by Devon, Eva
Michaelson grinned at him, his smile slightly black, but bright.
The very idea of a duke having ink on his fingers was, of course, outrageous.
Royland did not work the printing press himself. He’d learned how, though, and it had provided him a tremendous amount of wonder and enthusiasm to feel the weight of the huge printing block go down upon the paper and leave jetty marks upon the ivory page that others would read with interest.
It was remarkable to think that once, such an act had been completely full of sedition, and many people had been killed for printing just a few words upon a page and distributing it.
Yes, the printing press was perhaps the greatest invention of all time, and he was thrilled, now, to have such an active part in its history.
Royland entered the bustling foyer filled with men going back and forth, dressed in various cutaway coats of many hues. In fact, it seemed to him that much like the aristocracy, who did not adhere to Brummell’s tenants, news sheet men were as brightly clothed as a host of birds. It was a time when the world was dreary, and so, one must liven it with what one could.
He easily walked through the hall of busy men and headed for the fairly narrow stairs.
No one stopped him.
They all knew he belonged there, and no one would ever question the Duke of Royland.
Some might offer to get him help, of course, but there was an unspoken notice that when the Duke of Royland arrived, he was simply to be allowed free rein.
He was tempted to take the steps two at a time as he had as a boy, but dignity prevailed, and he managed to keep himself to just a bold pace, taking the steps with little effort. Within moments, he’d mounted the last staircase and arrived upon the landing where the most important editors held their offices.
The editors, though they would loathe to admit it, loved to remain upstairs. One had to be determined indeed to come to see one of them all the way up there, and once he arrived, it was a much quieter place.
A place where one could shape the facts of the day into rallying cries for justice and exposure of scandal. For both home and abroad.
Thus, the silence was filled with an air of absolute intensity. As he wandered down to the desks at the far end, which were framed by the windows which looked out to the street, he spotted Thompson.
Thompson, of course, his Head Editor, was a splendid fellow with ginger-red hair, skin almost as white as snow, and lips that were almost as red as cherries, poor fellow. He was a handsome devil, really, and quite cheeky.
The man knew how to gain access to anywhere he was not supposed to go. He could speak with the airy notes of a lord, or twist his vowels into Cockney cant.
That way, he could get a story. The story, whatever it happened to be.
Thompson sprang into action, inclining his red head, which seemed all the more ginger due to his purple cutaway coat. “Good day, Your Grace. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
“Good day, Thompson,” Royland replied, accustomed to giving respect to all. “And what in the world’s afoot, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“Oh, many things, Your Grace. Many things.” Thompson put his silver quill down carefully as if it were the most reverent thing in the world. He cleared his throat. “Of course, we’re covering your good friend, the Duke of Drake’s wedding.”
“That is not news,” Rafe commented, fighting a scowl.
“It is indeed, Your Grace,” Thompson corrected jauntily, clearly missing Rafe’s annoyance. “The public absolutely cried out to hear about the goings-on of the Duke of Drake and his new bride. No one seems to know exactly who she is, except for the fact that she’s the daughter of her infamous mother.”
Thompson waggled his brows. “Her mother, everyone knows. But the bride, herself? A mystery!”
Royland sighed.
Could he not escape it?
Could none of them escape it?
Was this really, truly going to be the subject of discussion for the next weeks?
He groaned inwardly.
Of course it was.
The public was generally fascinated by those who ruled their lives, and why shouldn’t they be?
The decisions of the ruling class would dictate whether they lived in comfort or whether they lived in abject misery. It was Rafe’s job, after all, to ensure that the vast majority of English citizens were at peace in this world.
After all, that was what dukes were for, not for decoration, not for gadding about. No, they were there to govern the country and see that England remained one of the most powerful countries in the world.
So far, he felt he had been doing a rather good job of it. So good, in fact, that he’d had to go and find another job such as this, with the newspapers.
It might seem preposterous, but there it was. He was an active man who was easily bored, and he found that he could not bear to spend a great deal of time anymore at home. No, he had to keep himself occupied, busy all of the time, with women, wine, song, and newspapers, as well as the halls of power.
And if he didn’t leave the halls of power every now and then, he felt he would lose his mind, for the politicians of that particular place all drove him absolutely mad.
“Surely, there’s something more interesting afoot,” he said. “I do adore Drake, but really, I have no desire to read about his wedding.”
Thompson cocked an amused brow. “I understand, Your Grace. I understand. You already know him; you’re friends. But you see, the Duke of Drake’s wedding is a much-needed relief from the realities of the world. After all, there is a great deal going on. Of course, taxation is a major question. But the political topic of the day is the Earl of Morton. He is about to go down on scandal and corruption.”
“He’ll never go down for scandal and corruption,” Royland growled, almost weary with what his kind was allowed to do. “That’s not how it works, Thompson. Even you know that. The man has a title, a title that will be around for another two hundred years unless the current earl is truly, inescapably an idiot. But, shockingly, Morton is brilliant with money. He’d never want anyone to know that, but there it is.”
“Such skills, no doubt, make him excellent at perpetrating corruption,” agreed Thompson ruefully.
Royland looked at him and laughed. “How true, how true. But let’s see if we can run him through the mills, eh? Give him a good hard go of it. We can’t use his name, of course, but I’m sure we can find a way to make his life rather miserable.”
A light gleamed in Thompson’s eye at the very thought of bringing down a corrupt lord by any means necessary. “Oh, I’m sure we can, Your Grace. Surely, he has a skeleton or two somewhere in his closets.”
It was, of course, the best and only way to get a man like Morton.
When one was a powerful aristocrat, one had to go into the man’s closets, rifle about, and find the most awful, most rotting, most hideous corpses one could, then bring them out and show them to the world.
Then, hopefully, while the fellow might still remain the Earl of Morton and still have all of his estates, he wouldn’t dare show his face in public. His son might, eventually, but not he.
So, Rafe gave a nod of approval. “Marvelous, marvelous. I approve.”
“Now, Your Grace,” Thompson hesitated. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Rafe narrowed his gaze ever so slightly. “Someone here to see me?”
It wasn’t generally given knowledge that he came to the offices at any particular time. He did usually try to come in the mornings, but it wasn’t public knowledge. It wasn’t as if he had hours of office. It wasn’t even generally known that he came into the news sheet offices at all, so it was quite odd that someone would seek him out here.
“Who the devil is it?” he demanded.
Thompson’s face tensed slightly at the thought of whoever it was. “He says his name is Heath. He’s beautifully dressed, Your Grace. Seems to know how things are run, but you know, there’s an air to him that seems a bit rough.”
Rough? That was an understatement if Rafe had ever heard one.
Heath could kill every man in the building before they knew what was happening, and they’d probably not even know he’d been there.
Heath had been raised on the streets and was basically the ruler of East London. The man owned more gambling clubs than one could shake a stick at. He avoided prostitution, but he gave what protection he could to most of the women, and children, and young men who were taken up in that trade.
Yes, he was a sort of guardian figure for all those who seemed to be most at risk on the East side of the city, and that meant most of them.
Still, one couldn’t exactly say that Heath was a safe sort of fellow.
Oh, he helped people, but one shouldn’t test him either. The man had been raised in the gutter, had somehow clawed his way up from the horrible streets, then had made a great deal of money over the years. Now, in his territory, he was someone who could make a decision that would ruin a man as quickly as Rafe could on the West side of the town.
Rafe narrowed his eyes, looking for the man in question.
Truly, given Rafe was a military man himself, he should have spotted Heath right away.
Somehow, unsurprisingly, Heath had managed to stay in the shadows of the offices.
Now that Rafe was paying attention, he spotted him far across the room, over in the corner, peering down through one of the windows to the streets below.
No one else could’ve done it, Rafe felt certain.
No one else could have hidden in plain sight, especially since Heath was no small man.
In fact, Heath was well over six feet and had the sort of shoulders one expected to see upon a bull. And yet, the big man was able to slip through crowds and into offices and apparently hide in the most visible spaces.
Rafe gave a nod to Thompson, sending him on his way to begin work on what they’d discussed.
He drew in a breath, not certain what to expect as he strode over to the man that had become a friend during the last year.
Usually, he wouldn’t have sought out someone like Heath, but things were strange, and life did provide all sorts of interesting revelations and adventures along the way.
It was the Duke of Blackstone that had first met Heath and introduced him to their small circle. And over time, Heath had proved himself invaluable and a man with more honor than most of the people in Westminster.
So Rafe went forward, ready to clap the man’s hand. Heath turned to him. He took the offered hand and did not try to show his dominance in any sort of way.
It was a good strong handshake, but there was nothing about it which suggested any kind of deference or need to prove himself.
Rafe admired him for it.
It wasn’t easy to act as if one was equal with a duke. Perhaps it was coming from nothing that made it possible. Rafe generally found that people who were born in the middle either loathed him or did everything they could to make him love them.
Not Heath. He didn’t give a rat’s damn.
“Heath, what the devil are you doing here?” Rafe cocked his head to the side. “This isn’t usually your milieu.”
Heath grinned at the use of the word milieu.
“Indeed not, Your Grace. It’s not my milieu.” His rough but deep voice slipped over the word easily as if he’d been born to it. Likely, he’d been born to English that would have been completely unrecognizable to Rafe.
“I have very little use for news sheet men,” Heath continued. “Except, I do appreciate the propaganda they’re capable of pushing out to keep you lot in charge.”
Rafe laughed. “Indeed, I thought I was doing a rather good job of trying to tear my lot down a bit.”
He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he owned the newspaper from Heath. Heath would already know that. Heath knew just about everything that there was to be known, and so Rafe was tensely aware that Heath had not come here for some sort of social call.
No, the man had sought him out very specifically and in a place where he wasn’t supposed to be known to be. It didn’t bode well.
Heath cocked his head to the side, mirroring Rafe. “I’ve heard that you’re getting love notes.”
“Indeed.” Rafe paused, surprised that Heath would bother with such news. “How kind of you to care, and your interest is most valued, but I don’t think that you need to worry about love notes.”
Heath narrowed his eyes. “I never thought of you as foolish, Royland.”
Foolish?
Good God, he’d been called innocent and foolish all in one day.
What next?
“Look, Heath. Everyone in my sort of position gets such notes,” Rafe justified.
“Not everyone,” countered Heath. “People don’t send me those kinds of notes.”
“That’s because they’re terrified of you,” Rafe drawled.
“They should be terrified of you too,” pointed out Heath as if they were discussing tea. “You’re a duke, after all.”
“Yes,” Rafe grinned, determined not to let this conversation give him concern, “But I come across as all-benevolent and kind, and willing to be open and listen to others.”
“Well, that’s your mistake, then,” said Heath. “Besides, you don’t come across as such, Royland. You are benevolent, and you are kind. Some will take advantage.”
Rafe realized that some people absolutely would have hated to be called such things, but he didn’t. He rather liked being a good duke that his people could talk to. He wished to be accessible to them.
It was important to him to be seen, and to be seen as caring. Atypical, he knew, but he wouldn’t hide away. Not like. . .
He swallowed, driving unpleasant thoughts away.
“So,” He peered down at Heath, “you think if I were a bit cooler, then I wouldn’t be getting such notes?”
“I think it’s absolutely possible, and you don’t have to be cruel.” Heath shrugged slightly, as though what necessitated unchallenged rule was an obvious thing. “You just have to be a little bit more firm.”
“I think I’m very firm,” disagreed Rafe calmly. “Honest and firm.”
“You’re not honest. I never accused you of honesty.” Heath gestured around with a gloved hand. “Look at this place. This is your newspaper sheet. Society and the people of London don’t know you own it. Just you, Thompson, and a few of the people who work here. And they don’t proclaim it to the world.”
“Trifles,” said Rafe. “Trifles. Just a lie of necessity. Dukes don’t have jobs, so to speak. My title demands a great deal of my time, after all.”
“You hide a great deal from the world, Your Grace. I know it. You know it. . . But I don’t think many others do.”
Rafe didn’t reply.
Perhaps there were six people who knew all his secrets. Most of those who knew were dukes. And one of those secrets was a significant one.
“Look, I don’t know why you’ve come,” Rafe said, wishing to bring this particular conversation to a quick close. “What the devil could you do for me regarding these love notes?”
Love notes.
What a wonderful way of putting the death threats he’d been getting recently.
He’d been told several times that he needed to back away from his endeavors in Parliament to return home rule for Ireland. In his opinion, it had been a great mistake to destroy Ireland’s ability to govern itself. And in his opinion, taking that power to London would fail.
Fail with epic scale. And ever since inheriting his dukedom, he had been fighting the ill-advised decision.
London had no idea what Ireland needed. Rafe had visited it once before, and he’d been horrified to see the way the Irish were treated by the English in general.
The Irish aristocrats had done well caring for their country, and really, they didn’t need some idiots from England telling them what to do.
While he was a very reasonable chap who knew a good deal about history, he had no desire to tell the Iri
sh how to live their lives or how to enact laws. Truthfully, he really couldn’t understand why so many English felt the need to do so.
But some did. And passionately.
Still, Rafe refused to give the threats of a militant few much serious thought.
After all, he was a public figure, and he was in politics. Of course, such missives would befall him.
Some of the letters had been rather gruesome. Someone with a fainter heart might have found them intimidating. But it was just par for the course when one held views such as his.
If one didn’t get a death threat every now and then, then one wasn’t doing their job in Rafe’s opinion.
“So, what is it exactly you’d like to suggest to me?” he said to Heath.
“I’d like you to take a few of my boys around with you,” Heath said carefully. “I’ve been getting a sentiment that there are a few people who are quite in earnest about this whole argument against home rule. They’re quite invested in having the power over here, you see.”
“And where have you been getting this information?” said Rafe, not surprised that Heath already understood the situation all too well.
Heath narrowed his eyes as if to say, Where do you think? Rafe sighed. He knew exactly where Heath got it.
Heath had got it from the streets. He’d got it from the Irish people who’d come over from Ireland looking for work ever since things had begun to collapse in Dublin with the removal of the seat of government.
The poverty in Ireland was becoming horrific, and really, so many of them had to come over to England to even find a job to feed their families. It was a positive disgrace.
Frankly, Rafe felt the empire should be ashamed of itself, as it should be ashamed of itself at a great many places in the world for the way the average citizens lived.
“Well,” Rafe replied unevenly, “I’m certainly not going to do that.”
Heath groaned. “Look, Your Grace, don’t be delicate about all of this. Sometimes you need to have some toughs go about with you with a cudgel or two. My boys will be quite quiet, and they won’t interfere in your activities or your pursuits, but they’ll ensure that no one jumps you in an alley.”
