A Duke in the Night

by Kelly Bowen

  “The cavity concealed in the floor begs to disagree. Big enough to store at least five dozen tubs smuggled ashore.”

  “I don’t see any tubs.”

  “Doesn’t mean there weren’t any before we arrived.”

  “I’m sure there were hundreds.”

  The captain’s mouth dropped open slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This tavern has been here for generations, Captain. It’s not unreasonable to think that it has, at some point in the past, been used to store ill-gotten gains. However, this establishment is now under new ownership.” August paused. “You may want to take that into consideration when flinging about accusations.”

  The captain’s sneer faltered slightly. “And who might you be, exactly?” he demanded, his close-set eyes traveling the length of August, taking in his somewhat dusty, unassuming appearance.

  “Ah. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Duke of Holloway. The current owner of this establishment and, curiously enough, a friend of the king.” He paused. “May I have the courtesy of your name?”

  Clara took a moment to enjoy the sight of the color leaching from the captain’s face, as petty as it was.

  The officer cleared his throat. “Captain Buhler.”

  “Then I would appreciate it, Captain Buhler, if you would remove your men from my property before they do any more damage.” August paused and Clara saw him eye the collar of the boy’s ragged coat, still twisted mercilessly in the officer’s hand.

  Clara didn’t know who the painfully thin, disheveled child was, but she had her suspicions. And the duke was once again in the right place at the right time.

  “Additionally, I insist that you release the child.” August’s pretense of civility had been lost.

  Clara studied the duke from the corner of her eye, struck not by the coldness of that demand, but by the bleakness that accompanied it. His expression, like his tone, was both chilling and stark.

  Did you know his father was in debtors’ prison?

  Clara’s stomach plunged to her toes as she considered for the first time what that might have meant for the rest of the family.

  “He’s not a child,” the captain barked, having regained the color he’d lost and then some. “He’s a plague on the country.” His hand twisted a little more, and the boy flinched. “And he’ll hang for his crimes like the thief he is. He might have got away from me yesterday morning. But not today. They start them small, you know, stealing food and whatnot. Best to squash them before they get big.”

  Clara hid her revulsion.

  “That child is not a thief, Captain Buhler. He is my employee. And I will not ask you again to release him.”

  Clara shivered at the undisguised rage in August’s voice, wondering if the duke would simply snatch up a weapon and run the man through. Even the soldiers shifted uncomfortably.

  “His Grace is right. You have the wrong boy,” Clara said into the silence. “This one is here every day before dawn, including yesterday. Fires don’t light themselves.” She moved then, her hand coming to rest on the head of the terrified boy, angling her body as if she was about to lead the child away. The captain took an awkward step back, his grip faltering enough for the boy to yank himself free. He skittered away, ducking behind Clara.

  Buhler lunged forward but was brought up short as August stepped into his space. “Please leave, Captain, while I’ll still willing to attribute this…disorder to an unfortunate error in judgment. And take your men with you.” Very deliberately August stepped away and reached for the door, then held it open silently.

  The captain looked as if he might argue before he looked at August’s face and seemingly reconsidered. He yanked on the front of his coat, smoothing the heavy wool, and turned on his heel to exit the kitchens. The soldiers who had been searching the room trailed after him, casting hard if somewhat uncertain looks in Clara and August’s direction.

  August waited only long enough to assure himself that the soldiers were collecting their horses and departing the Silver Swan’s stable yard before he closed the door with a loud bang. He turned and leaned against the heavy wood, his eyes lighting on each other remaining occupant before they settled on the boy still half-hidden behind Clara.

  Beside her Anne squirmed.

  “Come out from there,” he ordered the boy.

  The boy shuffled out from behind Clara, regarding August warily with eyes that were too big for his face. “You never said you were a duke before,” he mumbled, and Clara’s suspicions were confirmed.

  “Well, in fairness, you never told me your name either.” August crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Jonas.” The boy scuffed a toe against the stone floor and ducked his head.

  August peered at him. “And how, exactly, did you manage to run afoul of the captain and his posse? Again?”

  “We—I was hungry. An’ I came here. Like you said I could.” He stopped, staring resolutely at the floor, his thin face drawn. “Didn’t see the captain till too late.”

  “Then I’m glad you came. Consider yourself hired.”

  Clara hid a smile, feeling as if she might cry at the same time.

  The child’s head came up. “You’re bein’ serious?”

  August nodded. “If you’re going to eat my food, I think it’s fair you work for it.”

  “Yessir.”

  August didn’t correct him.

  “Is he goin’ to come back? The captain?” Jonas asked uneasily.

  “If he does, I’ll deal with him.” August’s jaw was tight, and his eyes swung toward Clara. “You didn’t need to lie.”

  “Yes, I did.” Clara held his gaze. “Occasionally one is in the right place at the right time.”

  August nodded his head in a jerky movement before he turned his attention back to Jonas. “Perhaps you’d like to be introduced to the rest of the staff here? Make sure you understand your duties in the kitchens? Or your duties once we manage to clean up this mess.” The duke raised a brow at Charleaux, and the man nodded in unspoken agreement. “This is Monsieur Charleaux, Jonas. You will do whatever he asks, understood? When I am not here, he speaks for me. You may go with him now.”

  “Yessir.” He bounded toward Charleaux like an eager puppy. The hotelier shot Clara and Anne a worried glance before ushering the boy from the room. Clara sighed. Charleaux had no idea how worried he ought to be.

  She straightened her shoulders as August’s eyes returned to her and then slid to his sister. Clara watched as he studied Anne’s stained apron, her heated cheeks, and the expression of defiance that had crept across her features.

  “Will someone tell me why my sister is standing in the kitchen of my tavern, dressed like a scullery maid? Or are you really going to make me ask?”

  “I work here,” Anne said flatly.

  August gaped at his sister as though she had said something in a foreign language he didn’t understand. “Miss Hayward, perhaps you can try to say something that makes a modicum more sense.”

  Clara sighed in resignation. “As part of Haverhall’s summer term, we place our students in a field of study that they choose as part of their curriculum.”

  August stared at her before turning to Anne. “And the field of study that you chose was lye soap and kitchen grease?” he asked acidly.

  “The fields of study that I chose were lodging and food service management. Labor and inventory administration. Accounting and planning services. Shall I go on?” Anne’s words were clipped.

  “Why?” August asked, raking a hand through his hair.

  “Because I’m good at it.”

  “But you don’t have to—”

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to. And for the record, lye soap is sold at a more attractive price when you buy it in bulk locally.” Her last sentence had an edge to it.

  Clara watched as August pushed himself away from the door. “All of the students do this?”

  “Not this, exactly, but something similar,” Clara said. />
  “For example?”

  Clara shrugged. “My brother is currently mentoring three aspiring physicians. Small-scale amputations are not a suitable conversation topic at Almack’s.”

  “I— That’s—” He was clearly struggling for words. He blinked suddenly. “And Charleaux knows about this? About Anne? About what you’re doing?”

  “Of course he does. Anne is my student, and consequently his. She isn’t his first. The staff believe she is simply his assistant, hired on for the busy summer months.” She sighed. “No one is aware that she is your sister.”

  “And I want to keep it that way.” Anne’s face was set in the same hard lines her brother wore so often.

  “Jesus.” The duke paced toward a pile of pans that had been abandoned near the center of the room. “Who else knows? The truth about Haverhall’s summer school? About what you do here?”

  Clara rubbed her forehead. “Very few,” she said wearily. “Most people do not and will not see the value in it.”

  “Miss Anne?” The harried question came from the doorway to the tavern. A young maid was standing in the frame, wringing her apron between her fingers. “The brewer is here, spittin’ mad because the soldiers took his kegs from the delivery cart. I can’t find Monsieur Charleaux and I don’t know what to do but the brewer wants to know if—”

  “I’ll deal with him,” Anne said briskly, already hurrying forward.

  Clara saw August frowning after Anne fiercely, but he made no move to stop his sister as she disappeared after the maid.

  “You think you should have told me why Anne was really here?” he asked without turning around.

  “You think you should have told me why you were really here?” Clara countered, though the anger she had wielded earlier was missing.

  The duke dropped his head. “Fair enough.”

  Clara hesitated. She had expected a fight. “Have you taken a good look at Anne’s plans for the Trenton Hotel?”

  His back stiffened. “How do you know about that?”

  “She showed me her drawings. She’s quite good at this, you know.”

  August shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the far side of the kitchens, and Clara had no idea what he was thinking.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “Do?”

  “You own this tavern. You hold all the power. But if you think to punish Charleaux for his role in this, or evict him from his position, I take full responsibility for—”

  “Stop.” The duke looked up at the ceiling. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  Clara bent to retrieve a discarded wooden spoon from near her feet and considered her answer. She had no idea who he was, other than a study in contradictions. He was a man who offered no apology for his ruthless pursuit of wealth but then offered charity to a ragged boy he didn’t know. A man who loved his sister but refused to set her free. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Then ask me something.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Ask me whatever you want to know about me. I promise you the truth.”

  Clara considered his offer. Her fingers toyed with the handle of the spoon. “My brother told me that your father was incarcerated. Debtors’ prison.”

  The duke stilled, though he still didn’t turn around. “And just how did he come across that piece of…trivia?”

  “He said that he had treated your father as a medical student at Marshalsea. For dropsy.”

  “Ah.” August put a hand on the edge of the heavy table. “I suppose I owe your brother a debt of gratitude, then. Not only for his medical assistance but for his discretion. And yours. Most people do not know that about me.”

  “I suspect most people don’t know you at all.”

  The duke turned and stared at her then. She felt his appraisal like a physical touch. “Perhaps they don’t.” His quiet words echoed in the space.

  “Is that what made you start? Your father’s imprisonment?”

  “Start?”

  Clara made a helpless gesture with her free hand. “Doing what it is you do.”

  She heard August release a breath. “I suppose you could say that. Starvation motivates a man like almost nothing else can. Do you know what it is like to go for months and months without a proper meal? Reduced to scavenging the leavings of others just so that you might survive another day?”

  He said it casually enough, but underneath she could hear the rawness of that confession. She had heard the same in his defense of Jonas, and it made her heart hurt. “No. I don’t.”

  “It sounds counterintuitive, but I could not afford to spend the little money I had managed to put together on things like food. Or shelter. Everything I had went into my efforts to make that money work for me.”

  “But you won’t starve now. You’ve achieved…more than you could ever have expected. More than anyone expected.”

  “And I’ve told you that only a fool rests on his laurels. Life is not a horse race with a pretty ribbon for the winner at the end. There is no finish line, just packs of challengers hoping to see you fail.”

  And enough would never be enough, Clara thought with a wistful sadness. August Faulkner would never have enough. “That sounds like a life of dissatisfaction and unhappiness.”

  August scoffed. “Hardly. I find satisfaction and happiness in a great number of things.”

  “Name one that doesn’t include money or calculating your net worth.”

  “You.”

  “Your Grace—”

  “Sharing dinner with you. Dancing with you.” He took a step toward her. Her fingers tightened on the spoon as if her paltry weapon might be enough to keep him at a safe distance.

  She was suddenly hot all over. “You’re changing the subject.”

  “I was answering your questions.”

  “Pardon my intrusion, Your Grace.” The interruption came from the same doorway through which Anne had vanished. Only this time it was Charleaux who stood in the frame, looking significantly more composed that the last time she had seen him, though worry shadowed his features. “Our guests are starting to ask questions,” he said with a grimace. “I will address them, of course, but your presence out in the public room and dining room would go a long way in quelling the rumors that have already started to fly. Rumors that might make our guests worry that they are sleeping in a den of murdering thieves.”

  Clara heard August mutter a muffled curse. “Very well.” He turned to Clara. “We’re not done with this conversation.”

  Clara swallowed, that addicting mixture of anticipation and desire that she had thought she’d vanquished threatening to drown her good sense. Her anger toward him might have faded, but that did not mean she was going to let her romantic daydreams lead her astray again.

  “Tomorrow, then,” she said, relieved her voice was steady. “Perhaps after classes have been concluded for the day at Avondale?”

  He caught her free hand in his and pressed his lips to the backs of her knuckles, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Count on it, Miss Hayward.”

  Chapter 13

  August strode into the hall at Avondale, the door banging loudly as it slammed behind him. The sound reverberated off the polished marble of the floor and off the papered walls, shaking the crystals in the chandelier hanging just over his head.

  Lady Tabitha was standing in the center of the hall, artfully arranging a vase of garden flowers and wildflowers that sat on the circular rosewood table in the middle of the entrance. She stopped, her hand frozen in the air, a crimson rose between her fingers.

  “Good heavens, Your Grace,” she said, peering at him over a pair of round spectacles. “We have a butler who is very adept at opening and closing doors if you need assistance with that in the future.” There was a note of reproach in her voice.

  August frowned, knowing he was behaving rather coarsely. He tried to gather his composure. “Where might I find Miss Hayward?”

  He’d agreed yesterday to wait
until her classes were over before seeking her out, but as the morning had crawled by, he’d run out of patience. Had he not been at the Silver Swan until the wee hours of the morning last night, he would have hunted her down then. It had taken his staff hours to right the mess left behind by Captain Buhler and his men. Worse, his discreet and not-so-discreet inquiries into what, or who, had brought them to the tavern in the first place had generated no answers. He supposed he should feel lucky that this was the first time the tavern had been the object of their scrutiny. August knew that private residences and barns were regularly searched.

  “I believe she is in the studio with her class.” Lady Tabitha returned her attention to the flowers in front of her and tucked the rose into the vase.

  “And where do I find the studio?” August demanded, already moving toward the stairs.

  Lady Tabitha slid neatly sideways to block him with more speed than should have been possible. “I will fetch Miss Hayward for you, Your Grace,” she said.

  “There is no need,” he said, stepping around her. “I can certainly fetch her myself. I need but a moment of her time.”

  “Miss Hayward expressly asked not to be disturbed.” Lady Tabitha once again slid in front of him, blocking his path to the stairs, and August wondered if perhaps this woman shouldn’t be instructing a lesson in footwork at Gentleman Jackson’s.

  “She’ll see me.”

  “Your Grace—”

  “Enjoy your morning, Lady Tabitha.” He stepped around her firmly again, moving at a clip that probably couldn’t be called a dignified walk. Lady Tabitha might be quick, but he had almost four decades on her. And some pride.

  “Your Grace, I must warn you that—”

  “The flowers look lovely, my lady,” he called back over his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time.

  He’d said things yesterday to Clara that he hadn’t said to anyone before, and that had left strange feelings doing even stranger things to his insides. The revelation that his sister was meddling in his tavern hadn’t been enough to make him forget how Clara had lied to an army captain with the imperiousness of a bloody queen not only because it was the right thing to do, but also because she understood why it mattered to him.