The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1

by Grace Callaway

  “Based on Miss Todd’s actions this evening and those that you described earlier, I would say she was looking for diversion. Entertainment. In short,” he pontificated, “my guess is that she was bored and trying to amuse herself.”

  Mr. Bennett’s words struck her like a slap across the face. Her cheeks burned. Entertainment? To have her intricately plotted and brilliantly executed plan for revenge reduced to naught but the frivolous amusement of a bored twit…

  With anger came an odd deflating sensation in her chest, as if her heart were a hot air balloon on a rapid descent. She ought to have known better than to hope that once, just dashed once, someone might see her for who she was. Might recognize her true abilities. Might…like her.

  She shoved aside the ninnyish longing. The true frustration, she told herself, was that she couldn’t defend herself. Couldn’t reveal her true motivations without threatening Belinda’s well-being.

  What do I care what Bennett thinks of me anyway? she thought resentfully. After tonight, I’ll never have to lay eyes on the interfering prig again.

  “’Ow many times ’ave I told you, Tessie?” Grandpapa’s censorious tone riled her further. “You can’t be running about pell-mell through the streets. Ain’t safe, for one, and you’re a lady now, so best start acting like one.”

  The unfairness of it all made her want to scream.

  Instead, she went to her grandfather’s chair, crouching at his side and taking his hand. The way she’d done so many times as a girl. Back then, he’d listened to her. Indulged her. A tin of her favorite lemon drops, a miniature pony, a trip to Astley’s Amphitheatre: the world had been her oyster.

  But the best times had been when he’d taken her with him to Nightingale’s, his favorite coffee house and the place where he conducted business. In between his meetings, he’d tell her tales of King Arthur and his knights. Of quests fulfilled or forsaken. Of honor and duty and unbreakable loyalty. People from the stews had come to seek his help and pay him homage, and she’d watched on with fierce pride.

  Because Bartholomew Black was a king. And all she’d ever wanted was to be his trusted vassal. To sit by his side at the long table at Nightingale’s, helping him bring peace and order to his unruly kingdom. She might not possess the physical strength or sheer ruthlessness of his dukes, but she would offer up what she had: a clever mind and determined heart.

  Since she’d entered womanhood, however, everything had changed.

  Her grandfather no longer paid heed to her desires. He’d gone from being indulgent to critical. He’d forced her to attend the ghastly Mrs. Southbridge’s, to trade trousers for tight-laced corsets, to abandon her identity as a daughter of the stews in an effort to win over the snobs of the ton. Despite Tessa’s hurt and confusion, she’d done her best to please him…but enough was enough.

  She would not be parted from the streets. From her world. From her home.

  “I don’t want to be a lady,” she said with fierce urgency. “I want a place by your side, Grandpapa, to help you—especially now, when there are threats facing our family.” She darted a glance at Bennett, not wanting to say more about the assassination attempt on her grandfather in front of a stranger. “Why can’t you understand that?”

  Why can’t you see that you need me? Why can’t you see…me?

  “Time you faced facts, Tessie. If you were a man, things would be different. But you ain’t,” her grandfather said bluntly. “You’re a female, and you ain’t got no place in my world. If you want to help me, you get married to the nob I got picked out for you. Give me great-grandchildren. That’s your duty.”

  Pain bled through her. A dagger in the chest would have hurt less.

  “My biggest regret was that I was too soft on you, Tessie,” her grandfather went on heartlessly. “Let you run wild for far too long. No longer. From ’ere on in, you do as I say. You’re going to act like a lady. Like the future bride o’ the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville.”

  When her grandfather had first announced his plan to marry her off to the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville, she’d thought he was making a poor jest. But he’d become increasingly adamant on the subject, and none of her arguments could sway him.

  “The duke is a known rake,” she said desperately. “He’ll make a terrible husband!”

  “All that matters is that ’e’ll keep you safe.”

  “I don’t need him to keep me safe. I have you—”

  “Won’t be around forever, Tessie, and won’t spend what time I got left arguing with you neither. Baroness von Friesing will be ’osting a supper for us, and ’Is Grace will be there. You’d best be prepared to make a good first impression.”

  His casual reference to his own mortality churned her insides with dread. At the same time, his high-handedness made her furious.

  “I will not marry some stupid duke and breed a high-nosed litter!” She raised her chin. “I belong here with you, with the people whose lives I make a difference in. You can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do!”

  “Won’t ’ave to. That’s Bennett’s job now.” Grandpapa’s smile was smug. “Meet your new bodyguard.”

  “What?” She turned to Bennett, who’d risen when she had. “I don’t need another bodyguard!”

  “’E’s your only one. ’Ad to let the other one go,” Grandpapa muttered. “Worthless git.”

  “Your grandfather has your best interests in mind,” Bennett said. “You’d do well to abide by his wishes.”

  As if her grandfather’s rejection wasn’t enough, now she was being lectured by this blighter? She’d credited Bennett with being an intelligent man, and he’d seen her in action this eve: her clever disguise, her duping of O’Toole, her agility in the stews’ streets. Yet he still believed her to be a bored miss in search of diversion? Some useless ninny who needed a keeper?

  Her rage and despair found a fresh target.

  “How much is my grandfather paying you?” she said acidly.

  “None o’ your business, Tessie,” Grandpapa cut in.

  She ignored him. “How much?”

  “We haven’t discussed terms as yet,” Bennett said.

  “Well, I can assure you that no amount of gold will be worth the trouble I’ll cause. If you take this job, you’re adding yourself to my List of Retribution,” she vowed.

  He stared at her. Unbelievably, his lips quirked. “Your, er, List of Retribution?”

  “An eye for an eye,” she said succinctly. “A Black never forgets a wrong.”

  Instead of looking afraid, or even wary, amusement glinted in his eyes. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “You will regret this.” Enraged, she poked him in the chest and was further irked when it felt as if she’d jammed her finger into a slab of granite. Ouch. Resisting the urge to rub her smarting digit, she stormed past him.

  “Good evening, Miss Todd,” he called after her, and her face burned at the humor in his deep voice. “’Twas a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  You don’t know me, Bennett, she thought darkly. But if you insist on crossing me…you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of.

  5

  After leaving Black’s residence, Harry took a room at an inn rather than return to his lodgings. He couldn’t risk Black tailing him and discovering his true identity from the landlord. He caught a few hours of sleep then left in the darkness, taking detours and making sure he wasn’t followed. He arrived at the Lambeth Stairs and took a river boat helmed by a man named Salty Finn.

  As Salty Finn rowed him out onto the dark river, towards Inspector Davies’ waiting barge, Harry mulled over the recent events in preparation for the report he would have to make.

  He’d begin by sharing what he’d learned about Tessa Todd. The facts were clear: she was a miss who donned deceptive disguises, cheated at cards, and didn’t blink twice at orgies or a man being shot between the eyes. Moreover, she’d admitted that her night’s adventures had been a lark. She was the wickedest miss he’
d ever met—with the possible exception of Celeste De Witt, who’d used her seductive wiles to help her father steal Harry’s work. Who’d played a part in branding Harry a thief and liar.

  As Sir Aloysius De Witt’s distinguished features resurrected in his memory, Harry felt a bitter anger. Celeste’s father was celebrated in scientific circles, but Harry knew what the man really was: a cunning, ruthless fraud. His only comfort was that, as far as he’d heard, Aloyisus’ scheming hadn’t done the other any good; as he’d told the bastard, some fires were too dangerous to be tamed.

  Shoving aside the past, Harry objectively reviewed Miss Todd’s brash, bizarre, and, some might say, bordering on criminal behavior. He was aware that his intellectual assessment didn’t quite line up with his personal reaction to her. He couldn’t deny that Tessa Todd stirred up a certain degree of…fascination. She was like an experiment with wholly unpredictable results: the kind that had once kept him in his laboratory night after night, trying to understand the phenomena.

  He told himself it was only Miss Todd’s uniqueness that roused his curiosity. Recalling her threat to put him on her “List of Retribution,” he felt his lips quirk. What made up the complex alchemy of this woman who was unlike any he’d met before? Miss Todd’s willfulness eclipsed even that of his sisters, whose delicate appearances belied strong-willed natures.

  He knew one thing for certain: she was trouble. Thus, he would do the rational thing. He would acknowledge his reaction to her, let it go, and do his duty.

  Arriving at his destination, he boarded the covered barge in the middle of the river. Ducking, he entered the cramped cabin, where his supervisor stood waiting.

  “You weren’t followed?” Inspector Davies said without preamble.

  “No, sir.” Water lapped against the boat’s sides as he and his superior took adjacent seats. “I took extra precautions.”

  The flickering glow of the single lantern deepened the circles under the police inspector’s eyes. Though his wiry grey hair and deeply creased face placed Davies in his fifties, he had the energy of a younger man. In a way, Davies’ vigilance reminded Harry of Ambrose; indeed, his brother and Davies knew each other for, years ago, both had worked for the Thames River Police.

  Ambrose had described Davies as an ambitious fellow with the single-mindedness of a bloodhound on a hunt. Harry would agree: his supervisor was devoting full resources to establishing Black’s guilt. Not only had Davies set up a rotating watch on the cutthroat’s home, he had every constable report in to him personally after the shift. He held the meetings here, in the dark oasis of the Thames, beyond the reach of eyes and ears.

  “Give me your report,” Davies said.

  Inhaling, Harry recounted the night’s adventures.

  Davies’ straight eyebrows levitated toward his hairline. “You mean to say Black hired you to be his granddaughter’s guard? And you agreed?”

  Having broken protocol, Harry knew he deserved censure.

  “Yes, sir,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to tip him off that he was being investigated by the police. Given the circumstances, I also didn’t wish to contradict him. So I humored him.”

  “Do you know what you’ve done, Kent?” Davies said slowly.

  Something in the other’s manner made the ever-present knot tighten in Harry’s chest. He’d expected a reprimand…but was he about to lose his job? Damnit, why hadn’t he seen this coming? For two years, he’d lived in the shadow of disgrace, with the foreboding sense that disaster could erupt at any moment. Now, when he ought to have been prepared, he wasn’t ready.

  He steeled himself, readying for the talons of failure to strike.

  “You’ve given us a way in. At long last.” The barge rocked as Davies slammed his fist into his palm. “After years of pursuing Black, we’ve finally got him in our grasp. With you on the inside, we can collect evidence of his guilt.”

  Relief pulsed through Harry. Along with surprise. “You mean…you want me to take the job?”

  “Yes, by God.” Davies’s expression was as fervent as an acolyte’s. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Kent. For years, I’ve been pursuing Black, but each time he’s got away with everything from theft to pillaging to murder. There’s never been sufficient proof to find him guilty: even this time, when we have this.”

  From his pocket, Davies withdrew a gold medallion. Harry recognized it from the initial briefing of the constables. Davies had found the medallion around the neck of The Gilded Pearl’s bawd. The disk of gold spun upon its chain now. A pair of crossed swords was stamped on one side, a tiny blood-red gem dripping from the tip of the right blade. The other side held a single, engraved word: Adsum.

  Latin for I am here.

  “This is Black’s insignia. He left his bloody calling card,”—Davies’ hand fisted around the chain—“and still I was able to do nothing.”

  Davies had gone to question Black the day after the fire; Black had denied any wrongdoing. The cutthroat had acknowledged that the medallion was that of the House of Black but had refused to elaborate further. Moreover, there were no witnesses—none willing to risk their necks anyway—and Black had an alibi for the time of the fire: he’d been at a dinner party given by his daughter, Mavis Todd, his presence vouched for by at least a dozen others.

  “I walked away empty-handed, but I won’t do so again. You’re going to see to that.”

  As Davies tucked the medallion away, Harry saw frustration flash in the other’s gaze. He wondered what it must be like to witness all the suffering that Davies had over the years. To wage a tireless war against evil.

  “What do you want me to do?” Harry said quietly.

  Davies rested his arms on his knees, his expression pensive. “Earn Black’s trust. The bastard has a small inner circle: if you’re allowed entry, you’ll have access to valuable information. Keep your eyes and ears open for any details—about his business, his family—that might help us connect him to The Pearl. But observe only: we don’t want another Popay situation on our hands.”

  Harry nodded. A former member of the force, William Popay had worked in civilian clothes to infiltrate the National Union. His overzealousness had earned him the label of “spy,” fueling negative public opinion about the police.

  “Be on the lookout for any motive, any piece of evidence that can tie Black to the destruction of The Pearl…or any other crime. I don’t care what we get him for as long as we get him,” Davies went on starkly. “Through this, you must keep your true identity hidden. You must eat, breathe, and sleep as Sam Bennett. One false move and you’ll be paying with your life, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hesitating, he said, “What should I do if I’m recognized?”

  Although he and Black lived in different worlds, overlap was possible. London might be a metropolis, but in certain neighborhoods it felt like Chudleigh Crest, the village of his youth, where one was bound to encounter a familiar face. To Harry’s advantage, he’d lived outside of London for two years, and, before that, in Cambridge. Moreover, working as a navvy had changed his demeanor and appearance, offering him further anonymity.

  “Hide, or run,” Davies said succinctly.

  An honest, if not reassuring, reply.

  Another problem occurred to Harry: his family. The Kents were a close-knit bunch. Since his return to London, his sisters, in particular, had been badgering him to socialize. His eldest sister, Emma, the Duchess of Strathaven, had put it in her usual forthright way: You must hold your head up high, dear brother. No matter what anyone says, you know the truth, and that is what matters. And you must know you have our full support.

  He did know, but he had no intention of letting his family fight his battles for him. And while he knew Em and his other sisters were well-intentioned, he’d also declined their offers to introduce him to “nice young ladies.” Being a private man, he didn’t want them meddling in his affairs.

  Now he would need his family to stay away so as not to compromise his first
mission.

  “I’ll have to talk to my brother—” he began.

  “I can fill him in on your assignment. Of all men, Ambrose Kent understands discretion, and I’d wager he can keep the rest of your family, ahem, at bay.”

  The inspector’s wry expression suggested that he knew something of Harry’s sisters. The Kent ladies were rather famous (or infamous, depending on who one asked) for their unconventionality and for marrying well in spite of it. Emma had met her duke while trying to solve a murder. Likewise, Harry’s other sisters—Thea, Violet, and Polly—had proved their mettle during adventures that had brought them together with their respective lords.

  “Ambrose will know what to do,” Harry said.

  Davies nodded. “The mission will bring great risk, but the reward will be commensurate. If you help me bring Black down, I can promise you a raise and a promotion in rank.”

  The inspector said no more. Harry knew the other was leaving the door open. It was up to him whether or not he would cross the threshold. The decision wasn’t difficult. Here was his chance to do what was right, and, hopefully, in the process, redeem his good name.

  “How will I communicate with you, sir?” he said. “When I have news to report?”

  Davies’ eyes lit with triumph. “Good man. We’ll use the mudlarks.”

  The “mudlarks” were children of the stews who scavenged to survive. They’d earned their moniker because they were oft found along the banks of the Thames, knee-deep in muck, sifting out anything of value. Due to their ubiquitous presence, the mudlarks were uniquely positioned to be messengers. Their speediness and famed discretion were worth their weight in gold.

  “Is there anything else, Kent?” Davies asked. “Do you anticipate any problems carrying out the assignment?”

  An image flashed of green-grey eyes and riotous sable curls, a mouth shaped like temptation.

  He dismissed it and said firmly, “Nothing I cannot handle, sir.”

  6