Edith put a hand to her breasts, which were threatening to escape her bright pink gown. “But, the papers say that he cuts the … the scalps off his enemies and hangs them from his flagpole, just like those savages in America.”
“You should always believe what you read in the paper,” Argent said in his unique, toneless way that made one wonder if he was being supportive or derisive.
Though the sarcasm was evident in this case.
Millie smothered a smile and said, “Illusory or not, it’s imperative someone find out who this Rook character is, and what he wants.”
“Why would it matter what he wants?” Mena queried, dabbing at a bit of sauce that had dripped on her diamond bracelet. “The crown is not in the habit of rewarding criminals and fiends, or giving in to their demands.”
“Is that so?” Blackwell lifted a cheeky brow and everyone laughed as though enjoying a shared secret.
“Well, I think Millie raises an excellent question,” Farah replied. “In my experience, in law enforcement and otherwise, the key to catching a criminal, or to reforming one, is to first identify his motivation. Once that is ascertained, then you have the key to his every move.”
Blackwell scowled without umbrage, before returning to Trenwyth. “I asked you, specifically, because I know you’re still very active with the Home Office, and I was curious as to their take on the Rook situation.”
All turned to look at the duke, who seemed to choose his words very carefully, plucking them from the darkness where state secrets were well kept, and leaving what shadows needed to remain. “As far as the Home Office is concerned, there isn’t a situation as of yet … Though what worries them the most is the utter lack of available intelligence on the man. He’s British, or claims to be, but no one knows who he is or where he came from. He literally has no name. No past that we can find. It’s like he just … appeared from the sea one day.”
“Like Aphrodite,” Imogen mused.
Trenwyth’s gaze snapped to hers, and he studied her long enough to incite little shivers of heat down her spine.
“Aphrodite?” Edith laughed, loudly enough to draw censuring glances from the other guests. “What utter nonsense, Lady Anstruther. We’re discussing a pirate, not a goddess.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Aphrodite was said to have been created of sea foam and magic,” Imogen countered. “That was the parallel I was making.”
“You mean you actually paid attention to your Greek tutor?” Edith rolled her eyes heavenward and took another bite. “Tell me we’re not inflicted with another bluestocking.”
“Not exactly.” She’d never had the opportunity to study Greek or any other language. She’d had no governess, and only a rather rudimentary education before attending nursing school. But she’d chanced to see the painting of Venus by Henri Pierre Picou at a gallery, and had been so moved, she’d simply had to devour everything she could about the Roman goddess of love and, of course, her Grecian counterpart, Aphrodite. Though she’d let the haughty viscountess think what she liked.
Imogen tried some of the main course as the conversation proceeded around her. She was able to wash it down with a bit of wine and let out a sigh of relief as some of the strain began to unstitch from her muscles.
How grand and extraordinary these people were. She appreciated their acumen and intelligence, but also their progressive principles. Not only did the men converse with conviction and compassion, but they also listened with interest when their wives spoke. They respected their views and opinions, and discussed them with as much candor as they would any man’s.
It was all rather unsettling, while at the same time very inspiring.
They not only approved of her cause, they championed it. In fact, the Blackwells and the Mackenzies had already begun to draft documents for Parliament regarding hospital and prison reform. Two years prior, Dorian Blackwell had been instrumental in the Prison Act of 1877, which centralized the prison systems and brought awareness to some of the inhumane acts and egregious conditions, including those of younger offenders and children born into incarceration.
When Imogen had approached them, with Millie’s help, they’d not only been receptive to her ideas, they’d been delighted. To speak of available medical care and facilities for the poor didn’t at all worry her. It wasn’t a subject most were unsympathetic to. But when she’d spoken of shelters for desperate women and children, for those who’d been mistreated by their spouses, or those who’d been coerced into prostitution, the response had been unexpected and overwhelming. Even the stoic and unaffected Mr. Argent had been what some might call enthusiastic … if they knew him well enough to tell the difference.
Her first step was to convert her home to the Lady Sarah Millburn Women’s Refuge, in homage to her late husband’s first wife. Once she’d established that, her next step would be to acquire property in all the boroughs of London, from Westminster to Whitechappel, and open similar facilities, staffed with medical professionals to care for the ill and ill-treated, bodyguards to protect the property from pimps and dangerous husbands, and then educators who could help the women find work or means to support themselves. Months ago, it had seemed impossible, and now, because of the success of this night, and the promise of many nights like it, the goal seemed not only possible, but attainable.
As the dessert course arrived, treacle tarts and coffee, Imogen seized upon the moment to address all those present. Standing, she tapped her silver spoon against her crystal goblet and summoned the address she’d spent an entire week memorizing.
“While you’re all here, I wanted to take this opportunity to express my gratitude for your support and sustenance of this foundation. We are a blessed few, and we have a divine opportunity to care for those less fortunate. Thank you all and please enjoy the rest of your evening.”
The enthusiastic applause both startled and thrilled her, and Imogen glowed when she took her seat. She suddenly found that she couldn’t wait to tally the donations and get to work.
“A divine opportunity?” Edith wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that a diplomatic way of saying that it is our heavenly mandated duty to give to the poor?”
Offering the woman a brittle smile, Imogen refused to be cowed by her ignorance. “Isn’t it, though? Be you Anglican, Catholic, Hebrew, or any number of religions, caring for the poor seems to be a rather universal edict.”
“Some of us are rather more used to giving edicts than obeying them.” Trenwyth followed his caustic remark with a sip of his coffee.
“Not all of us were born a duke,” she gently reminded him.
“I certainly wasn’t,” he volleyed back.
“Perhaps not,” Ravencroft said evenly. “But ye are one now, and ye have to admit to a certain amount of privilege that accompanies our nobility, whether we are the firstborn or not.”
Trenwyth shook his head. “Yes, but with that privilege also comes a great amount of responsibility. Do we not care for our tenants and subordinates by providing employment? They work lands that we own and maintain at great cost. Generally the relationship is mutually beneficial, and the financial accountability always falls to us. Do we not care for the empire’s economy by purchasing wares and sundries, by sponsoring various hopeless causes?”
“Hopeless causes?” Imogen echoed.
Ignoring her, he continued. “Wasn’t it Machiavelli that stated there had to be those who must need to work to make a living or society would collapse? If we privileged few supported the less fortunate instead of allowing them to work, who is served by that?”
“I’m in complete agreement with you, Your Grace,” Lady Edith stated smugly. “If the upper classes didn’t demand and pay for luxury, then how would the merchant classes live? And if they didn’t make a living, how would they employ anyone? We provide the entire empire an extraordinary service.”
Argent’s cold, blue eyes narrowed. “By all means, let them eat cake.”
“We’re hardly discussing econom
ics.” Blackwell interjected, his gloved hands gripping his utensils just a little too tightly. “There are those, even in this room, who were born with less than nothing and still had our dignity, our humanity taken from us. Perhaps if someone felt it their responsibility to help, we wouldn’t have struggled thusly.”
Trenwyth gestured to Blackwell “But you make my point entirely, you and Argent are self-made men. There are those who would say that you’ve done rather well, despite your circumstances, and without charity.”
Blackwell and Argent shared a look. “No one should have had to do what we did to get where we are.”
Trenwyth made a derisive noise. “We’ve all done things we shouldn’t have had to do. Some of us in our own interest.” He gave Blackwell and Argent a pointed look. “And others in the interest of the empire. In the service of every British soul.” He gestured to Ravencroft, punctuating his argument with his prosthetic.
It struck Imogen at that moment, how much Blackwell and Ravencroft resembled each other. Each with glittering, marble-black eyes and ebony hair. Same stubborn jaw and patrician nose. A similar cruelty of expression and sardonic brow.
The Scottish laird glanced between Trenwyth and Blackwell as though torn. Imogen knew that, like Trenwyth, he was both a peer by birth and a soldier by trade. But a tender sort of guilt touched his gaze when it alighted upon Blackwell, stirring a particular suspicion within her. Could his noble blood tie him not only to the crown, but another royal line? That of the reigning king of the London underworld?
Ravencroft, the unquestionable elder of the congregation, held his chin as he considered the growing rift at the table. A line, it seemed, was being drawn between those with inherited titles, and those without. “I see the wisdom in both of yer perspectives. Aid and service can be given in many forms. Not only by charity, but also with protection and leadership and justice. There are those of us who are expected to lead, to govern, is that not its own service?”
“Absolutely.” Mena put her hand on her husband’s arm, ever the peacemaker. “Also those who toil to heal and care and, of course, research ways to better our health and comfort. We can’t forget those who enforce the law and even those who clean our homes and dispose of our rubbish. There are innumerable ways to contribute, and it seems to me that Lady Anstruther is only providing one more way to serve and save others for those of us who are inclined to give of their bounty.”
Trenwyth set his prosthetic on the table with a heavy sound. “Some give life and limb, is that not enough?”
“Of course it is,” Imogen agreed with a sense of growing panic. She hoped to God none of the other attendees were privy to the growing tension in their conversation. Hoping to temper the glow of fury building in his eyes, she summoned her most charming smile, and was encouraged when his eyes snagged on her lips. “Of course it is, Your Grace, and such a sacrifice is only to be met with utmost gratitude. I do not disagree with you on any particular point, but in my experience there are those who work themselves into exhaustion and are still unable to better their circumstances. Most especially women. At times, they become so desperate, for one reason or another, that they cannot see a way to climb out of the hole they find themselves mired in. Often, they are oppressed by the upper classes, shunned by society, and utterly hopeless. Those are the souls I’m trying to lift from the mire. If they can only be shown a different way, a better way, perhaps they would no longer need charity.”
“Your idealism is commendable.” His condescension grated on her, but she didn’t dare let her smile falter as, she noted, their conversation had drawn quite a bit of interest. “But whatever you’re trying to achieve here, it won’t work, I tell you. You simply can’t take a rat off the street and expect it to behave like a well-bred hound.”
Her smile suffered an instantaneous inversion. “People are hardly animals.”
He snorted. “They’re hardly better than.”
“I beg your pardon!” she gasped.
“People must be what they are, what they were born to be,” he said from between clenched teeth. “I’ve seen firsthand what happens when a bastard aspires to be a marquess.” He cast a pointed glare at Ravencroft before turning back to rake her with a dark look. “Or when a commoner attempts to be a countess.”
Stunned at his cruelty, the entire dining hall echoed with expectant silence. Unable to look at Trenwyth, Imogen glanced over to Lady Broadmore, whose face shone with a smug and vicious enjoyment.
Driven past caution, Imogen allowed a victorious smile to crawl across her features, turning her smile chilly rather than warm as she decided now was the perfect time for a declaration of her own.
“If I were you, Your Grace, I’d take great care before consuming another bite, as your entire meal was prepared by rats.”
A small din of confounded whispers surged through the hall as everyone surveyed their plates with uncertainty.
“That’s right,” Imogen continued, a surge of indignation carrying her voice to everyone. “Every single soul of my staff for this evening, from the servers, to the footmen, cooks, entertainers, decorators, builders, drivers, and valets, indeed all—save the musicians—have once upon a time, to put it indelicately, worked on the streets in one illegal capacity or another. No one would have guessed had I not revealed it to you.”
Her point made, Imogen enjoyed the astonished conversation as it swelled around her. “Now that you know, Your Grace, perhaps you’d want to skip cigars and port … just in case you are correct and one of these so-called rats tries to poison you.”
For an infinitesimal moment, violence shimmered in the air. Imogen couldn’t exactly tell where it originated from, the duke, Blackwell, Argent, Ravencroft, or the few footmen who hovered nearby, many of whom had been former guests of Newgate.
An austere sort of rigidity sharpened the angles of Trenwyth’s features as he leaned toward her, speaking in carefully enunciated syllables. “If there is one thing that I’ve learned in my years of service to the crown, it is that people can, indeed, be trained for short bouts of time. Like rats. You can reward and punish them. You can even dress them up in finery or uniforms, until they are molded into a semblance of what you wish them to be. And the illusion might even convince those who are unaware. But believe you me, when the bullets begin to fly, when the blood flows and the explosions detonate, the rats scurry, only emerging again to pick over the rotting flesh of the brave and noble once the battle has ended. That is a constant. That is something you can rely on.”
“But this is about life, not war,” Imogen murmured, hoping to calm him.
“It speaks to your banality and ignorance that you think there is a distinction.” Tossing down his napkin, Trenwyth stood and jammed a finger toward the footmen. “Sooner or later, they will bite the hand that feeds them. Better yours than mine.” That said, he turned on his heel, and quit the room.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The crimson pall over Cole’s vision distorted the familiar warm halls of the Anstruther mansion into something ghastly and grotesque. His every breath died in his chest, and he gulped at the tepid, indoor air, never seeming to find enough. Despite a thin bloom of sweat that burned like acid over his entire body, he shivered as though he stumbled naked through the streets of London on a winter’s evening.
Out. He needed to get out. The lush halls had begun to bend and the ceiling lowered until he fought the urge to drop and crawl, lest it crush him.
A breeze cooled the beads of sweat on the back of his neck, and he whirled to face an open door, gauzy curtains fluttering over it like erstwhile ghosts. Lurching for escape, he plunged into the night and gasped in the unmistakable fragrance of lavender, evening primrose, and night-blooming jasmine. For a moment he stood on unsteady legs, panting and disoriented, eyes darting about the garden as a myriad of colors blended together in a bewildering kaleidoscope.
There. A long bench stretched into the shadows against the house, lending a view of the blossom-choked path. The limestone pathw
ay led to a Tuscan fountain with a tiny fat satyr balancing on one cloven hoof, blowing a horn from which a steady stream of water spouted.
Cole tucked himself into those shadows, appreciating the stability of the bench beneath him, and the cool night air that soothed his raw skin.
He should leave. Should bloody well go home and exhaust himself with training, or running, or a woman. Maybe two. Until his heart stopped threatening to pound its way right out of its cage and onto the floor. Every vein was full of fire, or maybe ice. He could never tell anymore. One thing he knew for certain, he needed to survive the next several minutes before trusting himself to go anywhere.
Reaching a shaking hand into his jacket, he pulled out his pipe and tobacco, the stuff cut with a small amount of Asian ganja, which seemed to very much calm his nerves when they were in this state. His prosthesis itched and stung, the sweat beneath it causing the straps to chafe.
He needed rid of it.
“Christ,” he muttered, setting the pipe down to unlatch the attachment. As unsteady as he was, the chore at which he was generally so dexterous seemed an impossible feat. Uttering a slew of curses, he bit down on the already prepared pipe and found his matches. Smoke first. Steady on. Once he stopped shaking, he’d regain his dexterity.
Striking a match on the stone, he watched the flame flicker and dance in his trembling hand until he managed to light the pipe and draw in the first welcome breath.
Cole didn’t know how long he sat there. Long enough for dinner to end, he was certain. The night enveloped him in a shroud of sweet-smelling darkness and coveted silence. Every now and again, strains from the chamber orchestra would filter to him, but blessedly the noises of revelry did not. He’d had enough of people. Enough of everything.
Ivy clung to a familiar wrought-iron fence with a stone foundation. This was not part of the manse’s regular gardens in which he’d taken refuge. This was the east garden. Small, private, and walled off from the rest of the house, the east wall abutting his own estate.
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