested the seam of her lips. Shocked, she acquiesced, rewarded when his tongue swept over hers. She returned the favor with delight, his moan guiding her effort.

  His hands gripped her waist, squeezing gently, sending a wave of heat through her that only made her ache for more.

  She raised her hands to his shoulders—those very broad shoulders. Then she shifted her hands to his neck, wishing she didn’t wear gloves so she might truly touch him.

  Yet having the only place they touched being their mouths was sensual in an unexpected way.

  The tips of her breasts ached. As though he knew and understood, he pressed closer, the layers of clothing between them frustrating.

  The sound of voices nearby caught her notice.

  Elijah eased back, his gaze capturing hers, much as his mouth had done moments ago. “We’ll be discovered.”

  Yet he didn’t move.

  She knew just how he felt for she didn’t want to move either.

  With a groan, he kissed her again then drew away. He offered her his arm once more, and they resumed walking along the water’s edge as though nothing had occurred.

  “A beautiful morning, indeed.” He glanced down at her and smiled.

  “Like no other.”

  Despite the happiness expanding in her chest like the hot air in a balloon, guilt tugged at her. How could she reconcile Helena’s view of Elijah with her own, when they didn’t match at all?

  Chapter Eight

  “There has recently appeared on the temperance stage a set of well-meaning gentlemen, who, could they have their way, would sweep every public-house and beershop from the face of the land...”

  ~The Seven Curses of London

  D.T. Hurley glanced at Roberts, his assistant, then back at the stranger who stood in his small office, wondering if this was some kind of trick. “Jack McCarthy, you say?”

  “The one and only.” The man grinned as if aware of how surprising his message was.

  D.T. could hardly take it in. The most notorious criminal in all of London was requesting a meeting with him. He looked past Roberts, who stood in the doorway, toward the workroom, hoping no one was listening to the conversation. He had yet to determine how he felt about the request and certainly didn’t want his workers discussing it. Pleased to see them measuring, pouring, and sealing bottles, D.T. studied the man, still wondering if this was some kind of mistake.

  “Are you certain he meant me?”

  “Ye’re D.T. Hurley, ain’t ye?” The man’s appearance suggested life treated him well. His brown suit coat with its matching vest and pants were in good repair, his brown boots scuffed only on the toes. He didn’t look like a prankster. Besides, who would be fool enough to jest about Jack McCarthy?

  Roberts frowned from where he remained by the door, seeming to be as confused by the man’s message as D.T.

  “Mr. McCarthy has an opportunity he’d like to discuss with me?” D.T. knew he sounded like an idiot for repeating what the man had already stated, but it was so surprising he could do little else.

  “That’s what I said.” The man scowled at D.T. then at Roberts as if losing his patience with their disbelief.

  Jack McCarthy was well known in London’s underworld. He was involved in every aspect of illegal activity D.T. could think of and probably some he couldn’t. Prostitution, smuggling, thievery—he had his finger in it all. To think D.T.’s business had come to McCarthy’s attention suggested an elevation in status D.T. hadn’t been aware of until now.

  But it was nothing to be taken lightly. Making a deal with McCarthy would be like shaking hands with the devil. Once done, it couldn’t be undone. D.T. didn’t intend to lose all he’d worked so hard for just because McCarthy wanted in on the liquor b
usiness.

  “When?” D.T. asked.

  “Now,” the man advised.

  D.T. sat back in his desk chair, considering his options. He refused to jump just because McCarthy snapped his fingers. That would give the man too much power. D.T. needed to take control of the situation from the start. “I’m not available until the morrow. Would two o’clock work?”

  The man scowled, obviously not pleased with the delay. “I’ll speak with McCarthy and send a message with the details.” He turned and walked out of the warehouse without a backward glance.

  “That was...interestin’,” Roberts said as he lifted his bowler hat to scratch his head.

  D.T. drew a breath of relief, not realizing how tense he’d been until the man left. He sank into the chair at his desk, knees weak.

  “What do you suppose McCarthy wants?” Roberts asked.

  “I have no idea.” Amidst his other endeavors, McCarthy surely smuggled wines from France along with other liquor. Why did he need D.T.?

  But the longer he pondered it, the more he realized he should look at it a different way. “The true question is what do I want out of a possible deal?”

  Roberts’ eyes went wide. “Do you think you have a say in this?”

  “I hold the upper hand here. Not McCarthy. What can a criminal like him do for me?” His mind whirled at the possibilities.

  “He could take over the business and leave you with nothin’,” Roberts said.

  “Then why would he bother to request a meeting?”

  His assistant frowned. “I still don’t like it.”

  Thus far, D.T. had escaped the notice of the officials. He’d recently obtained a license he could present to authorities when needed, but it didn’t cover what he actually did. No license would. Laws didn’t address the services he provided—creating affordable alcohol that provided a satisfying level of intoxication and lasted longer than most.

  Word on the street suggested McCarthy had contacts in the police department, which could prove helpful, especially now that D.T. was expanding his business. How else could McCarthy aid him? Did he know potential clients? Or perhaps the man wanted a special brew or mixture of his own.

  D.T. had decided after his last job that he liked selling liquor to the nobility. Supplying cheap beer to taverns provided a slim profit. It was hardly worth the bother. If he wanted to increase his margins, he needed to move upstream to the fancy houses on Mayfair and Park Lane. Maybe even sell to one or two gentleman’s clubs. That sort of shift in his business would require a larger manufacturing place, more workers, and additional supplies.

  Unfortunately, all of that meant greater risk.

  Thank goodness he had a day to think through all the details, else he might’ve found himself agreeing to anything McCarthy suggested. He was doing just fine on his own. He could move forward with his plans regardless of whether the criminal chose to become involved. McCarthy needed him more than he needed McCarthy as far as he could see.

  “We’ve been growin’ steadily without his interference,” Roberts said, as though reading D.T’s mind. His assistant paced to the desk and back.

  “True.” Yet the idea of the opportunities McCarthy could offer was appealing in more ways than D.T. expected. “However, I’d still be interested in hearin’ what the man has to say. From what I’ve heard, he could double the business in two months rather than two years.”

  Roberts swallowed hard. “Sounds like trouble to me.”

  “Not if it’s done right.”

  “How would we know if it’s done right? We’ve never done anything like that before.”

  Roberts had a valid point. “We have less than a day to figure that out,” D.T. said. “In any event, I refuse to give McCarthy the upper hand. If he’s comin’ to us, that means we have something he wants.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I don’t know yet.” But D.T. had to wonder at the timing of this meeting, on the heels of selling a batch of liquor to a member of the nobility. Did McCarthy want in on selling liquor to the ton? The thought had D.T. chuckling.

  “What?” Robert asked, his tone laced with suspicion.

  “Nothin’. I’m going to think on the meeting a bit longer before I discuss it.” D.T. was a firm believer in allowing ideas to steep a good length of time before sharing them. Much like a good pot of tea or a bottle of wine, aging improved the process. He’d learned that time and again over the years. “We’ll meet first thing in the mornin’ to discuss the possibilities further and put together a list of questions for McCarthy.”

  Roberts reluctantly nodded. “If ye say so, boss.”

  D.T. smiled. That was an excellent reminder. He was the boss, and he intended to keep it that way, regardless of what McCarthy wanted.

  ~*~

  Elijah entered White’s, his gentleman’s club on St. James’s Street. Its Palladian façade revealed none of what deals were completed, what bets were placed, or what information passed behind its doors. Rather, it was who passed through those doors that held interest for most of the members.

  He wasn’t certain who he looked for this afternoon, but he had to begin his quest for information somewhere. Surely by now, any rumors of a problem with the drinks served at Lord and Lady Patterson’s soiree would’ve reached these respected walls.

  The idea that Lillian might be right and something had been wrong with the champagne was a long shot. But further reading in the Seven Curses book had created a question of which he couldn’t let go. Better to explore the possibility than accept the alarming turn his mother’s drinking had taken.

  Lillian. Just the thought of her brought forth a rush of emotions.

  How could he distrust her, yet have such desire for her? He needed to proceed cautiously, but that idea went out the window when she was near.

  He perused the men sitting at tables and others standing at the bar, wondering who might prove helpful. To his pleased surprise, Rutland sat at one of the tables, visiting with another man.

  The viscount stood to bow as Elijah approached. “Burbridge. Good to see you.”

  “And you, Rutland.” Elijah studied the other man, realizing he looked familiar though he didn’t think they’d met. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Not at all,” Rutland said. He gestured to his companion. “Have you met Ignacio Choral of The Times?”

  Elijah frowned, surprised to hear the viscount was meeting with a reporter. That seemed unusual for someone who worked for the Intelligence Office. At a glance, it would seem they had little in common. “I don’t believe I have.”

  Rutland completed the introductions then invited Elijah to join them, signaling for a waiter. “Choral often proves a helpful source of information.”

  Elijah supposed that made sense given how frequently reporters travelled and the diversity of their connections.

  “Perhaps I should’ve mentioned the nature of our conversation before inviting you to join us,” Rutland said with a smile. “We were discussing the problem of young English girls being sold to brothels in Belgium.” Rutland kept his voice low, his gaze sweeping the nearby tables as though to make certain no one could overhear their conversation.

  “That’s a weighty topic,” Elijah remarked. But in truth, he welcomed a conversation about something meaningful. Someone had spoken at the House of Lords recently on the topic of forced prostitution and enslavement. He hadn’t realized until then that such a thing affected English citizens in this day and age. The idea was disturbing.

  “I was in Belgium a short time ago,” Choral explained in an accent Elijah couldn’t place. “Details came to light that might allow action to be taken to prevent future problems.”

  “Is this discussion work related or for your charity?” Elijah asked Rutland.

  “Both. Steps need to be taken from a legal standpoint to punish those who do such things, but if we aid those who are vulnerable, it will prevent some of the problems as well.”

  “Excellent point.” Elij
ah was impressed with Rutland’s foresight.

  Choral shared some details of what he’d seen. From the way he spoke, it was apparent that he travelled extensively, though he called England home. His knowledge of criminal activities abroad and in London was impressive—exactly the sort of person who might be in a position to help Elijah.

  “Do you know of anyone in the city who deals in putting additives in alcohol?” Elijah asked.

  Choral smiled as he lifted his glass. “Worried that White’s isn’t serving what they say they are?”

  “I don’t think White’s would stoop to such things. But other places, perhaps.”

  “Most barkeeps tend to do what they can to make beer and ale stretch further and last longer.” Choral obviously knew something of the topic.

  “Have you heard of someone doing such things on a larger scale to ports and wines? Perhaps even champagne?”

  “Why has this caught your interest?” Rutland asked.

  “A rumor is circulating that the alcohol served at Lord and Lady Patterson’s soiree might have been tainted with something.” It wasn’t quite true but seemed like a good place to start.

  Rutland’s gaze narrowed, making Elijah wonder if he knew something. “Interesting. I happened to hear of one or two people who normally don’t overindulge but seemed to have done so that evening.”

  “If you find out anything more, I’d like to know about it.” Elijah could see the questions in Rutland’s eyes but much to his relief, he kept them to himself. He didn’t care to share the reasons for his interest.

  “I’ll see what the reporters who cover some of the rougher neighborhoods have heard,” Choral offered. “These sort of problems often start there and work their way up when someone realizes there is money to be had in an endeavor.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Elijah finished his drink then rose. “Thank you, gentlemen, for an enlightening conversation.” He said his goodbyes and stepped outside, pleased with his progress. There might be more to the issue than he’d first suspected. Now he needed to determine where else he could make inquiries.