by Clee, Adele
Chapter 5
“Howard Dunn’s situation is worse than you thought.” Cole crossed the drawing room and dropped onto the sofa. His grave expression confirmed Noah’s worst fears.
Noah returned his coffee cup to the silver tray on the low table. They were the first men to arrive at Hart Street this morning, and so he probed his friend further.
“You mean the devil’s debts far outweigh his ability to pay?”
Cole reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. “Howard Dunn’s debts amount to twelve thousand pounds. For affluent men, that’s an average month’s losses at the tables. But I’m told Mr Dunn’s creditors are tired of hearing his excuses.”
“So he owes Flannery twelve thousand pounds?” Much more than the paltry sum Miss Dunn mentioned.
“Five thousand,” Cole corrected. “Flannery extended Dunn credit as he’d had no issue settling his account before.”
“Presumably he owes another gaming hell the remaining seven.”
Cole’s tight lips and deep frown roused a wave of trepidation. “You won’t like the answer.” He paused. “Dunn owes the Turners four thousand.”
“The Turners!” Hellfire! Noah almost shot out of his seat. “Has the man lost his mind? Howard Dunn is a bloody imbecile.”
The Turner brothers—no one knew their given names—were violent men who worked out of The Compass Inn in Rosemary Lane. Fixing boxing bouts was their speciality. No doubt Howard Dunn had been fool enough to gamble on a prizefighter with bow legs and a weak left hook.
“Then there’s every chance Howard Dunn is dead,” Noah said, dreading the thought of explaining the seriousness of the problem to Miss Dunn. “It’s said their bull terrier can sink its teeth into a man’s jugular and rip his throat clean out.”
Cole snorted, yet the sound held no amusement. “Ordinarily, I would taunt you for lending weight to gossip, but that dog is reputed to be as vicious as its owners.”
Noah cursed.
The news complicated matters. Logic said Howard Dunn hadn’t fled to France for the summer, looking to charm a wealthy widow into covering his debts. The fact his clothes still hung in the armoire did not bode well. An unpaid debt to the Turners was like a signature on a death warrant.
“And what of the other three thousand?” Noah asked, foolishly thinking that nothing could be worse than owing a debt to the Turners.
Cole drained his cup as if it contained something far more potent than coffee. The temporary distraction failed to conceal his look of dread. “The idiot borrowed money from a lender in Gower Street.”
“Gower Street?” Noah’s blood ran cold. “Tell me you’re not referring to Mr Manning.”
Or Mortuary Manning as he was known on the streets. Anyone who crossed the moneylender ended up stiff on a mortuary slab. He was the sort to bludgeon a cobbler to death for information.
Cole nodded. “Most men would rather do a stint in the Marshalsea than borrow from Manning.”
“Bloody fool,” Noah muttered.
“And what relation is this fool to Miss Dunn?”
“Her brother.”
“Then you should prepare her for the worst.” Cole’s dark eyes conveyed the gravity of the situation. “I don’t need to remind you that Manning harasses the family of those who cannot pay their debts.”
“No, you don’t need to remind me. With luck, we’ll find the blighter before it comes to that.”
Noah scrubbed his face to ease the tension. Manning didn’t care who he hurt as long as he got his money. Though if Miss Dunn’s attacker had been working for the brute, she would have a broken leg, not a bruised thigh.
A vision of the woman’s marred thigh filled his mind. Vengeance simmered. The thug would pay for attacking a helpless woman in the street. A frisson of desire rippled through him, too. What was it about Miss Dunn he found so alluring?
“I have no appointments today,” Cole said, disturbing Noah’s reverie. “Perhaps I might assist you in your investigation.”
Only a fool would attempt to deal with Mortuary Manning and the Turners without support. “I’m to accompany Miss Dunn to an appointment in Tavistock Street at eleven. I’ll explain more when I return.” He couldn’t mention the publisher, couldn’t break Miss Dunn’s confidence without gaining her permission. “Howard Dunn lost his apartment at the Albany to Lord Greymere in a game of hazard. I need to know if there’s truth to the story. And see if you can compile a list of Dunn’s friends and associates.”
Cole nodded. “We should inform D’Angelo and Sloane that we’re investigating Manning and the Turners.”
“Agreed.”
It paid to be cautious.
And yet Noah couldn’t shake the feeling that the case was about to become even more complicated. Indeed, Miss Dunn had a secret. A terrible secret. Something far worse than admitting her brother was a wasteful degenerate.
* * *
Noah hoped to spend a few minutes alone in the carriage, composing himself and settling into the role of investigator, yet punctuality was another trait of Miss Dunn’s he admired.
“Good morning, Mr Ashwood.” She fixed her gaze upon him and smiled. “I see you’ve shaved.”
“Good morning, Miss Dunn.” He stroked his smooth jaw. “We don’t want your publisher thinking you’ve formed a friendship with a vagrant.”
“I rather liked your beard.”
“I’m certain you’ll see it again.”
She accepted his proffered hand and climbed into the carriage. Today, she wore a dark grey pelisse, the matching bonnet adorned with delicate red rosebuds. Grey, because it was practical. The silk flowers added a hint of sensuality.
He inwardly sighed.
Even a damn fashion accessory managed to raise his pulse.
He wasted no time getting to the point. “I trust you’ve had time to consider what I said the other day. I cannot work on a case without knowing all the facts.”
The lady settled into the seat opposite, her gloved hands clasped in her lap. “I spent hours lounging in the bathtub thinking of nothing else.”
He doubted Miss Dunn meant to tease him with thoughts of her naked body rising Venus-like from the water. And yet he wondered if she’d thought of him when tending to her ablutions.
“And while indulging your whims, did you come to a decision?” Having witnessed her opulent bedchamber, it wasn’t difficult to picture her satisfying her desires—or satisfying his desires for that matter. “There is little point moving off unless I’m certain of your willingness to comply.”
She had the decency to look sheepish. “I had planned to tell you soon, once I mustered the courage.” A stain of shame tainted her cheeks. “But I am so hurt and humiliated I cannot bear to speak of my brother’s betrayal.”
Her choice of words tied Noah’s stomach in knots. By all accounts, his mother had made the same claim upon learning of his father’s duplicity. Noah inhaled a calming breath. Had fate sent Miss Dunn to torment him, torment him in every conceivable way?
Her strength and intelligence roused his admiration. Her underlying sense of vulnerability spoke to the virile male determined to prove his worth. The veil of mystery that shrouded the real woman behind the calm facade left him desperate to learn more.
But she was his client.
“You need my help, and I’m the last person to judge,” he said, hoping that working on the case would command his full attention. “You may be assured of my discretion. You may be assured that every member of the Order will keep your secrets.”
She considered him through curious eyes. “Tell me something about yourself, Mr Ashwood. Something that brings you shame.”
“Me?” Harrowing images flashed into his mind. Images that threatened to steer a man off course. But he was used to battening down the hatches and riding out the storm. “We are not here to delve into my past traumas, Miss Dunn.”
“I have yet to meet a man who proved trustworthy, sir. Confide in me. Give me a reason to trust
you.”
Noah snorted. The woman had come to Hart Street of her own volition. He’d not kidnapped her off the street. Did she want his damn help or not?
He was about to refuse when she said, “Please. I must learn to trust someone. Let it be you.”
Hell!
Cole was right. Miss Dunn had a way of getting under a man’s skin. The need to protect her and please her outweighed all rationale.
“Very well.” He sighed to make his frustration known. She wanted to hear of a past trauma. She could bloody well hear them all. “My father was as reckless as yours. He married my mother over an anvil in Gretna Green two days before I was born. My uncle has spent years trying to prove the marriage took place after the birth in order to lay claim to my inheritance. My father died in a duel fought because of an argument over his mistress. My mother died of a broken heart two months later, under tragic circumstances I refuse to discuss.” Too tragic for a son to witness. “Would you care to hear more?”
“Forgive me.” Pity filled the lady’s eyes. “It must have been dreadful. I assume you were a boy when your parents died.”
“A boy of ten.” The painful ache in his throat returned.
“Childhood memories are often the most traumatic.”
“Yes.”
They both fell silent. Yet he was still navigating through the turmoil, the nightmare.
“I cannot help but notice the similarities between us, sir,” she eventually said, and he was grateful for the distraction.
“Similarities?”
“Both our fathers are undeserving wastrels. We strive to shake the ugly stain on our names left by their deplorable actions. We have a family member who serves to test our resolve and remind us of our tainted history.”
“Indeed.” And they both used confidence as a shield. “Thankfully we were saved from a terrible fate by respectable men,” he added, his equilibrium restored. “My paternal grandfather took me in when my parents died. You were fortunate to have Mr Becker.”
He expected her to nod in agreement, to be full of praise for the kind poet, but her expression turned pensive. It took a few seconds for her to recover.
“When one admires a man’s work it is easy to place him on a pedestal,” she said, gazing thoughtfully out of the window, though the carriage was still parked on Brownlow Street. “Being a creative genius does not mean one is principled.”
The comment shouldn’t have shocked him. And yet he was as guilty as the rest for presuming intelligence conveyed a person’s worth.
“Creative frustration is a kind of mental torture,” he said, drawing from experience. It sounded as if he were defending Thomas Becker without the merest notion of his crime. “But that is no excuse to behave badly.”
There was a stiffness about her features when she said, “My godfather cared for us, of that there is no doubt. But work was his greatest passion. He worked best when indulging his cravings.”
“His cravings?”
“Wine and women.”
“I see.”
“The house was his pleasure dome, Mr Ashwood. I lost count of the many lovers he entertained.”
A mental picture formed. A young woman woken at night by the rampant activities of her guardian. Now he knew why her bedchamber was her sanctuary, why she had no desire to play the coquette in a room of men.
“So,” she began in the confident tone she used as a crutch, “now we understand one another a little better, I shall explain the true depth of my brother’s depravity.”
“Let’s start with the fact he’s a delinquent. A debt-ridden scoundrel who’s stolen from the one person who cares for him.”
“Cared. I have cut all emotional ties.”
“Cared,” he corrected just as icily. “He’s a liar and has chased away every friend you’ve had.”
“Yes. Minds get muddled when a handsome gentleman pays a lady attention.” She gave a derisive snort. “I have yet to meet an attractive man who isn’t a scoundrel.” She sucked in a breath upon noting her misstep. “Present company excepted, of course.”
“Of course.”
“My closest friend, Miss Swales, fell for my brother’s charms and—” Miss Dunn stopped abruptly. She closed her eyes tight for a moment.
Noah feared she might cry. “I do not wish to cause you distress, Miss Dunn. But I must know of this terrible deed. It may prove important to the case.” In a move that was wholly inappropriate for a gentleman of the Order, he reached across the carriage and gripped her gloved hand. “The shame is not yours to bear.” They were familiar words, words spoken by his grandfather many times.
The lady’s eyes shot open. She looked to her lap but did not pull her hand from his grasp. “Thank you, Mr Ashwood. Miss Swales was a dear, dear friend. A dear friend whose loss I have mourned deeply.”
“I understand,” he said, releasing her dainty fingers and relaxing back in the seat. “When you have blood ties with a scoundrel, people treat you like a leper.”
Ladies did. Men often held a secret admiration for those able to shake themselves free from the shackles of responsibility.
Miss Dunn gathered herself. “You wish to know my shameful secret. I shall speak quickly and plainly. Telling a long, emotional tale is like rubbing salt into a weeping wound.”
“You may speak freely to me, Miss Dunn.”
She forced a smile before inhaling deeply. “Howard gave Miss Swales the impression he would offer for her. It was a ridiculous notion. Her brother, Lord Benham, sought a more lucrative match for his only sister. Clara’s naivety was part of her charm. She foolishly believed Howard was her missing half. Foolishly believed in love.”
Did Miss Dunn know that the way a person told a tale revealed much about the storyteller?
“You do not believe in love, Miss Dunn?”
The question took her by surprise. “Me?” She shrugged but pursed her pretty lips as she considered her response. “I’m afraid I am rather cynical when it comes to affairs of the heart.”
“And why is that?” He knew the answer but wanted to hear her explanation. Besides, it served as a distraction from the pain of her brother’s antics.
The lady arched a brow. “You know very well. I have seen how Howard, my father and Mr Becker treat women. They all have one thing in common when it comes to romantic relationships.”
“They’re disloyal?”
“Despicably so. Perhaps I am the naive one. Perhaps I might easily fall under the wrong man’s spell.”
“Then, you must strive to fall in love with the right man.” He should have been questioning her about Miss Swales yet couldn’t help but say, “May I give you some advice?”
Miss Dunn blinked rapidly. It was evident she didn’t welcome a man’s opinion, yet she said, “You may speak freely to me, Mr Ashwood.”
He inclined his head respectfully while wondering how this woman managed to be so readable and so mysteriously seductive at the same time.
“If you can trust a man with your life. If he puts your needs before his own.” Noah cleared his throat, determined to continue. “If his eyes make love to you with a passion that transcends the physical realm, then he is worthy of your esteem.”
She remained silent, yet her penetrating gaze never left him.
Noah took the opportunity to rap on the roof and alert McGuffey of their wish to proceed to Mr Hemming’s establishment on Tavistock Street.
Miss Dunn clutched the seat as the carriage lurched forward. “Your last comment brings to mind your poem, The Journey. The parched nomad drops to his knees before a glistening oasis. He describes the coolness of the water as he imagines it slipping down his throat, the moistness on his lips, yet he is reluctant to thrust his dirty hands into the pool and so doesn’t drink.”
Good God!
Every muscle in his abdomen tightened. Never had anyone spoken intimately about his work. “You mean, why would a man make love to you with his eyes and not his body? Assuming both parties were willing, of cou
rse.”
“Of course.”
“Like the nomad, perhaps he fears the reality will fall short of the dream. Ruin the illusion.”
“Yes,” she mused. “The nomad draws on past disappointment. It’s the reason he would rather die in blissful ignorance.” It was evident she wished to delve into the depths of his soul. “You’ve been hurt. Not just by the selfish actions of your father and uncle, but by a woman.”
Hellfire! How had the conversation turned from him offering advice to tearing open his chest and baring his bruised heart?
“It was a long time ago. A young man’s disappointment.”
It was not the bitter pain of a lover’s rejection, as she might suppose. But a woman had hurt him, had cut deep with her sharp blade, left him to live like a nomad, forever wandering, scared to settle, scared to take the plunge. Perhaps it was another reason he strived to help the weak, fought against injustice.
“It’s not something I wish to discuss,” he continued. “Yet the pain served as inspiration for my creative efforts.”
Not all desires were sexual.
Not all desires were obtainable.
Her blue eyes softened. “Again, we both have reasons to distrust people’s motives,” she said as if hearing his thoughts. “We will be at my publisher’s office soon, and so I should finish telling you what happened to Miss Swales.”
Noah welcomed the change of topic as a miner welcomed fresh air. “I presume Miss Swales succumbed to your brother’s desire to express their love in the physical act.”
“Unfortunately, yes. The lady is with child and has removed to Northumberland to continue her confinement. Though you must not breathe a word of this to anyone outside the Order.”
“You can trust me.” His tone echoed his assurance. “Are you certain your brother hasn’t ventured to Northumberland?”
“Most certain.” She bit down on her bottom lip to stop the sudden tremble. “Howard cares for no one but himself.”