Let Sleeping Dukes Lie

by Emily Windsor

  And it wasn’t even as if he could now avoid her, as the capricious saucebox had sent a violet-scented note saying she had the “stick”, and he could collect it at Mrs Beckford’s musical soirée on Monday evening.

  Lady Gibbon, it seemed, wasn’t the only one with a taste for blackmail – as if he’d normally attend an event on Conduit Street; he had a reputation to uphold.

  A couple of men glanced his way, but he curled a lip and their eyes hastily shifted direction.

  If only that worked on Aideen Quinlan.

  He recalled her softness behind that damned screen. Hellfire, he could have simply put a hand over her mouth to halt the giggles, but no, he’d thought of a superior way.

  Fool.

  Consequently, he’d have to anticipate some scathing insults for the soirée. Something to raise her indignation, to cause a slap, to make her despise the very sight of him…

  It had always worked on chits before but in this instance, it disheartened him. He enjoyed too much Miss Quinlan’s pert words, her sparkling black eyes, those cherry lips…

  “There you are, sulking in the corner.”

  Glancing up, he snorted. “I said appropriate attire and you choose a red waistcoat.”

  The Marquess of Winterbourne frowned, fingering the silk and plonking himself on the bench opposite. “Au contraire, Rakehell. This natty colour is coquelicot, and I’ll have you know these togs are all the crack for flashy arch rogues of Rum-ville. I’ll blend in like a virgin at Almack’s.”

  Rakecombe eyed the poppy waistcoat and doubted it would make it out of St Giles. He’d deal with the abomination of his title later. “We will wander the Rookery and meet with some of my contacts, but I also have the name of a house in Bainbridge Street that Penbury was frequenting. I am unsure of its…use but we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Indeed, Lady Gibbon’s blackmail notes had held little value except for that snippet.

  “What about Stafford? Have you been able to establish his whereabouts?” asked Winterbourne, who without so much as a twitch of the hand or nod of the head received a jug of ale and a wink from the pretty barmaid.

  “He has vanished as though a ghost, but from all accounts the fellow is forthright yet trustworthy. His forte, however, is infiltration of Bonapartist factions so I presume he’s a canny sort.”

  Pulling on his black leather gloves, Rakecombe noted the squashed faces of two bare-knuckle combatants head to a back room. The alehouse’s nickname of Bucket of Blood wasn’t for nothing, but he hoped the crooked-nosed one remained standing; he’d wagered five pounds on him.

  “We had better not go by titles this evening,” he commanded Winterbourne. “You may call me, for one solitary night, Alex.”

  “Good Lord! You have a given name?” The rogue fell back, hand to brow. “I considered you born into this world a Rakecombe. Popped out with tight cravat and cane, gurgling your displeasure.”

  “Amusing…Jack.”

  “I know, but one doesn’t like to sound one’s own trumpet. Well,” he said, straightening the red silk monstrosity adorning his chest and draining his ale, “let us rush in where angels fear to tread. I have a feeling amusement will quickly wane in St Giles.”

  Jack was correct.

  They cut down a side alley signed, coincidently, Angel Street – a misnomer if ever he had heard one, both for its occupants and themselves.

  It constantly amazed him how one could be standing amongst the glittering houses of the ton one moment, and then, with a sideways step in the wrong direction, be walking amongst dwellings exuding filth and poverty.

  The contrast was stark. Elegant London squares gave way to putrid lanes; gleaming shops became flash houses; light ebbed in the narrow alleyways; and drabs cried their wares, every sin available.

  And yet despite the miasma of danger, people went about their everyday lives. Washerwomen gabbled over wet linen, grubby ragamuffins played marbles on the steps of an orphanage, and a toothy old crone sold cloth from a wagon – probably the fate of Winterbourne’s waistcoat.

  In silence, they continued onto Long Acre, and avoiding Seven Dials, he conducted Jack via King Street, purposely taking him beyond their destination and further down Dyott Street where Rakecombe paused.

  Wishing his cane wasn’t in Miss Quinlan’s possession, he instead stabbed out a leather-clad finger. “That abode with the red curtains is the Charity Hospital which you paid to have refurbished after the brewery flood.”

  Jack startled, gazing up at a drab building with a spotless entrance. “What? I don’t–”

  Rakecombe just smiled. “I thought you’d like to see it.”

  “How the devil do you know about that?”

  “As patron I’m required to approve donations. Make sure you’re not all mouth and no blunt. You, at least, have both in abundance.”

  “Patron? I…” Jack spluttered.

  Pursing his lips, Rakecombe debated how much to share.

  Twenty-three women currently lived there, largely prostitutes with disease or awaiting childbirth, although any woman was welcome if they wanted to escape the Rookery. There were other hospitals, but this one was closest to his heart. A woman called Mary Lane ran it with a strict head and a soft soul, having experienced the worst that mankind could offer.

  “Hmm,” he merely said.

  “I read of the incident,” Jack reflected. “Buildings destroyed and eight people died, did they not? Including children. I prayed they didn’t drown. People say it’s a peaceful death, but I cannot imagine it so.”

  Rakecombe frowned. He’d forgotten… What platitudes could he offer for Jack’s drowned mother? He’d heard them all himself and although the sentiment was well meant, it didn’t help. Not deep down. “Your hefty contribution to repair the hospital was much appreciated.”

  “I’m glad,” the marquess murmured. “But I thought you hard-hearted, utterly ruthless, and now I hear of this patronage. It leaves me feeling quite upended.”

  “No need to fret,” drawled Rakecombe, picking a piece of lint from his woollen waistcoat. “I am feeling positively pitiless tonight.”

  They strode on in thought for a while, dodging nefarious liquids, dogs and hogs.

  “So, are you patron of other charity hospitals?” enquired Jack, as they turned left down an alley, veering to avoid two scraggy chickens. A hackney might have got them so far, but the walk to the Rookery always focused Rakecombe’s mind. Would he find Penbury? What had dragged the astute fellow so low.

  “A few.”

  “All in London?” Jack harped on.

  “No, some are in Wales,” he answered, distracted by a lad brushing overly close to his coat pocket.

  “And when did you become patron of this hospital?”

  “Eleven years ago, after Gwen’s death. It was in her memory that I…” He snapped his mouth shut.

  Damn and blast. What was it about Winterbourne that made one gabble so? The bugger could draw blood from a stone, so he clenched his fist to iron.

  “I remember you mentioning Gwen. A sister who died young?”

  “Yes,” he replied curtly. He never spoke of dearest Gwen. How could he? The blame for her death was a burden he must carry forever. A wound that would never heal.

  “It affects us,” Jack said, eyes empty. “Loss. It steals a part of our soul that we can never recover.”

  Rakecombe nodded. He cloaked himself in a ruthless mien, but it appeared he wasn’t the only one with a veil hiding inner darkness.

  They simply concealed it with differing tactics.

  ∞∞∞

  Their destination on Bainbridge Street did not appeal.

  Squalid, with a splintered door, it gave the impression of abandonment until you peered in and noticed a few patrons sprawled over tables, glasses still held in limp fingers, possessive even when cup-shot.

  So far, they’d gained little information. Rakecombe had questioned a few familiar ruffians whom he paid to keep an eye out for anything untoward
– although in the Rookery that term was loose. One lad had told of seeing a chap with Penbury’s description, but nothing was certain.

  A surprise had been Jack. Well, himself and Jack. They made a good – he almost choked on the word – team.

  Whilst he himself frightened informants to death, Jack coaxed information with good humour. Two doxies were on Rakecombe’s payroll and with Jack’s geniality, they’d admired that waistcoat of his and wittered on, revealing more about this bowsing ken on Bainbridge Street.

  A gin shop.

  He’d hoped for a brothel. Old soakers were so much more difficult to question.

  Pushing the thin door that held a fist-sized hole in it, Rakecombe sauntered in. An ashen young girl scrubbed with a threadbare cloth, her stare vacant, a bruise marring one cheek.

  As they seated themselves at one of the cobbled-together tables, she hurried over.

  Normally, a barmaid’s eyes gleamed with avarice at the sight of him – he may wear old clothes but they usually recognised a man’s worth solely by posture – but this young girl just gazed dully.

  “Blue ruin and information,” Rakecombe growled low.

  She timidly looked over her shoulder to a hulking great brute slumped over the counter.

  “We will pay for both,” murmured Jack, smiling.

  With a deft nod, she scuttled off to a back room and came back more promptly than a butler at White’s, with a bottle and three glasses.

  “Jim don’t mind talk if yer buy us a drink. ’E’ll jus’ think yer after a tup.” She looked up hopefully. “Are yer?”

  “How old are you?” asked Jack, brow furrowing.

  “None of yer bleedin’ business,” she said, pouring gin with a shaking hand.

  Bruises dotted her pale wrists and Rakecombe felt the usual helplessness descend whenever he came to this part of London.

  Despite owning the hospital and several other places, it was never enough.

  With all his titled authority, he tried to persuade government to help and although he received toadying promises, no new measures ever saw the light of day.

  The powers that be blamed poverty on the war, they blamed the drink, they blamed laziness and low morals – bloody hypocrites. He’d like to stuff a couple of them down here and see how long they survived.

  “Have you heard of a man called Stuart Penbury? Blond hair and grey eyes with a–”

  “Talks funny?” the girl interrupted.

  “He’s from Manchester.”

  She scrunched her forehead. “Like I said, talks funny. Don’t pronounce fings right.”

  “Indeed. Did he come here often? When was the last time you saw him?”

  “First came ’ere to meet some bloke, but then ’e had the itch for Bridget, the other girl.” She leaned close and Rakecombe was surprised to smell fresh lavender. “Then Stuart jus’ fancied the bub, likes they all do.”

  Sitting back, she sniffed the glass, wrinkling her nose. “Dunno why. Stuff’s rank. Smells o’ cats. Anyhows, a couple hurled in ’elter-skelter last week and they jus’ grabbed ’im. Bridget screamed but the woman – a swivel-eyed flash mort – told us she were ’is sister. And that were that. I ’eard the fella say they was taking ’im up north. Poor Stuart – they ’ave to eat grass up there, yer know.”

  Jack took her calloused hand and placed some coins in her palm. “Hide them,” he said, folding her fingers over the silver.

  “Ta, but ’e always finds it.” The girl jerked a thumb to the collapsed giant. “And then ’tis worse. I got thumped for ’iding a ribbon… I didn’t filch it. It were in the gutter.” A wistful expression transformed her pale features. “It were blue. Bit bloodstained and that…”

  All at once, Rakecombe stood, but his – he hesitated to say comrade – remained sitting, staring at the bruised girl.

  Rakecombe sighed. You couldn’t save them all, but…

  Grabbing hold of her upper arm, he roughly pulled her to standing. Jack protested but bent to catch the gin bottle as it tumbled from the table whilst Rakecombe swiftly whispered in the girl’s ear, unobserved. “If you want a way out, go to the hospital on Dyott Street. Tell them Alex sent you.”

  A faint nod and he pushed her away. She fell into another table with an exaggerated cry.

  “Get your stench away from me, girl,” he sneered. “I’d rather swive a sow.” And he stalked out of the godawful place.

  “Why?” Jack finally asked as they strode down Denmark Street, almost free from the Rookeries. “What had she done?”

  Dusk had fallen, cloaking them in a leaden fog that choked one’s snout and stung one’s vision. The narrow lanes had quietened, people rushing for home before the encroaching malevolent dark.

  The marquess had been utterly silent as they’d traversed St Giles, obviously thinking the worst of him. They always did and he usually cared little, but for once, he didn’t want to endure this affable lord’s disgust.

  Gads, what was wrong with him? He had one friend in the Earl of Kelmarsh; he didn’t need another.

  One could have too many friends.

  Exhaling, he halted his stride. “That slumbering goliath was twitching, not slumbering at all. No one sleeps in the Rookery without one eye open.”

  Jack peered at him, dumbfounded. “I thought–”

  “Yes, I know you did, but when I grabbed her, I told her about the hospital. I must be careful, however, as two years ago, it was robbed by a disgruntled cock bawd. Men like that could destroy all our work if they think their women are disappearing.” He stripped off his gloves and flexed his fingers.

  “Lud,” Jack said aghast, “all this ruthless posturing, but underneath you have a–”

  “’Ello there, m’dimber coves, fancy a tumble?” A slattern in shabby green silk wangled her way between them, patting their arms.

  “I prefer my women to have washed within the last decade,” drawled Rakecombe as he removed the lady’s wandering hands and ignored Winterbourne’s smirk.

  Heavy footsteps sounded from behind… More than one.

  “Somefin’ wrong with our women, fat culls?” a booming voice demanded.

  “Lawks, Jimmy,” the female octopus replied. “I were jus–” She said no more as a thickset hand wrenched her away, shoving her to the gutter.

  Rakecombe heaved a sigh. Oh, for God’s sake, and they were scarcely twenty yards or so from the St Giles boundary.

  Turning leisurely, he observed a man looking markedly like the slumbering oaf from the gin shop emerge from the shadows, his form lit by a small lamp outside one of the houses – probably a brothel, the only ones advertising their doorways.

  “You two look well fed,” the oaf said, smiling and dangling what transpired to be a large cudgel. “And I know someone who pays ten quid for a decent body. Eh, lads, let’s mill the bastards.”

  Two men, this time scrawny, appeared like wraiths.

  Another time, another night, intruded before his eyes – blood, tears, Gwen’s screams – but he willed the scene away.

  Control.

  Grasping air where his cane should be, he instead looked to his bare knuckles in faint regret – so common but needs must, and he didn’t fancy his innards being clandestinely dissected on the morrow by some eager quack.

  “The ladies tell me I look better sans clothes,” jested Jack, peeling his leather gloves off.

  Rakecombe slid a hand down. He didn’t have his cane, but he did have…

  The Jim lookalike sniggered. “I’ll be having that red waistcoat off you, pretty boy.”

  Holding a hand to his chest, Jack gasped, although Rakecombe then saw his fingers slip inside the damn frippery. “I don’t know which to be more offended by, old chap? The fact you think I’m a boy or that you don’t recognise coquelicot.”

  Rakecombe reached into his own pocket as Jack distracted them, feeling for the solid hilt of his dagger. He’d known that bloody, red silk eyesore would cause trouble.

  “Cock wot?” the oaf snarled, s
winging his cudgel. “Oy, are you raggin’ me?”

  “No, no. Co-quel-li-co,” the marquess enunciated as his fingers slid out, now with a metallic glint to them.

  “Give the man your waistcoat, Jack.”

  “It’s hand-painted silk from China! Little worms gave their lives for this cloth, and that man will have no idea how to wash it. Miggens my valet is the only one who knows how.”

  Deftly, Rakecombe slipped his carnelian signet ring off as it was most revolting when skin got stuck under the gold setting. “Is a waistcoat really worth your life?”

  “Well, when you put it like that… Yes, it cost me nine guineas.”

  They attacked as one, taking the villains by surprise. The taller wraith squawked at the sight, probably too used to quivering sapskulls.

  Rakecombe took on the nearest two, hoping Jack could manage the hulking Jim. He smartly smashed his fist into one fellow’s cheek and felt a glancing blow himself.

  The second coward circled around his back and as Rakecombe punched out a further fist to the villain’s gut, the other man grasped a tight arm around his neck from behind. A stranglehold.

  Using him for leverage, he kicked out, catching the ballocks of the man in front who howled with agony and bent double. Rakecombe then smashed a knee to his quaking chin, heard a resounding crack, and the rat fell backwards, clonking his skull on the cobbles.

  A sharp jab at Rakecombe’s throat promptly caused him to still.

  “Not so tough now, are you,” taunted the wraith, panting, breath misting the blade held to Rakecombe’s skin.

  “No, you are quite right, you are the toughest,” he hissed. But in an instant, he elbowed the villain straight in the kidneys whilst hurling his head back, breaking the man’s nose with a wet crunch. The knife dropped away and swirling, he slashed out with his own dagger, scoring the man across the chest. “But I am the deadliest.”

  The wound wasn’t going to kill, but one never knew – he might die of infection. The rat scurried away, knowing the odds were not on his side tonight.

  Muffled groans broke from a side alley and Rakecombe scrambled to the sound. He never should have left Jack alon–