The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘They’re extortionists, you mean.’ Marianne let her gaze slide to the table at the window. The four men were big burly types, the sort with meanness rolling off them. No wonder they were given a wide berth.

  ‘I don’t know if I mean that or not. That’s a pretty fancy word, for these parts, miss. We call them insurance men.’ The barkeep reached for the coins and pocketed them. ‘If I were you, I’d be moving along. I don’t know where you came from with silk flashing beneath that cloak, but I can guess. This ain’t no place for you. You’re making my working girls jealous and my customers horny for something they don’t have to buy.’

  Marianne was happy to take the man’s advice. The men at the window were making her nervous. She had other places to look for the Vigilante and if they turned up nothing, she could always try to locate the Vigilante’s Post. She stepped out into the cooler, slightly fresher night air.

  She’d taken no more than ten steps when the tavern door opened and shut behind her, spilling men into the darkness. She counselled herself to keep walking, not to look back. It was perfectly ordinary for men to leave a tavern. The act did not require her attention. It had nothing to do with her. But a rough voice in the darkness put paid to that notion.

  ‘You, there, you’re looking for the Vigilante. Why don’t we join forshes?’

  The last part was slurred. At least one of the men was intoxicated. Marianne walked a little faster. The men followed.

  ‘Weesh is looking for him, too. The bloody bashtard stole our jobsh.’

  Now she was worried. These were the men from the table. The extortionists. She looked about for a place to duck into, but the street she’d turned up was dark, not a light in sight, and she had no idea where she was. The docks weren’t laid out with street signs and grids like Mayfair.

  She started to run. She’d worry about finding her way out later. Right now, she was worried about her safety. Footsteps pounded behind her, laughter and shouts of drunken merriment following. ‘Come on, lassie, we just want to have a little fun!’ Drat, at least one of them was sober.

  Marianne turned a corner here, another corner there. She slipped on crooked cobblestones, regained her balance and kept going. A stitch took up residence in her side. She took another turn and nearly ran into a brick wall. Dammit! A dead end! She was trapped in a dark alley. She looked about furtively for a doorway, a staircase, anything that might lead anywhere away from here. There was nothing. Fear gripped her as she pressed herself against the wall. She could hear them coming, breathing hard from their efforts. Her own breath was ragged. She tried to control it, tried to stay quiet. Perhaps they would overlook her in the dark. She slid a hand into her pocket and drew her knife in case they didn’t.

  Luck was not with her. Her dress betrayed her, peeping beneath her cloak. She didn’t cover it fast enough. ‘She’s down there!’ one of them cried and they came crashing into the alley.

  ‘Stay back. I am armed.’ Marianne brandished her blade, but it seemed too tiny to be of consequence against men of their size and girth. And she was far too inexperienced to make the most of her weapon. They rushed her, one man grabbing her wrist and gripping it hard until the knife clattered to the cobblestones. A second man grabbed her other arm.

  ‘You and me can be first, then Eli.’ The third man laughed, working open his trousers. Marianne kicked at him and struggled against her captors, but they were too strong, weighing her arms down.

  ‘The Vigilante will hear about this.’ Perhaps a threat would get them to reconsider.

  ‘Maybe he will. It’ll be too late for you, though,’ he leered, pressing himself against her.

  Marianne spit in his face and earned the back of his hand in a stinging blow across her cheek. Her head bounced hard enough to see stars and for a moment she struggled for consciousness. Dear heavens, she had to stay alert. If she didn’t, she wondered if she’d ever wake up. Perhaps they’d slit her throat once they’d finished with her.

  ‘I have money.’ Marianne tried one last time, but it was hard to make the words. Her cheek stung and there was blood in her mouth.

  ‘I’m not interested in money at the moment.’ He had a hand beneath her skirts. ‘Not unless you have a sack full in your—’

  The man didn’t finish his sentence. There was a cry of pain from behind him and a swift, dark form dispatched the fourth man. He dropped to the ground, unconscious before he fell. The two men holding her arms dropped them in a panic, but there was nowhere for them to run.

  ‘Leave the lady alone.’ Low, gravelly tones cut through the darkness.

  ‘Or you’ll what?’ The third man wasn’t as impressed as his comrades. ‘There’s three of us and one of you, Vigilante. Those are tough odds. Perhaps we’ll finish you off and get back to business.’

  ‘You’re welcome to try.’

  Marianne gasped as a swordstick flashed in the Vigilante’s hand: a gentleman’s weapon! The three men advanced on him in a semicircle, their own more rugged blades drawn. Her initial relief at the Vigilante’s sudden appearance was quickly replaced with a new fear. She was going to get the Vigilante killed. How did one man take on three armed men? She edged to the side, keeping her back against the brick wall, and inched towards safety. If she could get behind the Vigilante, she could run. But where? Into more trouble? Perhaps she should stay here and do what she could to help.

  The man on the left moved first, but he was a lumbering ox of a man who was slowed by his bulk. The Vigilante met his stabbing thrust easily with his swordstick and sent the man’s blade skittering out of reach. He struck hard with his fist and the man sagged against the brick wall. The Vigilante whirled to face the remaining two attackers. They came at him in a coordinated effort to overpower him. The Vigilante let them come, luring them close enough to land a powerful boot in the soft belly of one and slice the other down the length of his arm. Winded and bleeding, they stumbled down the alley, yelping in pain.

  It had all been over in less than two minutes. The Vigilante had handled them as if they were child’s play. He sheathed his swordstick and kicked at the two unconscious men left behind by their comrades before turning to her. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Just bruised.’ She gingerly touched her cheek. ‘You came along just in time.’ She took the handkerchief he offered and pressed it to her lips, breathing in its sophisticated scent. The expensive cloth came away bloody. At the sight of it, her hands began to shake. The reality of what had nearly happened settled in. Her boldness had almost got her raped in an alley, perhaps killed. She didn’t want to think of what would have happened if the Vigilante hadn’t been there. She’d been lucky tonight and Vennor had been right. This was a dangerous mission and she’d acted foolishly in coming alone...or in coming at all. She began to tremble all over again.

  Chapter Eight

  Marianne’s body flooded with the twin reverberations of the ordeal and the elation of rescue, of having survived. Her body wanted to celebrate, but all it seemed capable of doing was shaking. Her knees went weak, unable to hold her. She stumbled against the Vigilante and his arms were there, drawing her close, his body all warmth and safety.

  ‘You’ll be all right in a bit; it’s just shock,’ he offered as assurance. She could hear his heartbeat where her head pressed against his chest, its own rhythm strong and hard, still coursing from the fight. Beneath the sweat of his exertions, he smelled like his handkerchief, all fresh starch and something else familiar—sandalwood and nutmeg?

  ‘Breathe with me,’ he coached, drawing a long, slow breath she could feel against her cheek as his chest rose and fell. ‘That’s it. Good girl. Breathe again. Now take another.’ They stood that way, in the dark alley, her wrapped in his arms, for a long while. She could feel his heartbeat slowing into its normal rhythm. Even when the shaking had subsided, she was reluctant to leave the shelter of his arms. This man had saved h
er at considerable risk to himself. Facing down four men was no small feat despite him having made it look easy.

  She raised her head and looked up at him, her curiosity starting to reassert itself now that danger had passed. The black silk mask hid the top half of his face, covering his hair and the upper portion of his features, leaving only his mouth to view, as well as a strong, square chin—quite the stuff of heroes, to be sure. The conjecture in London drawing rooms about his good looks was not falsely rooted if those features were anything to go on. He might be a gentleman in disguise, after all, given his clothes, his swordstick and the expensive scent of his linen. Her gaze rested on his chin. Was that a dimple hiding there? In the darkness it was hard to tell if she’d seen anything or not.

  He was alert to her perusal and did not allow her to stare. ‘Let me get you home.’ His voice was a low growl and she had the impression that he was trying to disguise it, that this was not his natural tone. He took her by the hand, leading her out of the alley towards a main street, where it was slightly lighter. Gas lamps had not been prolifically deployed in this part of London. Still, she hoped for a better look at the Vigilante’s face. He seemed to be aware of that risk, too, though, and carefully kept his face averted, his pace two steps ahead of her.

  They walked several streets in silence as he searched for a hack. This was not hack territory at this time of night. He was quiet, speaking not at all now that she was recovered. There were no questions, no enquiries into what she was doing there, no scoldings. If there was going to be any conversation it would be up to her, she decided. This was her chance, the chance she’d come looking for. There had to be conversation.

  ‘I want to thank you, sir. For what you did,’ Marianne said, hoping to begin a dialogue, but her opening salvo was met with more silence. She tried again. ‘Why do you do it, sir? Patrolling the streets? Exposing yourself to danger every night?’ He didn’t even attempt to acknowledge the question. They were approaching a larger inn with bright lights and music. A hack waited out front. Her time was running out and her temper was running hot. How dare he ignore her as if she were inconsequential now that she was rescued? She’d not expected the Vigilante to be so uncouth. ‘You can at least look at me when I am talking to you!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘I risked my life coming to look for you tonight.’

  That did it. His stoicism cracked. He whirled on her then, brilliant blue eyes flashing through the holes of his mask as he hauled her into a side street, the rough brick of a wall scratching at her back. ‘And I risked mine coming to save you, you little fool!’ He was mad, and fierce, and...aroused.

  Marianne realised too late his silence was a sign of his restraint, of how tightly leashed he had kept himself in order to get her back to safety. And now, with her persistent questions, she’d inadvertently demanded an explanation for his silence, insisted that he slip that leash to vent his myriad emotions. It was like adding oil to an already raging fire. But he was not the only one with emotions riding high. Hers were, too. She wanted to make him pay for his lack of acknowledgement, for his rudeness after he’d exhibited so much caring, as much as he wanted to make her pay for her intrusion. She saw the consequence of such heat too late to prepare herself. They were both spoiling for a fight, or perhaps something else.

  ‘Do you have any idea what could have happened?’ His body was close to hers, close enough to feel the heat of him, anger radiating from him. There was something else in that pulse of energy directed at her. It was almost as if he was restraining himself, holding back from the urge to claim her as his own, to assure himself in that claiming, in that marking, that she was safe and unharmed. Her breath came short and her lips parted of their own volition. Perhaps it was all the invitation he needed to know he’d be welcomed after the boors of the street. He did not need to be asked twice. His mouth came crashing down on hers.

  She met him in a collision of tempers and emotions. This was a different kind of argument and she was not unwilling to engage. What sprang between them was instant, hot, consuming—a naked arousal that refused to be masked in politeness and flirtation or by the initial surge of anger between them. The aftermath of the danger had burned away any need for pretence. She wanted and he wanted, each of them kindling the other’s spark.

  The kiss did not stay angry for long. Their tongues duelled and her teeth pulled at the tender flesh of his lip, sucking hard. His mouth moved to other parts of her, mimicking those actions at her earlobe, tracking hard kisses down the length of her jaw, the column of her neck. Her eyes were closed tight against the harsh pleasure racking her body, or perhaps in thrall to it, she couldn’t decide which.

  She was aware of him intimately behind her eyelids; she felt his ragged inhalations as his body pressed against her; the scent of him, the touch of him, engulfed her. He became more familiar with each kiss, each caress. Nutmeg and sandalwood floated through her memory and her mind’s eye saw what her gaze did not, the peek-a-boo dimple at his chin, the sharp blueness of his eyes, the unnameable something in his touch that rang with its own familiarity. Items that had escaped her in the heat of battle, in the initial heat of passion began to coalesce into their own sensory vision. She knew him, this man. The Vigilante was not a stranger, not to her. It was why he didn’t want to speak, why he’d tried so hard to disguise his voice.

  But who did she know who would think to look for her here tonight? Who would be both angry and aroused by her actions? Who dared the things that had been dared tonight? He sucked hard at her throat and she gasped with the shocking pleasure of it, inhaling once more the sensual smell of him, and she knew with her eyes shut, what her eyes wide open had missed, had denied.

  ‘Vennor!’ Her eyes flew open, her hand swiping for the mask and dragging the black silk from his head before he could stop her, his golden locks catching the street light. ‘Vennor, it is you!’ Her heart both pumped with elation and then sank with disappointment. It wasn’t the Vigilante at all. Her temper returned ‘How dare you! How dare you make me believe you were him! How dare you let me think I’d found him. You knew how much this meant to me!’ In her anger, she raised her hand and struck him hard across the face.

  Somewhere in the depths of London a clock struck midnight. Everything had been stripped away. There were no gallant heroes and there would be no great unmasking to bolster her reporting career. There was no grandeur. Everything had become pumpkins and mice. How dare he take her dream and make a mockery of it.

  * * *

  She didn’t believe him. Vennor nursed his jaw and strove for comprehension. In all of his imaginings of how it would go when he told her, he had not once entertained a scenario where Marianne doubted him. Nay, not just doubt him, but actually thought he was deliberately masquerading as the Vigilante to either appease her desire to find the Vigilante or to throw her off the scent entirely with an enormously fabricated lie.

  ‘Marianne, I can explain—’ Vennor said, but she interrupted, bristling with fury. Her outrage had not defused with the slap.

  ‘You’d better be able to explain.’ Her eyes flashed and he saw in their dark depths hurt mixed with the anger. She’d not slapped him solely because she was mad. She’d slapped him because she felt betrayed in the most extraordinary and cruel of ways. It was that which decided his choice. He could take the out presented by her disbelief and protect his identity by letting her understanding of the situation become the truth, or he could argue for the real truth of the matter until she believed it. The lie only saved him tonight. He had no illusions that she wouldn’t try again to find the ‘true’ Vigilante and, if she did, he’d have to answer for not one but two lies. In the interim, there’d be the tension over his attempt to pretend to be the Vigilante and undermine her efforts at unmasking him.

  Their friendship would pay the price in the short-and long-term if he went that route. But if he made her see the truth, they might get through this. It wouldn’t be without a price. She’d be angry
he hadn’t told her before. Her dream would be finished and it would be his fault. But perhaps there was room within that for understanding.

  ‘I can explain, but not here.’ Vennor’s brain was starting to function again. He retrieved his mask and tied it over his face. If they were noticed, it would be far better to be seen as the Vigilante. There were things to discuss, but not here in a dark alley after midnight, a scenario made clear by the sounds of brawling issuing from the tavern as two men spilled drunkenly out into the street, grappling and wrestling, intent on doing bodily harm to each other. He’d already defended Marianne once tonight, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be called upon to do it again. The white silk of her ball gown glimmered beneath her cloak and he grimaced.

  ‘What was I supposed to wear?’ Marianne snapped, following his gaze. ‘I had to convince my parents I was going out with my friend. I couldn’t very well wear rags.’

  ‘You could very well have stayed where you were supposed to be, with me at the Gaspards’.’ But they could debate that later. He grabbed her wrist, his voice gruff. ‘Come with me.’ He would take her to the warehouse; there was no other choice, even though it required retracing their steps back into the heart of the docks. He needed safety, privacy and anonymity for them both and the warehouse was his only guarantee of getting it.

  They walked rapidly through the dark streets. Well, he walked rapidly. Marianne trotted behind him, almost running, trying to keep up with his long strides. There were drunks and cheap whores out, but no one bothered them. At the sight of the Vigilante, most fell away and slunk back into their alleys. They reached the warehouse without trouble and Vennor led her to an obscure side gate chained with a lock. ‘There’s a lantern behind that post,’ he instructed. ‘There are matches, too. Bring them.’