The removal smarted, but not as much as being away from Daisy did. Each day he was gone from her, unable to contact her, far from her side and her bed where he longed to be, was like a bare blade finding its home in his gut.
Two sharp knocks at his door, followed by a pause and then three more in rapid succession interrupted his thoughts. Using the scrap of toweling by the pitcher and bowl, he dried his face before pivoting and striding back across the chamber. He hesitated only a moment before knocking once on the door.
The person on the other side knocked back in the sign they had prearranged.
Griffin had arrived at last. Feeling a small surge of relief that his friend and comrade had finally joined him, he pulled open the door, careful to keep out of sight lest anyone should see him sans mustache.
His friend raised a golden brow at him as he stepped over the threshold and the door snapped closed at his back. Like Sebastian, he wore plain trousers and a work shirt and jacket. He’d grown a beard, and he rather resembled nothing so much as a Whitechapel thug. “Brother George, is that you?” he deadpanned.
“Of course you must know that it is I, brother John,” he returned, grinning.
They clapped each other on the back solidly.
“It’s good to see you, Bast,” Griffin said. “I’m deuced glad Carlisle decided to pair us up on this one.”
“As am I.” Though they were the best of friends, they had not worked together on many missions. When he’d received word from Carlisle two days prior that Griffin would be joining him, he’d been more than pleased, in spite of their last clash. Griffin had a sharp eye, keen wit, steady hand, and the cool calculation of a seasoned warrior. “Even if it means I’ll be stuck in bloody Liverpool for another fortnight at least.”
Tomorrow, they would move to a new part of the city, take different rooms, and begin Thompson Brothers Chemists. Since Sebastian’s work had thus far uncovered precious little, they were going to act as a lure, selling their goods wholesale below market price. Either the Fenians were purchasing their acids and glycerin in small quantities from a variety of chemists to avoid detection, or they were not in Liverpool at all.
Thompson Brothers should—within a relatively short time frame—give them the means to determine the answer. If the plotters were in Liverpool, it stood to reason that they would purchase more affordable supplies, and it was down to Sebastian and Griffin to monitor the customers and their purchases.
“Liverpool is where we need eyes and ears the most,” Griffin said then. “We’ve word from the consul in Philadelphia that there are plots in the works to blow up public buildings here in the city.”
Sebastian’s blood went cold. “Jesus. The information is reliable?”
Griffin nodded. “It comes directly from the Pinkertons.”
Hell. The Pinkerton Detective Agency’s work was always sound. “I’ve still no evidence that the dynamite is being manufactured here. I’ve run every lead I had to ground, and I’ve come up with nothing.”
“I’m here now, old chap. We’ll find these bastards one way or another and put a stop to them.” Though Griffin’s tone was congenial, his countenance was anything but. His expression was fairly murderous.
“That we will.” He paused then, his thoughts going, inevitably, to Daisy. Christ, what must she think of him? He had wedded her, bedded her, and left with nothing but a terse note and no indication of when he might return. Though he knew his actions were borne of duty rather than callousness, she did not, and the notion had been driving him mad this last fortnight. He longed for her as he never had for another, and though he cursed himself for his weakness, he couldn’t deny it. “Have you any word from London?”
“Bloody fucking hell, Bast. Is this about your American tart?”
His head felt as if it may explode. “She. Is. Not. A. Tart,” he bit out.
“Oh, Christ.” Griffin studied him in his signature, penetrating manner that had made far more worthy opponents than Sebastian tremble in fear. “Never say you fancy yourself… in love with the chit.”
He spat the word “love” as though it were a dirty word, something to revile, a bitter taste he couldn’t wait to remove from his tongue.
Heat climbed his throat. Good God. He didn’t flush, and yet… how else to explain the warmth searing his flesh, reaching to even his cheeks? He cleared his throat. “The chit is my wife.”
Griffin’s lips thinned. “Have you forgotten the circumstances that made her your wife?”
“No, goddamn it,” he growled.
Of course he hadn’t forgotten. How could he, when the deceit he’d perpetrated swallowed him whole each time he thought of it? He had spent his entire adult life as a spy, lying to everyone around him. Manipulating, dissembling, using, donning whatever name and disguise he required in the moment. But for the first time, the credo by which he’d lived—anything in the name of the League—no longer sufficed.
“I saw any number of cheeky wenches in the tavern below. You could have your pick of the lot for the night, if that’s what ails you.” Griffin’s gaze was steadfast, unrelenting.
Damn him. “I don’t want to tup a whore,” he bit out. “I’m married to her, by God. I owe her my fidelity, if nothing else.”
“Fuck.” Griffin shook his head. “I told Carlisle it shouldn’t be you, but he was adamant you were the man for the task. He doesn’t know you the way I do. You’re too bloody softhearted for it, and now she’s managed to cozen you into thinking she’s not the deceptive bitch she truly is.”
Sebastian didn’t think. Indeed, his brain seemed to take leave of the rest of his body, for it was almost as if the two were disconnected as his fist swung wildly, finding rigid purchase in his best friend’s jaw for the second time in as many weeks. He watched as Griffin’s head snapped back, almost from a dream. A bloody nightmare.
But Griffin had pushed him too far, and this… he would not be insulted. Wouldn’t allow his loyalty to be called into question, not by anyone and especially not by the man he considered a brother. The way he’d spoken of Daisy, disparaging her, as if she were a siren who’d bewitched him, and as if any other woman might easily take her place. It was not to be borne.
Griffin was a seasoned fighter, and he was cold as ice. Always. So the fist meeting Sebastian’s jaw a scant few seconds later was no surprise, though the burst of pain and stars marring his vision took him aback for half a second. There. He supposed they were even this time around.
“Have you no word on her?” he asked ruefully, rubbing the place where his friend’s right hook had connected with his face.
“Fucking hell,” Griffin snarled, staring at him as though he were a stranger.
“Who watches her?” Sebastian pressed, undeterred in his quest for some word of Daisy, however small and insignificant. By God, he missed her, and with a desperation that was utterly humiliating. “Surely someone, if not you. Is she safe, at least?”
Leaving her had been difficult enough, but leaving her behind knowing that her bastard of a father was within the same city, still capable of reaching her and hurting her… that was a different kind of torture. The sort of torture that none of his training could have prepared him for.
“She’s safe.” Griffin’s lip curled into a sneer. “What’s next, Bast? You’re going to secret her away to the country and start getting brats on her? Men like us aren’t meant for that life. We’re bound to put the League first.”
Sebastian met his gaze, unflinching. His friend wasn’t wrong, not about any of it, and he was being torn apart from the inside out, stretched in two opposing directions. Love versus loyalty, duty against want. “I’m putting the League first or I wouldn’t be here, damn it.”
Griffin’s expression became dazed. “This isn’t like you.”
No, it wasn’t. But he’d never been in love before. “Maybe you don’t know me,” he said evenly.
Because the truth of it was that he’d begun to realize not even he had known himself. The man he
’d believed himself to be had been an island in a vast ocean, accountable to no one, untouchable and unbreakable. The man he thought he was would never have fallen in love with a slip of an American girl who was stronger than anyone he’d ever met. He was not himself without her, and she was the part of him that had been missing all along. With Daisy, he was whole.
“I’m beginning to think I don’t,” Griffin said, sounding weary. “But we’ve a duty to uphold and a mission to carry out.”
Yes, they bloody well did.
15th April, 1881
Your Grace,
Over a month has passed without word. I find myself fearing for your wellbeing. None of the staff knows of your whereabouts or the reason for your abrupt departure. Indeed, it is quite as if you have disappeared. If your absence is due to me, perhaps you could be kind enough to inform me so that I may make amends.
I do hope to hear from you soon. In the meantime, I hope you don’t mind my recent increase in expenditures. I’ve commissioned an entire new wardrobe and have begun making a few, much-needed alternations to our London home. I’m sure you will agree that the paintings of the former dukes were decidedly de trop and much in need of replacement. I’ve had them sent to the attics.
Sincerely,
Daisy Trent
Daisy found herself being ushered into the salon of the Duchess of Leeds by a butler who looked as if he’d be more at home on the docks than he was in his formal attire. He possessed none of the formidable starch of Giles, and he seemed far too young for the position, tall and broad and commanding, with a head of black hair and a wicked scar running down his right cheek.
He was almost handsome, though not in the classical sense. Rather, his was a raw, brawny attractiveness that was most disarming in a servant who was meant to blend into the wallpaper unless he was required. This man would never blend into wallpaper. Damask could not possibly contain him.
The invitation from the duchess had arrived two days before, disarming Daisy, for she didn’t recall ever having much discourse with the Duchess of Leeds. And precious few invitations had been forthcoming for the American who had eloped with the duke who’d subsequently disappeared.
Daisy read the gossip sheets, even if she knew she shouldn’t. She was more than aware of her reputation and what was being said of her. It wasn’t pretty.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Trent,” the man masquerading as a butler announced.
Daisy entered the salon to an unexpected sight. The Duchess of Leeds sat on a gilded settee, surrounded by a bevy of dogs, an orange cat curled on her lap. One dog, a handsome terrier with an under-bite, rose and sauntered toward Daisy, sniffing her skirts.
Daisy didn’t think twice before lowering herself to the dog’s level, offering him her hand for a judicious sniff. He sniffed deeply for a few moments, pressing his warm nuzzle into her palm, before delivering a lick.
“Your Grace,” said the duchess, drawing Daisy’s attention back to her with a smile that only served to heighten her exotic beauty. She had rich chestnut hair, high cheekbones, and flashing green eyes. “It seems as if you’ve met with Hugo’s approval.”
“He is a dear.” Daisy removed her glove to rub Hugo’s satiny head. He rewarded her by getting onto his haunches and licking her directly across the mouth.
“Oh heavens, Hugo. Down, boy.” The duchess’s voice rang across the salon, cutting and authoritative. “My dear duchess, please do stand else I fear the little mongrel will stuff his tongue down your throat.”
Daisy laughed as Hugo licked her cheek. “I don’t mind.”
As a girl, she’d longed for a dog, and that same longing returned to her in a rush now, likely compounded by an entire month of loneliness and isolation. March had turned into April, the weather warming, spring blossoming over the city, and still her husband had not returned. No word. No indication he even still breathed. The pang in her chest tightened, and the little dog seemed to sense her distress, for his simple lick turned into a frenzy of wet, overzealous canine kisses.
“Oh dear heavens, you little scoundrel,” the duchess chided. “Down, Hugo!”
The dog at last obeyed, settling himself on his haunches and blinking up at her with large, chocolate eyes. Daisy gave his head another pat before she stood, recalling her manners as she swept into a curtsy.
“Pish, none of that now,” the duchess said, an open and friendly smile curving her lips and rendering her even lovelier. “I don’t believe in standing on ceremony.” She gestured about her airily. “I’m somewhat of a collector of strays, you see.”
A collector of strays—yes, it made sense, from the dogs, to the cat, to the butler. Daisy couldn’t help but wonder if the odd woman before her viewed her as yet another one.
“How kindhearted of you.” Daisy strove for diplomacy. “Thank you for your invitation, Your Grace. I find myself something of an outsider in London.”
“You mustn’t thank me. Do come in and get settled,” the duchess ordered. “And please, you must call me Georgiana, I insist. Ludlow will bring tea shortly.”
Daisy hesitantly found her way to a chair that flanked the duchess, Hugo trailing happily along with her and sitting on the hem of her skirts after she’d found her seat. They chatted politely until the unlikely butler returned, looking almost ridiculous as he bore a dainty silver tray in his meaty paws. Daisy didn’t miss the look the duchess exchanged with the man before he quietly retreated from the room once more.
Innocuous chatter continued over tea, Daisy grateful for the companionship and the distraction both. Georgiana, as it turned out, was a fellow American heiress. Having grown up largely abroad, she possessed the cultured accent of any lady to the manor born. Daisy felt herself warming to the garrulous duchess, who was quick to laugh and equally generous in her smiles. During the course of their tête-à-tête, she almost forgot the misery of her current situation.
Until Georgiana eyed her sympathetically over her tea and uttered the observation she least wished to hear. “You seem dreadfully in need of a friend, Daisy.”
Daisy nearly spat her tea all over her silk gown. Yes, she supposed she was dreadfully in need of a friend. But who was this odd woman she scarcely knew, who kept a menagerie of small animals and had a terrifying butler, to say so?
“I’m perfectly content,” her pride forced her to say.
The duchess wasn’t fooled. She tilted her head, considering her. “You look perfectly miserable, dear.”
Daisy firmed her lips, stifling the unwanted surge of emotion evoked by her would-be friend’s words. “I’m… ” Lonely, wretched, dejected, heartbroken. She swallowed. “A friend would be lovely.”
“Excellent. You may be surprised to learn that we have a great deal more in common than hailing from the same homeland.” Georgiana settled her teacup into its saucer. “I too have a husband given to abrupt disappearances and secrecy.”
Daisy considered her newfound friend, struggling to make sense of the implications of what she’d just revealed. During the time she’d flitted about fashionable London society, she had never seen the Duke of Leeds himself. “Is His Grace not in residence?” she asked hesitantly.
Georgianna’s sunny expression went uncharacteristically dark. “He claims to be in America on a prolonged hunting expedition. Naturally, I don’t believe a word of it.”
Daisy frowned, feeling uncomfortable with this glimpse into the marriage of two virtual strangers. “You don’t?”
“I found some correspondence in the fire grate of his study, half burnt. It was nothing but a few sentences, meaningless observations on the weather, and I couldn’t fathom why he would’ve gone to the trouble of burning such a thing.” Georgiana paused. “It was only later, when I found some other letters stuffed amongst his books, that I realized they were written in code. It wasn’t at all what it seemed.”
Letters written in code.
What in heaven’s name…
Daisy’s mind returned to the odd note she’d found in Sebastian�
��s chamber, folded in thirds. The skies look too ominous to wait until afternoon. A shiver went straight down her spine. “Were you able to translate them?” she asked.
Georgiana nodded slowly. “My husband isn’t hunting game, Daisy. He’s in New York City. I haven’t yet worked out what it is he’s doing or why, but it’s something to do with the Fenians. What’s more, there was a name on one of the letters.”
Dread crept through her, uncoiling and then snapping tight around her heart like a manacle. Somehow, she knew what Georgiana was going to say next. “It was my name, wasn’t it?”
The duchess nodded. “So it only seems fitting, you see, that you and I ought to join forces and bring our miserable husbands to heel.”
Daisy set down her teacup with numb fingers as suspicion, hurt, and confusion warred within her. “What do you propose we do?”
Georgiana smiled, but this time, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll wage a campaign of our own. Men are not so different from dogs in some ways, you see. Both are quite territorial. By the time we’re finished, they’ll be begging to tell us the truth.”
30th April, 1881
Your Grace,
If you would deign to answer any of my letters, or to return to London where I await you, you would do me the utmost kindness. Your silence is as disheartening as your abandonment.
I do so fervently hope you won’t mind the soirees I’ve been hosting, which are sometimes quite dear in cost. I confess that I was startled to realize I’d spent nearly a hundred pounds on ice sculptures over the course of the month. To be fair, however, the sculptures were exquisite.
Sincerely,
Duchess of Trent
April bled into May.
By day, Sebastian and Griffin oversaw the chemist’s shop, keeping their wits about them and their eyes and ears open. Their clientele was steady and predictable. No large-scale purchases of acids or glycerin. Nothing that would be cause for suspicion or alarm.
Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3) Page 22
