Two Brides and a Duke: A Steamy Regency Romance (Parvenues & Paramours, Book 4)

by Tessa Candle

  In truth, the cave was only too familiar to her by now, but it did take on another aspect as it was now prepared for the festivities. The inside of the passageway had been lit with torches, and a brazier burned in the main chamber, warming the area and lighting up the crystals, pearls and gold beads that bedecked the walls.

  Eleanor could believe she was surrounded by a treasure trove in an exotic pirate cave, and the props set up for the performance only added to the atmosphere. It was magical, mysterious and dangerous. Delville immediately popped into her mind.

  This was not for any fanciful reason, of course. Her thoughts only turned to him because of the very inconvenient fact that his prisoner was only thirty yards down the back passageway. But it was a shame Delville was not here to grace the performance, for he would make a very convincing addition to the band of swarthy thieves.

  “That is a fond smile.” Miss Fitzpatrick suddenly appeared. “You must take great pleasure in such exotic surroundings. It seems like just your sort of paradise.”

  How long had Miss Fitzpatrick been watching? Had Eleanor done anything to give herself away? She thought not. She had deliberately stayed away from the back passage that led to the hidden cell. “I was thinking how very convincing the décor is. The marquess has done very well.”

  The lady’s eyes glittered with amusement as she spoke from her nose, “I am sure the Marquess of Fenimore will be very pleased to give pleasure to such an illustrious person as yourself.”

  It was sarcastic, designed to suggest that Eleanor was a nothing. Eleanor did not really care what this young woman thought of her, but she found it odd that the obnoxious miss would deliberately seek out a conversation with someone whom she deemed unworthy of such elevated company. She decided to make no reply, but only inclined her head coldly.

  Miss Fitzpatrick smirked, but soon tired of the silent treatment and began to cast about for some other source of amusement. Perhaps there were some bugs she could pull the wings off, or a servant she could torment.

  Eleanor was about to drift away and rejoin her friends, but she noticed Miss Fitzpatrick’s curious gaze alighting upon the back passage. She took a few steps in that direction.

  Ruddy hell. Eleanor did not especially desire further conversation, but Miss Fitzpatrick had to be diverted from going down that passageway.

  “I do not think you should go that way. I have been warned that it is rather dirty down there. It will smudge up your skirts.”

  Miss Fitzpatrick gave Eleanor a look of annoyance, but her expression soon turned to one of calculation. “Is that so? Well, I suppose I should have no fear on that head, for apparently sullied skirts are the order of the day.”

  The young lady was working her way up to the obvious insult, but at least she was distracted from the back passage. Eleanor smiled coldly. “I had not noticed that any such fashion had taken root in London.”

  “Oh indeed. Some very high ranking men have expressed a great interest in sullied skirts—even preferring to marry the women who brazenly display theirs. Once that happens, who knows how far the trend might travel? I have heard the style arises from as far afield as France.”

  Predictably, the nasty young woman was taking a shot at Eleanor’s mother, but being just oblique enough to avoid censure for raising the topic. Miss Fitzpatrick should have chosen a better barb. Eleanor was inured to this sort of insult. Such darts were irritating, but could not pain her anymore.

  She sighed and gave Miss Fitzpatrick a look of pity, which she thought would be the most infuriating approach. “I must defer to your superior knowledge of the topic. Shuffling around in dirty and decrepit places holds no charm for me, but there is no accounting for taste.” She gestured invitingly toward the passageway. “Please do not let me detain you.”

  It was a bit of a risk, but Eleanor detected a contrarian spirit in the young lady. Advising her to do something was likely all that was required to ensure she would do the very opposite.

  Miss Fitzpatrick tilted her head and committed herself to staying put and insulting Eleanor. “It is a very wise thing for women with precarious social standing to avoid inviting censure—albeit regarding something so temporary as attire. Some people cannot be too careful.”

  Standing about at a party exchanging tedious barbed comments with some woman who thought too highly of her own importance was a bit too much like being in London. Eleanor was nonetheless about to make some coldly acerbic comment, only to distract the young woman from exploring.

  However she was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Tilly. “Oh Eleanor need not worry. She is the daughter of the Duke of Grendleridge, after all. Her standing is too impeccable to worry about what less important people think of her clothing.” She smiled sweetly at Miss Fitzpatrick. “And anyway, no one could find fault with her dress. It is of the first water.”

  Tilly paused for a few moments to examine Miss Fitzpatrick’s ensemble. “And yours is quite pretty as well—especially for being so practical, so well adapted to visiting a cave.”

  Miss Fitzpatrick bowed her head slightly. “Your grace is too kind. And of course, a duchess understands these matters of fashion only too well.” She paused to give a sad little sigh and a look of grievous loss. “If only my betrothed had not passed. I should be a duchess by now.”

  Eleanor only narrowly avoided rolling her eyes. The chit was trying to lay claim to some social superiority over Eleanor, if not over Tilly, herself. The thought was deluded, for almost a duchess just meant not a duchess. But for someone with no title at all, this Miss Fitzpatrick certainly aspired to put on airs.

  Not receiving any reply, Miss Fitzpatrick added, “Oh how I do miss him still, my dearest Delville. He was so handsome, and so utterly devoted to me.” She held a hand to her heart. “It was as though we were made for one another. I am sure I would have been the most indulged duchess in all the realm.”

  More than her obviously nasty personality, more than any of the slights, this ridiculous proclamation made Eleanor clench her teeth. She was glad when everyone was called to order for the commencement of the performance. At least she would not have to listen further to such a load of tripe.

  As the actors took their positions, and the orchestra struck the first chords, Eleanor mused that, despite his many failings, Delville might be forgiven for using any means to get out of an engagement to a person like Miss Fitzpatrick. Eleanor, too, would fake her own death to avoid such a marriage.

  She wished Tilly Godspeed in throwing the lady-viper into Auchdun’s path. There were two people who truly deserved each other.

  Chapter 20

  No matter how he once enjoyed the gambling establishments and the fine dining, Delville came to realize that he had not missed London in the least. He had no time to take in any amusements, and the relentlessly cold, grey weather had made the weeks of searching, intelligence gathering and ferreting out new locations especially arduous. One by one he had uncovered possible addresses on the street that Lucy Delight had named, only to discover they had nothing to do with Red Martha.

  He shivered and flexed his hands as he stood before the door of the most recent place, then selected an iron pick from his satchel. The days were warming up slightly, but the nights were still bitter, and it had been a long ruddy wait, surveying the building to be certain there was no one within. But there had been little activity on the street for over an hour. All was dark and quiet.

  It took a few minutes of twisting and feeling, but at last the lock succumbed. Inside it was pitch black, which is just how he wanted things. He fished a small lamp and matches out of his satchel and lit a half candle, fitting it into the holder and pulling the shade around it. A set of mirrors produced directional light out of one side of the lamp, permitting him to illuminate small areas, while avoiding lighting up the whole chamber in an obvious way. The place did not have a lot of windows, but an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.

  He scanned the environment for anything that looked office-like
. A few coats and umbrellas hung on the west wall, but nothing of interest presented itself. He went to feel around in pockets and shake the folds of fabric. An unattended pocket was a potential treasure trove for a spy.

  However, he found nothing. He had little hope as he felt the last pocket, but smiled as his fingers encountered a key. Delville slipped into the hallway to continue his search through the several rooms that exited off the hallway, finding nothing of interest.

  Finally he came to a room that was locked, which seemed promising. The key he had lifted was too small for the lock, so he went about picking it, but as the mechanism was giving way, he heard the main door open, and the voices of grumbling men.

  He silently cursed his luck and slipped into the dark room, casting his light around in search of somewhere to hide. A desk stood in the corner and his fingers twitched to search it, but there was no time.

  The voices drew nearer in the hallway as his light illuminated a wardrobe. He opened it and plunged inside, closing the shade of his lantern as he went. It was a cramped space for a man of his dimensions, but thankfully it was empty, and he was able to close the door behind him. Only moments later, he heard the heavy footfalls of the men entering the room.

  “Well, the key is missing, and this door is open, so either someone has been in here, or you lot have been drinking on the job again.”

  “Twernt us. Maybe we should search the place.”

  “There is no one here, and we have a lot to do tonight. There is only one thing we need to locate, but without a key, we can’t check it, can we? You best hope that no one has been walking through all the doors you left open.”

  “I never did nothing with the key, and it was Simpson who was to lock up.”

  Delville heard the desk drawer open and something lifted out.

  “The strong box is here.”

  “Well, that’s us done, then. The mistress will have another key. We can drop it off and go have a pint. It’s been a long day.”

  “There is no time for drink. I’ll deliver it, myself. Afterward we should go to Mrs. Baker and tell her to get the child packed and ready to leave in the morning. There must be no delay tomorrow. Then we have to go find the whore and shut her mouth for good. It will be a late night for us.”

  “I like Lucy. Don’t see why we should take the word of that bit of prattling horse dung. Folks that put on phony accents ain’t to be trusted. If he is a Scotsman, then I am the prince regent.”

  “I did not like the look of him either, but the mistress believes him, and that is all there is to it.”

  The voices trailed off as the door closed. Delville flew out of the wardrobe. It was imperative that he did not lose them.

  He paused in the outer hallway to be sure they had passed into the entrance room, before he moved stealthily onward, waiting at the doorway. When he heard them leaving the place, he dashed up to the door and paused again.

  They had to be far enough away that they would not hear him leave the building, but close enough that he could catch up with them and follow.

  He held his breath and opened the door. There were a few people on the street, but he saw the man carrying a strong box disappear into a hack and roll away. The horse was a non-descript brown, but had two white socks on the back feet.

  He ran after the departing vehicle. It was not terribly subtle, but if he could at least keep an eye on it, he might be able to catch up, once they turned onto one of the more congested main roads.

  Delville turned a corner and spied the white-socked horse. He thought his lungs would burst as he picked up speed to catch them. How long could he keep up this pace?

  Just then a hackney drew up and let off a passenger, he hailed the driver and sprang into the vehicle. “I need you to follow that hack—the one with the white-socked nag.”

  The man shrugged, “Right-o.” A click of his tongue had his horses moving onward.

  “If you don’t lose sight of them, I will give you an extra half crown.”

  The man straightened from his slouch and signalled the horses to pick up the pace.

  The carriage they followed finally came to a stop outside a respectable looking apartment, and the man with the strong box disembarked before the carriage drove on.

  “Damn it all!” They were splitting up. He did not want to lose track of the box that might hold the information the authorities needed to convict Red Martha, and to identify other traitors. But the man who remained in the carriage was probably headed to wherever the little girl was being held—or else on his way to kill Lucy Delight. Either way, lives were at stake. He had to protect them.

  Delville made a mental note of their location. “Follow the carriage.” Hopefully the strong box would still be there when he returned. He did not want to be further detained in London trying to find it again.

  He snorted. Why should that matter? Miss Fitzpatrick was probably at Blackwood by now. He should avoid the neighbourhood as long as possible.

  And yet, the longer he stayed away, the longer he left Eleanor obliged to see to his prisoner. Miss Dawling, he corrected himself, not Eleanor. She would never be Eleanor to him, after the way he had behaved. But she should not have to bear the burden of tending to Wormshit for one moment longer than was necessary.

  Delville did not like exposing her to that man, and even worse, obliging her to keep his presence secret. The thought chafed at him every day since he had left Fenimore. It put her at risk.

  Some protector of women he was turning out to be. His informant was probably about to be murdered, and the child he had sworn to rescue was about to be moved out of his reach again. He was failing them, just like he had failed his sister.

  Perhaps he should have asked Frobisher and Rutherford for help, but that would mean taking them into his confidence. His policy had always been to share no more information than was absolutely necessary, and it had held him in good stead thus far. Deception and subterfuge were the tricks of the spy trade, after all.

  But there was no time for all this self-doubt. He trained his attention on the vehicle they followed.

  It was three quarters of an hour before it finally drew up in front of a large, but unimposing structure. The brickwork had seen better days and weeds lined the walkway. He told the driver to continue past so as not to draw attention. He squinted to read the sign by the carriage lamp, making out the words Oaken Path Boarding and Girls School.

  This must be it. His stomach tightened and he fought down the impulse to rush into the place, searching for the girl. And yet he did not know which girl he was looking for. He had seen a picture and he knew her name was Persephone. But they had no doubt given her a more mundane pseudonym to keep her identity concealed. It would be difficult to locate her in a school full of girls—at least with sufficient stealth to permit an extraction.

  No, he must be sensible and not rush in like a fool. The removal was not to occur until the next day. He would devise a way to get her out beforehand. In the meantime, he knew that the henchman’s next stop would be to call on Lucy Delight, and he had to intervene.

  Delville mulled over possibilities. There must be a gin house nearby. “Wait here.” He handed the driver the promised coin. “If I get into that carriage, follow us. It will be worth your while.” He exited the hackney, finding a back lane to conveniently emerge from.

  When the henchman came out of the boarding house ten minutes later, Delville staggered along to intercept the man before he made it to his vehicle, feigning extreme drunkenness, which was a speciality of his. At an opportune moment, he extracted a flask from his pocket, thus contriving to accidentally spill coins all over the walk in front of the man.

  “Ho there, sir. You’ve lost a fortune.” The man bent over to help him collect the money.

  “Thank you, good man.” Delville gave him a blurry-eyed grin and pretended not to notice that he palmed several larger denominations. He lifted his flask for a pull before offering it to the other man, who exchanged a handful of coins for th
e whiskey.

  “Thank you. S’just what I need after a long day, and more work to do still—the sort what needs a stout heart.”

  “Keep it, then! Keep it! I will go find more, if there is an establishment hereabouts.”

  “Not minutes that way.” The man gestured, and took another pull on the flask. “The Leaping Boar—fair prices, but they still have a table or two for people who wish to sit. I hate all those gleaming brass palaces where you are made to stand.”

  “Right you are! Give me a public house any day.” Delville wobbled as though his nodding head had thrown him off balance.

  “Wish I could join you.”

  “And why shouldn’t you? If you have done a long day’s work then one good turn deserves another.”

  “Ah… as to that.” The man scratched his jaw. “My mistress don’t take kindly to delay.”

  “Well then, I shall wait for you at the Jumping Sow and buy you a glass of what you like when you are finished.” Delville lowered his eyelids and swayed dreamily. The man should know that Delville would not be conscious enough to buy anyone a drink by the time the mistress’ business was done.

  “The Leaping Boar,” the man corrected, with a sad smile. Delville could see he was loath to pass up more free drink.

  “Well then, I shall start walking, for ten minutes is a long way when a man is thirsty.”

  “This is my rig. Suppose I just give you a lift there?”

  Delville nodded and staggered to the vehicle. “You are a good man, sir. I shall buy you two glasses.”

  “Can’t say no to that, but I’ll never get used to this sir business.” He grinned to reveal a missing front tooth. “My friends call me Hop.”

  When Hop was several tumblers ahead of Delville, who had been liberally spilling his drinks or tipping them into his compatriot’s glass when he wasn’t looking, Delville slipped out of the establishment ostensibly to relieve himself. He left money on the table, as if in a moment of drunken fugue. It should be enough to keep the man in his cups for at least an hour, and then who knew what other delays might proceed?