“Our Tessa ain’t no milk-fed miss,” Daisy, a saucy brunette, said with a wink. She and Belinda occupied the adjacent settee. “Can take care o’ ’erself, she can.”
Tessa beamed at what she considered to be the ultimate compliment.
“But after wot ’appened to your grandfather at Nightingale’s,” Belinda put in hesitantly, “don’t you fink you might be be’er off wiv some protection?”
At the reminder of the murderous attempt, a cold droplet slid down Tessa’s spine.
The shooting had taken place a month ago, right outside Nightingale’s. Luckily, the would-be assassin had missed, and Ming had returned fire with deadly accuracy. To maintain order, Grandpapa had suppressed gossip; Belinda and the others only knew about it because Tessa had confided in them. Since then, there’d been no other threats, but the event had left Tessa shaken. Her grandfather was not invulnerable…and he was down a man.
John Randolph, the former Duke of Covent Garden, had died in a carriage accident two months ago. In the never-ending struggle for power in the underworld, Randolph had been a staunch ally to her grandfather, and his loss, Tessa knew, was a big blow.
It made her more determined than ever to stand by her grandfather’s side.
Where he needs me. Whenever she was out in the underworld, she acted as his eyes and ears. Aware of the importance of appearances, she was also a proud ambassador of the House of Black.
“We Blacks will not be intimidated,” she declared. “Am I right, Swift Nick?”
The ferret’s eyes were alert in his furry brown mask. When Tessa gave a subtle nod of her head, he mimicked the motion vigorously, giving the impression that he was agreeing with her.
Belinda laughed. “Howe’er did you train ’im to do that?”
“It was easy. Swift Nick is the cleverest fellow who ever lived and all the protection I need, aren’t you, dear?”
In answer, the ferret loped over to Tessa. He clambered onto her lap, rolling over, and she obliged his request for a tummy rub. He made took-took sounds, the ferret equivalent of purring.
“That ferret may be clever, but it ain’t no guard.” Brow pleating, Francie said, “Belinda ’as a point, luvie. Maybe you shouldn’t be comin’ ’ere alone.”
Frost spread over Tessa’s insides. Her grandfather had tried to curtail her visits, and her father went along (not because he cared, but because he wanted to curry his father-in-law’s favor). She ignored their orders, continuing to come in secret: no one was taking away her friends, her home.
“The lunatic who shot at my grandfather is dead,” she said firmly. “There’s no threat.”
“Are you certain o’ that?”
At the seriousness in the other’s gaze, Tessa sat up straighter. “What have you heard, Francie?”
Francie hesitated, confirming Tessa’s suspicion that her friend did know something. Too often, people underestimated prostitutes, believing that because they made their livings on their backs, they didn’t have anything between their ears. Tessa, however, knew the truth.
Her friends had minds as keen as her daggers. Not only were the women observant and shrewd, they were also privy to all manner of secrets. Men in their cups, and in the throes, were less likely to be discreet. Most of them didn’t think they had to be with an “empty-headed” wench.
Which meant Francie and the others had access to prime information. Others might believe that money was the currency of the stews; Tessa knew better.
Nothing, but nothing, made a man (or woman) more powerful than information.
“It might be nuffin’,” Francie said.
“Tell me,” Tessa insisted. “You know I’d never tell anyone where I heard it.”
Francie licked her lips. “There’s been talk. Rumors that your grandfather…” Her voice lowered. “That ’e ain’t as powerful as ’e once was. Some are takin’ The Gilded Pearl as proof o’ that.”
The Gilded Pearl had been a bawdy house in Covent Garden. A fortnight ago, an explosive fire had killed all those trapped inside. Tessa had witnessed her grandfather’s fury over the disaster for, like any good king, he held himself responsible for those under his protection.
Her blood chilling, she said, “That was an accident. Grandpapa said so.”
“What with John Randolph’s death, there’s been a few too many accidents in Covent Garden,” Francie said darkly. “Rumors are flyin’ that Black’s rule is nearing an end.”
Codger’s old now, weak. Barton’s last words echoed in Tessa’s head. Mark my words, a new King is coming…
She balled her hands in her lap. “Who said that?”
“Ain’t loose lips you need to worry about.” Francie slid a look at Belinda. “To make matters worse, after what Dewey O’Toole did ’ere, in your father’s establishment, and your father not retaliating… It makes your entire family look weak. And bastards like O’Toole more powerful.”
Frustration bound Tessa like a tight-laced corset. Although she didn’t agree with her father’s stance, loyalty made her stand up for him. “My father is not afraid of a blackguard like O’Toole. I’m sure if I were to ask him why he didn’t—”
“No!” This came from Belinda, her bruises pronounced against her paling face. “You promised you wouldn’t say anything to Mr. Todd. I can’t lose this job. I got nowhere to go!”
Seeing the fear in her friend’s eyes, Tessa bottled her frustration. No matter how much she wanted to confront her father, she would never betray her promise to her friend.
She crossed over to the other, put a hand on the blonde’s trembling shoulder. “I’m a woman of my word, Belinda. I said I wouldn’t tell, and I won’t.”
“Thank you,” Belinda said tremulously.
Tessa had planned to return Belinda’s money in private, but she realized she couldn’t wait. It was imperative to demonstrate, even to friends, that her family was a force to be reckoned with. That Blacks and Todds had the power to uphold the stew’s most sanctified tenet of reciprocity.
She whistled at Swift Nick, nodding at her jacket which she’d earlier slung onto a chair. The ferret hopped over to the garment, disappearing into the folds. He emerged with the coin bag between his teeth.
“Give it to Belinda,” Tessa said.
The ferret dragged the heavy bag over, depositing it at Belinda’s feet.
“Wot’s this, then?” Belinda picked up the bag, untied it, and let out a squeak. “Gor, there’s a bleedin’ fortune in ’ere!”
“It’s what O’Toole owes you,” Tessa said.
“But this is more than a ’undred quid—”
“He owes you every cent and more,” she stated. “Consider it payment with interest.”
Belinda clutched the purse. “’Ow—’ow did you get the blunt from O’Toole?”
“Never mind that. Just know that a Black will always see justice done.”
“We’ll go see a goldsmith straightaway,” Francie put in. “’E’ll turn that blunt into silver and keep it safe for you, too.”
Belinda’s throat worked. “Oh, Tessa, I don’t know how I’ll repay—”
“Your friendship is payment enough.” She went over, squeezed the other’s shoulder. “You’ve seen me through thick and thin, and I’m merely returning the favor.”
Tessa would never forget the kindness of her friends. They’d been her safe harbor during the lonely years of childhood and the stormy ones of womanhood. After yet another day of being bullied and ridiculed at Mrs. Southbridge’s, she’d arrive at the club, dejected and feeling alone.
Belinda had always had a kind word and gentle hug, Daisy an amusing rejoinder.
And Francie had been the fount of wisdom.
“As your friends, Tessa,” Francie said, right on cue, “we don’t want you getting ’urt. What ’arm would it do to ’ave a guard?”
“He wouldn’t let me come here, for starters.” Tessa plopped back onto Francie’s bed. “Bennett is like a Professor of Propriety. He’s always lecturing me, tell
ing me what I can and cannot do. I think he enjoys enforcing Grandpapa’s orders to keep me in line.”
“Enforcing?” Belinda’s voice quivered. “Is this Bennett a brute?”
Bennett…wasn’t. That was the problem: he wasn’t like any man Tessa had dealt with before.
“He’s not,” she said grudgingly. “I mean, he is rather large, in a tall, muscular sort of way, but he’s not a lummox like the previous guards. He’s intelligent, and he’s got a gentleman’s polish…though he’s no fribble, either. In a brawl, he can hold his own as well as any prizefighter.”
“So let’s see if I got this right. This Bennett is a virile, brainy, well-mannered toff who’s good wiv ’is ’ands.” Daisy made a droll face. “I can see why no woman in ’er right mind would want ’im about. ’E don’t ’appen to be a looker, too?”
Tessa’s cheeks warmed. She’d eat her cap before admitting that Bennett was attractive.
“I haven’t noticed his looks,” she lied. “The point is I don’t like his manner.”
“What’s wrong with his manner?” Daisy wanted to know.
He’s too observant. Overbearing. And he never loses his temper.
She found Bennett’s equanimity particularly irksome. Yet she appeared to be the only one for Mrs. Gates was constantly praising his amiability and Mrs. Crabtree his steady, considerate nature. Tessa, however, didn’t trust a man with good manners.
Perhaps it was because she was used to men who expressed their displeasure in no uncertain terms. Both her father and grandfather had volatile tempers. In contrast, Bennett’s calm rationality was dashed unnatural. When she played a prank on him, he didn’t shout or threaten or show much emotion at all. In fact, he regarded her with calm brown eyes, gave her a lecture in cool, rational tones, and moved on…as if nothing had happened!
This, perversely, egged on her bad behavior. Made her want to get some reaction from him. To pierce his blasted armor of control.
“He’s high-handed and controlling.” She crossed her arms. “Can you believe he had the gall to prevent me from seeing Alfred? To tell me what to do?”
“He’s a man, luvie,” Francie said. “Telling a woman what to do is what they do best.”
“Well, I don’t need some dictatorial keeper. Especially one whose sole purpose is to ensure that the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville gets a pristine bride,” she said bitterly.
Bennett’s complicity with her grandfather’s plans angered her most of all. For a brief instant, when she and Bennett had been on the run together and he’d let her guide the way, she’d believed that he saw her as an equal. That the respect she’d felt was mutual. Instead, he thought she was some bored twit who ought to do whatever she was told.
Francie quirked a brow. “Your grandfather is still set on marrying you off to Ransom?”
Society had given the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville the moniker of “Ransom.” It was not only a clever contraction of his two titles but also a reference to his popularity with the ladies: according to the on dit, he held female hearts hostage wherever he went. If the situation weren’t so dire for her personally, Tessa would have snickered at the ton’s absurdity.
“I have to meet the blasted nob tomorrow night,” she said mulishly.
“Would it be so bad to be a duchess?” Belinda’s expression turned dreamy. “Just fink o’ the fancy balls and ’ouses in the country, rubbin’ shoulders wiv all ’em grand folk.”
Tessa could sum all of that up in one word: torture.
During the Southbridge years, she’d hated every minute of pretending to be Miss Theresa Smith. Hated being forced to hide her name, family, and heritage—and for what? To be ridiculed by milk-fed chits who didn’t know their arse from their elbows?
Crikey, she had more important things to do than being a wallflower. Grandpapa’s empire was under attack. She had to protect her people, her world.
She lifted her chin. “No title is worth giving up my name and who I am.”
“From what I’ve ’eard, Ransom ’as merits other than ’is title,” Daisy said with a smirk. “One big merit in particular.”
“’Old your tongue,” Francie admonished. “Tessie’s ’ere.”
“It’s all right—” Tessa began.
Francie shook her head. “It’s not right. You’re an unwed miss.”
“Sorry, forgot meself,” Daisy said contritely.
Seeing Francie’s stony expression, Tessa sighed: there was no point in arguing. Her friends had always been overly protective about her “innocence.” Never mind that she’d grown up in a brothel, they persisted in treating her as a lady, especially when it came to sexual matters. The resulting irony was that the three wenches were as prudish as spinster aunts around her. And they weren’t persuaded by her logic that she’d seen and heard things that would cause a typical virgin to fall into a dead swoon.
Tessa considered herself a virgin only in the physical sense. Her mind was far from chaste, and, indeed, she was proud that she was no silly naïf (her knowledge of French was nothing compared to her vocabulary of vulgarities). Nonetheless, Francie, Belinda, and Daisy persisted in shielding her; since they did it out of love, she couldn’t fault them for it.
“The point is, I’m not going to give up who I am for anyone,” she said unequivocally. “Weren’t you the ones who told me that no man is worth losing one’s freedom for?”
What her friends had shared with her were their histories, using them as cautionary tales. All three women had endured abuses at the hands of men. All had chosen their profession because, as they put it, at least they got paid for their services…and kept their money and freedom.
“You’re a clever one,” Francie said with pride. “Let’s ’ope your grandfather recognizes that before it’s too late.”
Seeing Belinda’s stifled yawn and the drooping of Daisy’s eyelids, Tessa realized she'd overstayed her visit. Her friends worked long hours and needed their rest.
“I’ve kept you up too long.” She rose, and Swift Nick bounded off the bed. “I’ll be on my—”
The door swung open.
Sam Bennett filled the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. To enter, he had to duck his head which, she noted, looked damp. A dark lock curled upon his brow; it looked incongruously boyish against his scowling countenance.
“How did you find me?” she blurted.
“It’s my damned job.”
At his dark, growly voice, one she’d never heard from him before, the hairs on her skin rose to tingling attention. His brown eyes were no longer calm. ’Twas as if the earth’s crust had split open, molten emotion glowing behind his spectacles. The scar through his eyebrow stretched taut. Every inch of his lean and muscled frame radiated barely leashed anger.
She swallowed. Wetted her lips.
“Sweet Jesus,” Daisy breathed into the taut silence. “Never say he’s your Bennett?”
8
Keep a rein on it, he warned himself. Do not lose your temper.
It was a refrain he’d repeated during his journey over. Tracking the maddening minx hadn’t been difficult. A quick survey of her chamber had revealed her escape route via the balcony window. After questioning the staff, he’d learned that Miss Todd had a habit of visiting her “friends”…at her father’s club.
She’d gone to a damned bawdy house.
He could scarcely credit it. Yet here she was, looking utterly at home with three wenches.
Even though the others were brightly and scantily clad, Miss Todd commanded his full attention. She was once again dressed like a lad, only this time her outfit wasn’t bulky or concealing. She wore no jacket, her shirt draping over her delicate curves. Her trousers fit her legs like a second skin, her cravat highlighting the swanlike grace of her neck. The simple, glossy plait of her hair set off her large eyes and vivid features.
Instead of hiding her femininity, the masculine attire emphasized it. Her fresh, artless loveliness would tempt any man. A primal
beat pounded in his blood.
Doesn’t the bloody chit know the danger she invites?
Near his left eye, a muscle twitched. Never a good sign.
“We are leaving now,” he told her.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Her chin jutted out. In fact, her entire posture smacked of belligerence: her fists were planted on her slim hips, her slender booted legs braced apart.
Stop looking at her legs, you idiot.
Beside her, her damned ferret bared its fangs at him.
“If you don’t want to go wiv the cove, Tessa, I’ll take your place.”
Harry’s gaze veered to the brown-haired wench who’d spoken. Winking at him, the tart leaned forward on the bed, adjusting the neckline of her yellow satin dressing gown, exposing more of her generous assets. Hastily, he looked away.
“Ooo, the big fellow’s blushing. Ain’t ’e adorable?” she cooed.
“Cork it, Daisy.” Irritation edged Miss Todd’s voice. “And you, Professor,”—she turned to him, her chin lifted at a mutinous angle—“can toddle off. I’ll go home when I’m ready.”
All bloody week she’d been needling him with the sobriquet of “Professor.” With her uncanny talent for annoying him, she’d unknowingly picked up a shard of his broken dreams, wielding it the way a cutthroat does a blade in a dark alley. Relentlessly and without mercy.
His simmering temper edged toward the boiling point.
“You’ll come with me now, you bloody brat. And if I were a professor,” he bit out, “I would be sorely tempted to give you a lesson in propriety. No, make that common sense. What in blazes are you thinking, dressed in that indecent attire and in a brothel, no less. You could have been accosted or worse!”
The last words left him in a roar, shocking him. He was known for calm, measured discourse. He didn’t shout, especially not at a female.
Miss Todd had the temerity to roll her eyes at him. “I can take care of myself.”
“How?” he shot back. “How, precisely, would you fight off a man’s advances?”
The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1 Page 7