by Anne Mallory
Lady Stinson would never have afforded him the freedom allowed in the other houses. He had never spent time in her household, as his other relatives had been afraid that Lord Stinson would drain his inheritance, a well-founded concern.
Lord Stinson wouldn’t be able to touch the money Stephen would give to the girls for their seasons. He would talk to Logan, the Marston solicitor, about setting up an account manager to communicate directly with Lady Stinson.
Stephen glanced at the clock. Another hour until Logan arrived. He rubbed his hands together and headed for the conservatory. An hour to be Stephen Chalmers and not the Duke of Marston.
Audrey wiped a hand across her dusty cheek, the excitement from a job well done still humming in her veins. She threw her tools on the rug and placed the bundle on the bed. She unwrapped the cloth to examine the papers within.
The beautiful impressions of the seals and signet rings were stamped on each page. Each stamp a verification by its owner to follow through with the directions on the page. Obtaining papers and seals was usually a mindless task. Only Travers’s separate assignment was proving troublesome.
It was the one item she might be able to bargain with once Travers told her its location. Travers had talked about it in a voice heavily laden with desperation.
She sighed heavily. Travers would never let them go, and it was time she reconciled herself to that fact. It was time to execute a new plan.
She chewed her bottom lip as she carefully stowed the papers in the floor hollow she had created. Chalmers had offered his help. Perhaps she should have Flanagan stage an attack on her and appeal to Chalmers’s protective instincts?
She needed to talk to Flanagan in any case—might as well see if he had any useful information before formulating a plan. In saving Chalmers the night before, she had tossed her lot in with his.
Saved him yet again. She seemed to be forming a bad habit.
She washed, dressed, and made her way to St. Giles. Places where people like her belonged, not in wealthy Mayfair houses like Stephen Chalmers’s.
Someday maybe she could forget her past, someday when she was on a new shore with a new identity and a new outlook on life. But not today Not as she made her way through the winding and twisted streets. Not when she knew which ways led to dead ends and possibly the ultimate dead end. Not when she knew exactly the paths to take.
She marched right into Flanagan’s “office,” having no trouble getting past his security.
“I want you to stop the attacks on Chalmers.”
She paused. “Or Marston, or whatever people are calling him these days.”
“Nice to see you too, Hermes, my dear.”
She grinned and sat. “Fine. It’s nice to see you, you old goat.”
The deep wrinkles around his eyes creased, but he didn’t smile. It was about as close as he came, though, which was a good sign. “I see you are in fine fettle. Wasn’t sure what to expect with all the rumors circulating.”
“What have you heard?”
Flanagan waved her question away. “Why do you want me to stop the attacks? Chalmers has it coming, even if it’s not on my orders. S’truth, the orders didn’t come from me. There are lots of rumblings about big rewards for taking out Chalmers. A couple of men have split from our ranks to do so. They itch to deal with Chalmers, Angelford, and Roth.
Damn if those three don’t cause all our trouble.” He gave her a knowing glance. “And I would retain my best people if Chalmers were out of the picture.”
She winced. Flanagan always saw more than she wished. “I know. But it’s damn stupid of the men who attack them now. Last year after the attack on
Chalmers at the river, half of the blighters who participated were captured or killed.”
“S’truth, all but one. Leonard.” Flanagan spat.
“I need you to use your influence to stop the attacks.”
“Was wondering when you’d work up the mettle to come here and ask for my help. Demanding is more your style, but that’s what made you such an asset.”
She took her pride in hand. “I need your help, Flanagan.”
“Why does it matter to you? Wouldn’t it be better to be rid of him?”
“I need him.”
Flanagan surveyed her for a few seconds, all the while pulling his long mustache. “You and Icarus left Olympus, so the job won’t be free. This Travers bloke probably already knows about us if ‘n he contacted you.”
He gave the mustache another tug, and his eyes creased in his near smile.
“You wouldn’t be in this bind if’n you hadn’t left.”
She continued to look at him, not twitching a muscle in response. She wasn’t surprised he knew about Travers or the situation. Flanagan was nothing if not an information hound and hoarder.
“You’re a hard one, Hermes. Always have been, always will be. But you know the rules. What’s in it for us? I have to settle the boys down somehow. And just so you know, I can only settle the ones under my influence.”
“One hundred pounds.”
“Five hundred and not a crown less.”
“Three hundred and not a pence more.”
“Deal. Now you want to tell me about Icarus?”
Audrey moved in her chair. “She’s in Newgate.”
“Heard the rumors. Didn’t want to believe it myself. This Travers bloke is the cause?”
“Yes. He put me in there long enough to get a taste, to know that nothing would stop me from freeing Faye. The bastard reworked the papers-he’s blackmailing at least two of the guards, paying off ten others, possibly more.”
Flanagan pulled his mustache. “A dangerous man.”
“He is using some of the men from O’Leary’s ring. I recognized a few of the thugs.”
“O’Leary’s gone missing.”
“I doubt he will be found. Keep your back to the wall, Flanagan. Someone dangerous is behind Travers. Whoever it is will make a play at the first opportunity.”
“I can handle things. If’n he tries, he’ll be fodder for the mudlarks.”
Audrey nodded, but worry still gripped her. Worry for the bear of a man in front of her. “See that you do.”
“So what you planning to do about Icarus?”
She leaned back “Travers says he will release her in a few days.”
He eyed her. “But you don’t believe him. What about going in to get her?”
Ice swept her insides. “That’s my plan.”
Flanagan nodded. “Saw your stepfather in your rented house.”
Her lips tightened. “He’s not the problem. Merely a fly to be swatted.”
“Don’t underestimate the devil, Hermes. Never a smart thing to do.”
“Don’t give undue credit.” She waved a hand.
“You always were a smart one. But don’t overlook those under your nose, or you’ll get a pistol in your belly. Johnny made that mistake.”
Audrey stood. “I’ll have the money to you soon.”
“I know you’re good for it. Luck, Hermes. You know the way out.”
She walked past the two guards, who stepped out of her way, still holding their heads in their hands. She didn’t know them very well. Flanagan had been actively recruiting, and many of the faces were new. She watched an older man cuff a boy who was practicing his pickpocketing skills. The boy turned in her direction, and she recognized him as the boy who had picked her pocket in the market.
“Even a dullard’ll feel that. Now try again.”
The boy’s face was eager as he tried again and was once more cuffed.
She wondered what Flanagan was doing for initiations these days. She and Faye had received the dubious honor of raiding Carlton House. One pair of George’s trousers, a handkerchief, a snuffbox, a wax seal, a piece of poetry written by the King. They had been given a list of items and had not been allowed out of the mansion until everything on the list had been collected.
The
y had searched nearly every room in the house, hiding from guards and guests and running from room to room, collecting items, waiting to be caught. It had been a nightmare. She could still remember the wide-eyed look of her then-nine-year old sister—a sort of wild shock tempered by youthful excitement.
Those first few years with Flanagan would have been excruciatingly difficult even without a little sister to worry about. Faye, her only link to her parents, her only responsibility in a world tipped upside down. Her one true friend, her one true weakness.
Audrey maneuvered through the streets, eager to leave the section of town that held too many bad memories. The boy tried two more times to pick the
man’s pocket before she finally turned a corner and they disappeared from view. Even in defeat the boy’s face had been lit with eager determination.
She shook her head. It was a strange feeling to see another’s excitement over becoming a criminal. She remembered the fear from her first time picking a pocket. Seeing the hangman’s noose. Seeing people she knew hanging from it. Seeing them dead in the street. Seeing Johnny, her friend and partner, dead on the floor, blood trailing from his mouth, death overtaking his once bright eyes.
Audrey quickened her step. Those images no longer haunted her waking moments, but she sometimes woke in a cold sweat, the feel of a braided rope chafing her neck.
The ugly scar on her side was a vivid reminder of what one could expect on the streets. Yet excitement always lit the faces of those starting off in the business. Moving up the ranks kept a body fed and clothed. And there was prestige and honor in being a member of certain gangs. Flanagan’s was one of the best. His gang provided an opportunity for those with little to carve a life for themselves.
She had been born to a wonderful, caring family with means. And then she had been forced to the bottom of the cesspool and made to scrape her way back up. It had been a living hell.
Sure, there had been moments of fun, of jobs if gone well, riches collected or nabobs given a well-deserved fleecing. There had been exhilaration the first time she knew without a doubt that she was one of the best. She had celebrated, then Flanagan had cuffed her, reminding her it was only a job, and the next one would probably leave her dead.
There were moments of camaraderie among the different groups, Flanagan’s, O’Leary’s, and the other rings. But it was an artificial feeling, superficial and tenuous. Every day was a new challenge, a new threat, a new death. Death was part of the game. Part of the life. Inescapable. The friend you hugged while dancing and drinking ale was the same soul you laid to rest a week later.
Never get too close. Never make friends, only contacts. Never get personally involved. Those were the rules, and they were implacable. She had learned them the hard way.
She was stuck with Faye. Her sister was the one person in her life she couldn’t keep out. She would keep Faye safe and never let another in. It was as simple as that.
She continued south, lost in thought. She could keep Chalmers out.
Emptiness lay beneath that charming façade—there was no depth. If she could just convince herself of that …
Audrey looked up, and Newgate Prison wobbled in her vision. She could smell the unwashed bodies, the decaying odor of spirits long dead.
Whether it was real or dredged from memory, she had no idea. The rats, the confined cell, the greasy hands. She retched in the street, but felt nothing, as if she was detached from her own body.
People passed by, no one offered a helping hand. They just stared straight ahead. Good. She wouldn’t have helped them, either. Her hand shook as she wiped it across her mouth.
Dear Lord, she would have to go back in there to find Faye. She had to see if her sister was still alive.
She forced herself to walk past the prison, everything inside her urging her to run.
Johnny would have whipped the gang into a frenzy, calling for them to charge into the prison and rescue Faye. He would have had no plan, no organization. Yet he had always managed to convince people of his outrageous ideas, until Flanagan unfailingly had to cuff him in the noggin to silence him.
Johnny had been able to charm all with his bright green eyes full of mischief and …
Audrey stopped. Johnny’s eyes hadn’t been green. They’d been … they’d been …brown?
It didn’t matter—her friend was gone. She grabbed a lamppost and shook the image of Stephen’s eyes from her mind.
She walked toward Mayfair. Travers had said he was going to remove Chalmers from the situation. But how was he going to do it? And could she use Chalmers in the meantime without Travers knowing? She needed to put her rapidly developing plan into action.
Stephen’s lazy grin appeared in her mind. Never get too close. Never make friends, only contacts. Never get personally involved.
Johnny hadn’t followed the other rule of the game. Never trust anyone.
Audrey moved toward her target.
She wouldn’t forget.
Chapter 8
” What do you mean there’s no money, and the estate is bankrupt, Mr.
Logan?”
The lanky man shifted his spectacles. “The funds are gone, Your Grace.”
Stephen leaned forward in his chair. “Cousin Vernon was wealthy. I never saw any sign of excess.”
“The seventh Duke of Marston implemented a total redesign and redecoration of the various estates. He incurred very large expenses and did not spend his money wisely.”
Stephen tapped an impatient finger. He vaguely remembered Vernon talking about redecorating the primary seat. “l would have heard if Vernon were having trouble.”
Logan shook his head. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but the seventh duke was not very good with figures. I doubt he even truly realized the extravagance of his expenditures, and he was not willing to be guided. I attempted to speak with him about it many times and was always rebuffed. There is also one large gaming debt to his name.”
“Who holds the marker?”
“The Earl of Bessington.”
“And the redecoration was done mainly to Marston Manor?”
“Yes. Although, a number of the other properties were updated and renovated as well.” He listed five.
“How much did he spend?”
“Two hundred thousand pounds.”
“The estate should be able to handle that.”
“Not if a number of crucial investments failed as well. Unfortunately …”
Stephen gave an ironic laugh. “Well, at least that means no money needs to be spent on the lands. We’ll just have to live off the year’s income.”
“Well, you see, that is also a problem. While the residences have been maintained, the tenants’ properties have not. Many of the buildings need repair and updating. The tenants have become angry about their conditions and lazy in their output.”
Stephen gripped his pen. Damn Vernon. Spending money on trappings and not his people. “How much is needed for this coming year?”
The solicitor listed exorbitant figures for all of the entailed estates. By the end of the recitation, Stephen was in a state of shock.
“I can’t believe it is that bad. There are at least two properties, Fieldstone and Pimont’s Park, that should be producing enough money on their own to pay for the rest.”
“Yes, but they have been poorly managed. The duke refused my guidance and insisted that his own men run both estates. Look at the figures here.”
The solicitor pointed to two unbelievable deficits.
Stephen digested the information. The dukedom was utterly devoid of funds. Which also meant there was no money for his cousins’ debuts.
“This is unbelievable.”
“l didn’t believe it either, Your Grace. I dismissed the stewards immediately upon the discovery.”
“Why was I not informed about this before?”
“The duke kept the books in his office. Didn’t trust anyone, He was a very secretive m
an. lt has taken nearly this entire time to locate the books and understand his notations.”
Stephen frowned. Vernon hadn’t been secretive. He had been indulged, yes. The excesses sounded like Vernon …to a point. But secrecy? Overspending?
“That doesn’t sound like Vernon.”
“Had you seen him recently, Your Grace?”
Stephen shook his head. “No, in the past few years I have frequently been out of the country.”
The solicitor nodded. “He changed, Your Grace. Something caused him to be secretive and wary. Please ask your aunts or your staff here in town.”
“I confess I haven’t moved into Marston House yet.”
“It’s only two weeks now since you’ve assumed the title. And there are many matters requiring your time.”
But only one matter that truly interested him. And she would probably steal everything else he had.
“How many years have you served the family Mr. Logan?”
“Going on thirty, Your Grace.”
“Vernon passed on three months ago, then Thomas became duke. Did Thomas know about the monetary situation?”
“Most of it, Your Grace.”
Stephen sighed. Suddenly the accidents that had taken his cousins’ lives looked more suspicious. Had the weight of the debts been too much for Thomas? “How much do we need for operating costs next year?”
Logan named an outrageous sum, and Stephen nodded tightly. “Am I to understand there is no way the estate can generate even a quarter of that amount?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“How long before we earn the necessary income?”
“With good management, maybe five years.”
“Five years is too long.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Any suggestions?”