She’d left a note saying she’d decided to catch a post coach to Belfast. Her uncle might not find that suspicious since they had distant relatives in Ulster. In any case, he would search for her there first, which would give her time to get away.
She’d arrived at the wharf just as dawn was breaking and the tide was about to turn. From her past escapades, she knew if a ship didn’t have a full crew, many captains hired on extra hands at the last minute to take advantage of an outgoing tide. She’d pulled her cap low and joined a few other boys waiting to be hired.
As luck would have it—or maybe the faeries were helping—the cook’s assistant had broken his arm, and the quartermaster asked if anyone knew how to do more than boil water. Inis had raised her hand, not that she had any great talent or interest in preparing meals, but she didn’t think stirring together a stew could be too hard. The bonus for her since she’d have to be up before dawn to stoke the stove—and she was beginning to suspect maybe the Fae really were at work—was being allowed to sleep in a corner of the galley instead of the general quarters where the men slept.
The cook, a man of middle years with a softening belly that hinted he sampled a lot of his fare, now joined her on deck. “Well, here we are. What do ye think of London, laddie?”
He accentuated the word laddie slightly, and she wondered if he suspected the truth. If he did, he hadn’t let on during their two-day trip. She could hardly tell him she’d been to London several years ago when her parents still had been alive. “I’d be thinkin’ ’tis a lot of buildings,” she replied, using a far West Irish brogue.
“Aye,” he said as the gangplank was lowered and crew began carrying large crates down to the warehouses. “We be near the East End. A lot of thieves and cutthroats make this area home, so ’twould be best if ye just stay aboard.” He pulled out a pocket watch. “The captain will want to leave at eight bells. ’Tis only a few hours.”
She hated having to lie to him about not sailing on. The cook had been kind to her. No one had complained about the stew, either. But in the close quarters of a ship, it wouldn’t take long before someone discovered she was a girl. Nor did she want to put the captain in jeopardy. She’d given her mother’s last name, O’Brien, instead of Fitzgerald, but if it were discovered the captain had hired the niece of the Duke of Kildare to work aboard his ship, he’d never be allowed a berth in Dublin again.
“I want to stretch my legs a wee bit,” Inis said.
“Don’t ye wander too far, lad.”
“I’ll be careful.”
She took a deep breath and descended the gangplank. This part of London was totally unfamiliar. It was the middle of the day, so it should be safe. She couldn’t see any carriages for hire waiting on the street, but this was a warehouse area. Passenger ships probably disembarked farther along on one of the other piers. She’d walk a bit until she could find a carriage to take her into central London, where she could find a clean boarding house. She touched the money pouch beneath her shirt. She had enough coin for several days’ lodging, and it shouldn’t be difficult to obtain a job at a livery stable until she could get her bearings.
Inis pulled her cap down farther, straightened her shoulders, and began to walk. She’d learned during several of her adventures in Dublin that looking straight ahead helped avoid a lot of trouble.
The row of warehouses ended abruptly, cut off by a small canal. Inis could see another pier farther down on the other side of the water. She rounded the corner of the warehouse, followed a narrow walkway along its wall, and then turned onto a side street that bridged the canal. It also paralleled the river and should take her to the next pier. She hoped. Crossing the bridge, she noticed the street was lined with empty stalls that were probably used to market vegetables.
She’d taken only a few steps past the first stall when the hair at her nape began to rise. She heard a rustle and then a footstep. Before she could reach for the sgian dubh in her boot, a burly arm grabbed her from behind.
“Well, well, what have we here?” a gruff voice asked.
Chapter Two
Inis forced herself not to panic as she turned to face her assailant. She wasn’t sure which smell was worse, his unwashed body or the whiskey reeking from him. She jerked her arm, but he held fast, and peered at her through bloodshot eyes. “Not so fast, boy. I ain’t gunna hurt ya.”
What kind of a fool did he think she was? She was about to bring her knee up hard, but then hesitated. He thought she was a boy. Maybe she could talk her way out of this. She willed her voice not to sound high pitched and adopted a western Ireland brogue. “What do ye want then?”
“Well, now. I saw ya leave the ship right quick. I figured a young buck like ya was wantin’ a doxie bad.” He gave her a leering grin that exposed several missing teeth. “For a guinea, I can take ya to a place where ya can have your pick.”
Doxie. It took her a moment to realize the man meant a prostitute. Of course. Most sailors who’d been out to sea would be looking for one. She knew there were houses of ill repute, although she’d never been close to one. Right now, she didn’t care what the occupants of such a place did, as long as she could get to other people.
“Lead the way.”
He released his hold and put out his hand. “Me money?”
Inis shook her head. “Nae until I see the place for myself.”
“How do I know ya are good for it?”
Halfway-intoxicated people really didn’t think straight. “Ye saw me get off the ship. I’ve nae had a chance to spend my wages, now have I?”
The man squinted, considering. “If I have to wait for me money, it’ll cost ya two guineas.”
“Agreed.”
He pointed. “That way.”
The alley was straight but narrow, with boarded-up houses on both sides that shaded the way. Inis quickly considered her options. She could break and run, but the street was deserted with un-kept hedgerows and broken-down buildings. The man wasn’t totally drunk, and his legs were a lot longer than hers. He’d more than likely overtake her and, in the process, find out she was a girl. Then she really would be in danger. The other option—and she hoped it was a better one—was to go with him.
The walk wasn’t long, but by the time she stepped back into the mottled sunshine of a small close, her muscles were rigid and every nerve was on edge. “How much farther?”
“Not much.” The man gestured to a walkway between two buildings. “Through there.”
Her breath hitched at the sight of another enclosed area, but at least this one wasn’t long. She forced herself not to run. She was close to getting away…at least, she hoped she was. She inhaled deeply and moved forward, the man on her heels.
“There it is,” he said as they came to the end of the short path.
To her surprise, she was looking at what appeared to be a residential street, but then they were several blocks away from the wharf. The street had cobblestones instead of dirt, and the row of two-storied houses looked solid, even if the paint was fading from some of them. The largest house had green shutters and several hacks standing in front of it. One in particular caught Inis’s eye, for the chestnut horse standing in the braces had excellent conformation as well as matched stockings on all four legs and looked to be purebred. And quite out of place.
“Which house?”
“The one with the green shutters,” the man said behind her, “although if ya want a woman, ya’re probably gunna have to clean the privies.”
“Clean the… Why?” Inis said. She felt the man’s hand clamp down on her shoulder. She turned to see the point of his dagger only inches away from her face.
“Because I’ve decided to take all your money instead.” He put his other hand out. “Give it to me, or I mark up that handsome young face of yours.”
Inis swallowed hard. The man suddenly didn’t look drunk at all, and the point of the double-edged dagger was much too close. She reached under her shirt and quickly pulled her coin pouch loose before t
he man got any ideas of doing it himself.
“Here.”
He shook the pouch, his eyes widening at the weight. “Ya must have been out at sea a long time to have this much blunt.”
Better he think that than suspect she came from a wealthy family. “Long enough,” she said, but he’d already turned and was running away.
She drew a long, shuddering breath and tried to steady her nerves. The man was gone. With a sinking feeling, she realized every pence she’d had was gone, too. She should have had enough sense not to carry all her coin in one place. Now what was she going to do?
She could go over to the green-shuttered house and ask for a job scrubbing pots and pans or even privies. At least until she got enough money to follow her original plan. But it was a brothel. If the owner realized she was a girl, she’d probably be put to work doing something else. Could she take that chance? No one would believe her if she told them she was the niece of an Irish duke and had run away to avoid marrying an earl’s son. She wouldn’t believe such a story herself. She looked like a street urchin, dirty and disheveled and in need of a bath.
Inis eyed the well-groomed chestnut horse. Its owner probably lived in a much better part of London. The carriage looked kept up, too, the brass door handle and wheels polished. No driver lingered, although she supposed a man visiting a brothel might not want his coachman knowing about it and would drive his own carriage.
She left the confines of the narrow walkway and crossed the street, looking around quickly to make sure she was not detected, then opened the carriage door and quickly slipped inside. She lay down on the floor and pressed against the seat, just in case the owner would glance in the window before he left.
She’d worry about explaining herself to whomever the owner was when they got to wherever the man lived. For now, she waited.
…
Alex took a sip of whiskey several nights after his escape from the countess’s window and looked around the smoke-filled room with no windows and poor lighting. A far cry from White’s or Brooke’s—depending on one’s political views—the Shangrila catered to the somewhat shady side of London’s population, albeit those with substantial bank accounts. No one here asked how that money had been accumulated. No one cared. Men came here to gamble.
Alex recognized most of the faces. One was an American he’d won the deed to a house in the French Quarter of New Orleans from several weeks ago. Maybe he’d let the poor sot win it back tonight. Then again, the War of 1812 had ended a year ago, and he’d never been to the States. If he ever got caught in the compromising position of flagrante delicto, a change of scenery might be in order.
The dealer laid out the first faro suit and the men put down their stakes. As the evening wore on, a man by the name of John Adler—who looked like somewhat of a misfit even in this group of misfits—started placing riskier bets as the game changed to poker that the American had introduced them to. Normally, Alex didn’t take advantage of someone in his cups, but the man didn’t appear to be foxed. In fact, he’d only nursed an ale. A compulsive gambler? That was fair game. Alex added a large pile of bills to the middle of the table where the last pot had been left as ante.
“Too much for me,” one man said.
“Right,” another added while two more put down their cards.
John studied his hand and then eyed the money. “I don’t have enough coin to match that.”
Alex smiled. “Then the round is mine.”
“Not so fast.” He looked at the coin again and frowned. “I’ve got me a person in servitude that I can trade.”
Alex studied the man. “What do you mean, the lad is in servitude? We don’t have indentured servants.”
“Well, this one stowed away in my carriage a week ago. Didn’t see him until I got home from a whorehouse. The lad said he was orphaned and got robbed coming to the brothel.” John paused as the men laughed. “When I saw how well he handled horses, I agreed not to turn him over to the authorities. I figure his debt to me is worth several months’ wages.”
Alex didn’t much like the idea of anyone being indentured, legally or otherwise, but it wasn’t his business if the lad stowed away. He reached for the winnings. “I have staff. I don’t need another servant.”
“This one is an Irish lad who knows horses.”
His hand stopped midway. Horses were special to him. How many times as a boy had he galloped wildly across his father’s estate to get away from George and his annoying friends?
“Knows horses?”
John nodded, glancing again at the money. “He’s managed to get those nags I rent out to pick up their hooves and trot. Also good with my private horses. Hard worker, too.”
If the boy really understood horses, Alex could use him. Besides, his conscience was already niggling at him to free the boy. At least he could pay the lad a fair wage. “I accept your bet then.”
John laid down his cards and smirked. “Two tens and two queens.”
Alex smiled and showed his hand. “Four kings.”
…
The next morning, Inis stood on the gravel driveway of a West End estate where John had dropped her off. She looked up at a large stone house the size of a castle. Perhaps the faeries were still at work. Although John lived near Regent’s Park, Inis slept in a tack room at the livery stable he operated in Covent Garden, an area that in the evenings transformed itself with painted ladies parading the streets. It seemed London was teeming with bawdy houses.
Many patrons temporarily stabled their horses at the livery while they visited the women, so Inis hadn’t been able to bolt the barn doors. She’d had a couple of scares when men returning for their horses had eyed her a little too interestedly. One had even said he preferred boys. So much for her disguise keeping her safe. When John told her he’d wagered her remaining months of servitude in a game called poker and lost, she’d signed his IOU without putting up any resistance, even though she didn’t approve of gambling.
Inis looked at her new surroundings. The grounds were well maintained, and the hedges neatly trimmed. John had told her to wait where she was while he went inside to take care of the paperwork, but she wanted to see what was behind the house. Besides, she didn’t like standing still; it wouldn’t hurt to walk about.
As she rounded the corner, her attention was immediately caught by the whitewashed stable. It had freshly painted doors and a tile roof that would make it more fire safe for the animals. She liked the fact the owner cared for his horses and didn’t use thatch or wood shingles.
At the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel, she turned and caught her breath. The tall, broad-shouldered man coming toward her with his windblown dark hair moved with the lithe grace of a stalking panther. Or maybe that was the impression she got because his sea-green eyes riveted on her like she was prey. The white linen shirt he wore had its sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tanned forearms. The collar and several buttons were open, exposing a sculpted chest. Tight breeches clung to well-developed thighs. He looked wild and untamed. Inis felt a tingle of excitement and then remembered she was supposed to be a lad. She pulled her cap down farther.
He stopped in front of her. “You are Inis O’Brien?”
“Aye,” she replied, trying to pitch her voice low, but not too successfully.
“I am Alexander Ashley.” He gestured. “This is Dansworth House.”
Inis felt her blood chill. Sweet Mary and all the saints. What mischief had the faeries done? Although she’d never actually met him, the Duke of Dansworth was her uncle’s friend. If he found out she was Lady Inis Fitzgerald, she’d be sent home for sure.
“’Tis an honor to serve ye, Your Grace,” she stammered, hoping he’d think the catch in her voice was due to his lordly presence rather than her fear of recognition.
A look of amusement swept over his face. “I am not the duke. He is my brother.”
Her blood thawed a little. The brother of a duke could still be dangerous. She would have to be doubly
careful to hide her identity. “’Tis still an honor, my lord.”
“I do not care much for titles,” he said. “Mr. Ashley will do.”
Inis hid her surprise. The aristocrats she knew bandied their titles about, except for her father—God rest his soul—who’d always said peerage was the luck of the marriage bed. “Aye, my…Mr. Ashley.”
He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized her. “You look rather slight to be a hostler.”
“Doona let my size fool ye.” She gave him the toothy smile she’d seen the young street ruffians in Dublin use successfully. “Some of Ireland’s best jockeys are no bigger than lads.”
“That is true.” He looked thoughtful and then motioned toward the barn. “I have a filly in there that needs some training. Let us see what you can do.”
…
What was he thinking? Inis was no larger than a child, and his voice had not yet changed. How old was the lad?
Alex chided himself for not asking John for more details before he accepted the wager last night. When the man said the boy had been robbed going to a brothel, Alex had assumed he’d be older. And bigger. Alex sighed. If the boy couldn’t handle the horses, he’d have to find something else for the lad to do. Too many ragamuffins already roamed the streets of London.
He watched as the boy approached the filly’s stall. He crooned softly to the horse, his voice surprisingly light and pleasant like the boys’ choir at Westminster. Given that the child was probably no more than three-and-ten, that was not surprising. Nor was the smallness of the hand that gently stroked the filly’s neck. The horse nickered and closed her eyes contently, and Alex grinned.
“What’s her name?” Inis inquired.
A Rake's Redemption Page 2
