The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1

by Grace Callaway

  Mind your own business, dunderhead, she chided herself.

  It wasn’t like her to be distracted by a man. Her father owned a bawdy house, and she’d grown up surrounded by wenches who’d warned her of the dangers of animal attraction. At four-and-twenty, she’d never experienced that supposedly brain-obliterating force; she wondered if she ever would.

  “You there,” Dewey O’Toole’s nasally voice called out.

  She pushed aside thoughts of the stranger, her purpose taking center stage.

  Concentrate and play your part. For Belinda’s sake.

  “Me, sir?” she said with as much diffidence as she could muster.

  O’Toole crooked a stubby finger, kicking out the chair next to him. “Come ’ere.”

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea, clearing the path to O’Toole’s table: no amount of gold, apparently, was worth the trouble of crossing the O’Toole family. For Dewey was the heir to Francis O’Toole, a famous cutthroat.

  Indeed, Francis O’Toole was one of the seven men who ruled the London underworld—men so powerful that they were known as “dukes.” O’Toole was the Duke of the Docklands, and his territory encompassed the wharf-side areas from Bluegate Fields to the Isle of Dogs. However, as powerful as O’Toole and the other dukes were, every one of them paid homage to the mightiest of them all: Bartholomew Black.

  King of the Underworld. And Tessa’s grandpapa.

  At the thought of her beloved grandfather, pride burgeoned in her. Grandpapa was a legend for he’d put an end to the bloody territorial wars that had once torn the stews asunder. While some might call him a cutthroat, he did whatever was necessary to keep the peace. He cared for the welfare of those under his rule. While the government enacted laws that benefited the upper class but left many in the underworld starving and destitute, Bartholomew Black found ways to feed and employ his people—the legalities of society be damned.

  Of late, however, Grandpapa had had too much to contend with: an assassination attempt, the death of one of his most loyal dukes, and a deadly explosion at a brothel. For the first time, Tessa could see his many burdens wearing upon him, and it filled her with worry. She wanted desperately to help, yet he refused her. Refused to see that she had the ability to serve him, to help him make the underworld a better place.

  Instead, he wanted to marry her off to some overbred blue-blood. She scowled. As much as she loved her grandfather, she wasn’t going to let him barter her off like chattel at Smithfield Market. She might be a female, but she was of the House of Black. Protecting the underworld and its denizens was in her blood.

  If Grandpapa didn’t let her stand by his side, then she would have to serve him on her own.

  And she would begin by delivering justice to Dewey O’Toole.

  Going to his table, she doffed her cap. “Tom Brown, at your service, sir.”

  “O’Toole.” He waved carelessly at the brutes across the table. “Barton and Smithers.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintances,” she said as she took a seat.

  She knew O’Toole’s cronies by reputation. Barton was a swarthy hulk capable of beating a man to a fare-thee-well, but it was Smithers who made her wary. Narrow-faced and twitchy, Smithers was known to be a weasel—an insult, Tessa thought indignantly, to weasels everywhere. Nonetheless, he was the brains of the trio, and her breath caught as his beady gaze roved over her. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, his attention returning to his leader.

  “O’erheard ’bout your windfall.” Greed glinted in O’Toole’s eyes, which resembled currants pushed into puffy dough. “Four ’undred quid, is it?”

  “Five,” Smithers said, then cowered at O’Toole’s glare.

  “Five—that’s wot I said.” O’Toole’s fist slammed against the table, setting plates and cups a-clatter. “Wot are ye, deaf?”

  “Beg pardon,” Smithers sniveled. “My fault for mishearing you.”

  “Ye got bacon for brains,” O’Toole snarled.

  “Bacon for brains.” Barton slapped his tree-trunk-sized thigh. “Good one, O’Toole.”

  O’Toole scowled. “Now where was I afore I was interrupted?”

  Seeing as how she didn’t have all night, Tessa slung her leather coin bag onto the table, where it lay like a fatted calf. “You wanted to know about my inheritance. It’s in this purse.”

  “You can’t fool me,” Barton scoffed. “Five ’undred guineas wouldn’t fit in that purse.”

  Lord above, what kind of morons am I dealing with?

  She resisted the upward pull of her eyeballs. “The clerk at the bank said this paper,”—untying the purse strings, she took out a fifty-pound note—“is as good as gold.”

  O’Toole snatched the banknote, squinting at it. With a grunt, he shoved it across the table.

  Smithers held up the banknote and perused it expertly. “It’s the genuine article.”

  Crafty looks were exchanged amongst the three bounders.

  “What are you planning to do with all that blunt?” O’Toole said.

  Finally.

  “The truth is,” she said in a confidential timbre, “I’ve a fancy for cards. ’Eard there are places in Town where the sky’s the limit when it comes to the stakes. Say, you fellows wouldn’t know of any such fine establishments, would you?”

  “You don’t need no gaming ’ell,” O’Toole declared. “We’ll ’ave us a game right ’ere.”

  Tessa made an apologetic face. “Kind o’ you to offer. I was looking for, er, a larger game.”

  “Think I don’t got the stakes, that it?”

  “Oh no, sir, I’d ne’er—”

  “’Ere’s a ’undred quid.” O’Toole flung his coin bag onto the table. It skidded into hers, the pair of purses nestling like twin piglets. “And plenty more where that came from.”

  A hundred pounds is twice what you stole from Belinda, you blackguard. Thus, you’ll be paying her back—with interest.

  Hemming and hawing, Tessa scratched her ear. “I ain’t certain this is a good idea.”

  “We’re playing.” O’Toole snapped his fingers at Smithers. “Fetch some cards, you stupid git.”

  “I’ve a deck,” she said quickly.

  Tread carefully. Don’t rouse suspicion.

  Reaching into the outer pocket of her jacket, she pulled the deck out halfway then shoved it back, mumbling, “Ne’er mind. It ain’t decent.”

  “Not decent? What the bloody ’ell does that mean?” O’Toole demanded.

  As if embarrassed, she averted her gaze. “Fellow who sold ’em to me pulled a fast one. ’E claimed they were all the rage in the fine gent’s clubs. Now ’ad I known they were indecent—”

  “Give ’em to me.”

  With sham reluctance, she placed the deck in O’Toole’s outstretched hand. He spread the cards out on the table, forming a rainbow of debauchery. Each card depicted a naked couple in some variation of sexual congress. Their expressions were lascivious, body parts improbably magnified.

  “God’s bollocks, they’re all doing the buttock jig,” O’Toole chortled.

  Peering over, Barton sniggered. “That one’s giving ’er a green gown, ’e is!”

  “Oh ho, look at this one.” Chin jiggling with delight, O’Toole pointed at the three of spades. The illustration featured a woman sitting astride a man, her back to his chest, her eyes heavy-lidded as she impaled herself on his engorged sex. “St. George is riding the dragon, eh!”

  Smithers scurried over from the other side of the table. “I want to see, too!”

  Men were so predictable. A bit of obscenity reduced cutthroats to giggling schoolboys. Borrowing this deck from her chum Alfred had been a stroke of inspiration. Distraction was the key to successful sharping, after all. The trio was so diverted by the fornicating figures that they failed to notice a critical fact: the cards were marked.

  “Let’s play,” O’Toole said between snorts of laughter.

  She nudged them into a game of vingt-et-un, wit
h O’Toole starting as the dealer. To build his confidence, she let him win a few rounds and take fifty pounds from her. Then it came her turn to deal, and, being cautious, she gave him another round, totaling her losses to a hundred pounds. By this time, onlookers had gathered around the table, eager to watch the high-stakes play and placing their own side bets on the outcome of each round.

  As the game paused for O’Toole to toast himself, a scent cut through the eau de tavern of greasy meat, stale ale, and unwashed bodies. The clean smell—soap, leather, and male—tickled her nostrils, released a rush of awareness. Without looking, she knew that the stranger was standing behind her. Unable to resist, she turned slightly in her chair and looked up.

  And had to tilt her head to look farther up.

  The eyes that met hers were a deep elemental brown, the color of rich earth and polished wood. The intelligence gleaming behind the wire-rimmed spectacles made her shiver. His gaze shifted to the game, and she saw where it landed: on the Knight of Spades, a rather hirsute fellow who was inserting his lance into a lady on all fours.

  The stranger’s eyebrow, the one with the scar, winged upward.

  She spun back around in her chair, her cheeks pulsing with heat. The cards had never discomfited her before. In truth, she’d found their absurd depravity amusing. Why, then, did they cause her insides to feel as quivery as an aspic when she saw them through the stranger’s eyes?

  Shaking off her reaction, she resumed the game, dealing a face-down card for all the players.

  Checking his card, O’Toole gleefully said, “I’m in for a ’undred quid.”

  Barton and Smithers placed smaller bets.

  Tessa passed out the second cards, face up. O’Toole’s was an eight, hers a five—a deliberate move on her part to feed his overconfidence. He went for the bait.

  “Let’s make this more interesting and double the stakes, eh? Everything I got in ’ere,”—O’Toole jabbed a finger into his bulging purse—“plus all my winnings.”

  “You’re certain, O’Toole?” Wetting his lips, Smithers said, “You’re already ahead—”

  “Shut your bloody gob!” O’Toole glared at his crony, who fell silent, cheek twitching. “When Lady Luck spreads ’er legs, a real man don’t walk away. ’E swives ’er, and swives ’er good.”

  “You tell ’im, O’Toole,” Barton crowed.

  Still aware of the stranger behind her, Tessa decided it was best to hurry things to their conclusion. “Double it is.”

  O’Toole shoved his pile of money forward; she matched with two hundred pounds of her own.

  She dealt the third cards. The groans of Barton and Smithers came as no surprise seeing as she’d busted them, giving them both above the value of twenty-one. O’Toole received an ace of clubs; when he saw her third card, another five, his grin widened.

  Chortling, O’Toole, flipped over his first card. “Ace o’ diamonds brings it to twenty for me. Pot’s mine, unless you got—”

  She flipped over her hidden card.

  “Mary’s tits, it’s an ace o’ hearts,” an onlooker breathed. “Wiv two fives that makes twenty-one. Tom Brown wins!”

  Cheers went up. O’Toole’s face turned a violent shade of red.

  Sensing the direction the wind was blowing, Tessa swept her cards and winnings into her satchel and rose. “Much obliged for the game, sirs. Now I fear I must be off—”

  “Not so fast, you buggering cheat.” O’Toole surged to his feet, his glare menacing.

  Uh oh. She took refuge in righteous anger. “Got no right to besmirch my good name, sir. Won fair and square, I did, and you’ve no proof elsewise.”

  Murmurs of assent rose. Even among thieves, beggars, and fences, no one liked a sore loser.

  “Don’t need no proof, you wily bastard. I know you fleeced me.” O’Toole jabbed a finger at her. “Barton, Smithers, get ’im!”

  She made a run for it. She dodged past Barton, who was big but slow, and almost made it past Smithers. Unfortunately, the latter was quicker than he looked. He caught her arm and wrenched it, causing her to cry out.

  “Got you—what the bleeding ’ell is that?” Smithers shrieked.

  In a flash of champagne-colored fur, her ferret, Swift Nick, burst free of her inner pocket and dashed up to her shoulder, still imprisoned in Smithers’ grip. The animal rose on its hind legs, hissed, and sank its fangs into her attacker’s hand.

  Smithers screeched.

  She tore free from his slackened grip. Tucking her furry rescuer safely into her pocket, she dashed toward the back exit. By this time, the entire tavern had erupted into a joyful free-for-all, and she had to dodge brawling bodies left and right. Barton’s heavy footsteps pounded behind her. Just as she felt his hot breath upon her nape, he let out a howl of rage. Pivoting, she saw that the stranger—her stranger—had charged to her rescue.

  Mesmerized, she watched him take on her pursuer. Barton threw a punch. The stranger evaded and executed an uppercut, and her blood quickened at the man’s power and precision. The blow connected solidly with Barton’s jaw, the latter’s head snapping back.

  Barton groaned, toppling like a felled tree.

  “Now that’s a facer,” she breathed.

  “Don’t countenance troublemakers ’ere,” Stunning Joe’s voice growled from behind her.

  Before she could turn, his meaty hand closed around her collar, lifting her clear off the ground. She kicked and cursed, straining to reach one of the daggers hidden in her boots when her neck cloth loosened, fluttering to the ground.

  “Christ Almighty.” Stunning Joe released her, stumbling back. His gaze was riveted on her throat: on the gold medallion now exposed. “Didn’t know who you were, I swear—”

  “Now you do.” Bending, she snatched up the linen. “And you’ll keep your lips buttoned about it. If anyone discovers I was here tonight, I’ll know who to come find.”

  “A-aye, anything you—”

  The stranger sprinted toward them, his fists readied for another fight.

  Tessa subtly lifted her chin at Stunning Joe, and the barkeep backed away, hands raised. She knotted her cravat in place just as the stranger arrived.

  “Tom Brown, at your service,” she said breathlessly. “And you are?”

  A roar sounded, a recovered Barton knocking aside bodies like pins as he charged toward them. More of O’Toole’s brutes had arrived, the pack following at Barton’s heels.

  “Introductions can wait.” The stranger grabbed her arm. “For now—run.”

  2

  “Through here,” Harry’s companion said. “We’ll lose ’em in the tenement.”

  Ducking to avoid a low-hanging beam, Harry Kent followed his guide into the decrepit building. He knew “Tom Brown” was no lad, but his plan was to play along for now. The other had navigated the rookery’s maze with spritely agility, dashing through dark alleyways and twisting streets, pushing through the Saturday night crowds spilling out of taverns and gaming hells. Even now, in this dilapidated warren, Tom seemed to know exactly where he was going.

  Harry trailed his companion past rooms overflowing with raggedy folk of all ages. None of the occupants paid any mind to two passing interlopers. Poverty decimated privacy, exposing everything: the shouting, fornicating, and drinking. The squalor and lawlessness reminded Harry of the railway encampment. Of the accident that had nearly ended his life.

  Trapped in elemental darkness, he’d felt not just panic but suffocating regret. That he hadn’t made more of himself. That he’d lived and died without making a difference to the world.

  His schoolmaster papa’s teachings had come to him. Character is determined by choice not opinion. What is the essence of life? To serve others and do good.

  In that moment, Harry had known that he didn’t want his legacy to be defined by scandal and failures. Summoning his strength, he’d fought his way through the darkness, through the wall of rock to the shouting voices and promise of light. In the end, he’d been lucky to escape with
only a small scar, and he’d taken it as a sign.

  It was time to stop licking his wounds. To stop running from the past. To find his future.

  Thus, he’d bid Sam Bennett adieu and returned to London. His older brother Ambrose owned a successful private enquiry business and had offered him a position, but Harry didn’t want to ride on his brother’s coattails. He wanted to strike out on his own, find a job in which he could take pride. One that would make a difference in the world and help him regain his sense of purpose.

  Thus, a fortnight ago, he’d signed on as a constable with the Metropolitan Police Force. How better to serve his fellow citizens than by upholding justice? His first case involved murder. A fiery explosive had razed The Gilded Pearl, a popular Covent Garden brothel, killing over a dozen occupants. Acid burned the back of his throat as he recalled the charred bodies he’d viewed his first day at Scotland Yard, the police headquarters.

  Death had been delivered by a brutal hand.

  Hence, Harry’s present mission. Although he couldn’t save those victims, he could find the culprit, perhaps prevent future carnage. And his gut told him that the figure scampering ahead of him was the key.

  A whistle made him look ahead. A blonde exited from a curtained room along the narrow corridor, one that Tom had just passed. As Harry neared, she blocked his path.

  “Lookin’ for some sport, luv?” Her coy tone, combined with her scantily clad form and painted face, left no doubt as to her profession.

  “No, thank you,” he said shortly. “Let me pass.”

  “I like a gent wiv manners,” the prostitute cooed. “Certain you won’t join the fun?” She yanked aside the curtain, revealing a tableau of debauchery.