by Betina Krahn
“She loooves him. I never stood a chance. Well, he can have ’er. Serves him right—a vixen for a wife. They deserve each other.”
He shambled on down the road repeating that last phrase until it began to truly mean something to him. They deserved each other. By the time he reached Betancourt’s kitchen and threw open the door, he was ready for some coffee and something to douse the fire that good Irish whiskey had started in his stomach.
He had some thinking to do.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Daisy put off going downstairs the next morning, enlisting Collette’s help to cure her swollen eyes and prepare for the most difficult day of her life. A poultice of black tea, it seemed, was the remedy for such swelling. Collette fussed about, anxious because she had never seen her mistress so tense and dispirited, or with eyes puffy from crying.
When Daisy descended with flagging steps to the morning room, she was shocked to find Arthur sitting among her family, chatting amicably and looking only slightly more fatigued than she was.
“Daisy, my dear.” He rose and poured her a cup of coffee, then ushered her to a seat. “I have decided to go to London with you,” he said. “I know you will be busy shopping and visiting”—he covered her hand on the table with his—“but surely you can find some time for your future husband.” His smile and his hand on hers were oddly determined.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said. “We have plenty of room.”
“I have to meet with Mr. Drexel on marriage matters—contracts and such. But I’ll have time of an evening for some socializing. Besides, your Uncle Red could use some male companionship. Yesterday the girls were using him as a yarn rack”—he held up his hands, a foot apart, in demonstration—“for their needlework.”
And there it was—no scene, no hysterics, not even any discussion. Her future and the betrothal that yesterday had been in shambles would go on as planned. Harmony had been restored, though she had no idea how or why.
As they climbed aboard carriages later and headed for the train station, trailing a mountain of baggage and two horses, Daisy felt her mother’s eyes watching her, even as she watched Arthur. But he showed no signs of his previous temper and rejection. He was in all things the doting groom-to-be.
It almost made her feel worse than if he’d railed, denounced her to her family, and tossed them all out on their arses. Almost.
By that night, as they settled into their London house, some of her angst and suspicion had subsided. She waited until dinner and some music from Claire’s violin had mellowed her mood to invite him out onto the terrace with her. He took her hand, smiled, and accompanied her.
“You’re wondering,” he said, leveling a thoughtful gaze on her.
“I am. A day ago, you were ready to denounce me to the world.”
“I never would have, Daisy. I was sore and my pride was singed. Fortunately I came to my senses in time to prevent real damage.”
“You truly want the wedding to go on?” She searched his face in the light from the French doors. “Knowing”—she couldn’t bring herself to say those hurtful words to him again—“what you know?”
“I am convinced that you and I can be amicable partners. And that love will grow between us as it should. Besides, we won’t have Ashton around Betancourt forever. I’m making it part of the wedding settlement that he receive funds to go to America to start a new life.” He studied her reaction without giving her any insight into his own. “Does that comfort you?”
“Yes.” She drew a deep breath and her tension drained as she saw the sincerity in his face. Nobility seemed etched into his every feature and texture. “Very much so.”
He saw her to the bottom of the stairs in the entry hall, and this time his good-night kiss fell exactly where he intended: square in the middle of her forehead.
* * *
Monsieur Pirouette, dressmaker to the wealthiest and most elegant ladies of London society, dropped everything to attend Miss Daisy Bumgarten’s request for a wedding gown and trousseau. Anything for the future duchess and her lovely young sisters, he crooned, ushering them into his lair a day later. The place was a warren of fabric stacks, cutting tables, newfangled sewing machines, dressmaker forms, and mirrors that created an illusion that there was no end to the monsieur’s domain. His assistants whisked the girls into dressing rooms where they were measured, fitted, and dazzled by a rich array of fabrics and the latest styles from Paris.
It turned out to be a small matter to get M. Pirouette to dig deep into his contacts among London’s elite for the whereabouts of one Reynard Boulton, otherwise known as the Fox. By midafternoon, a message Pirouette had sent was answered in person by none other than the Fox himself.
No stranger to backdoor dealings, he appeared at the alley entrance to Pirouette’s and was quickly shown to a fitting room where Daisy was dressing behind a screen.
“Ah,” the Fox said as she peeked over the top of the screen and broke into a beaming smile. “You. I would leave this instant, but I am apparently a glutton for punishment.”
“Good to see you, too, Reynard,” she said, sliding gingerly out of a skeleton of a dress that was full of chalk marks and silk pins. “You probably know more about who goes where than anyone in London.”
“Silver-tongued temptress,” he said dryly. “You’re trying to turn my head.”
“Just to persuade you to help me find . . . someone.” She stepped into another bit of the seductive armor fashionable females wore in the battle of the sexes and dragged it up onto her shoulders.
“Dare I guess who?” he said, picking up a pair of silky knickers with one finger and tilting his head, imagining.
“I suspect you know. I need to see him and I have no idea where to start. He’s not at the place he usually stays—that Sever It House.”
He smirked at her mispronunciation. “Severin. And that’s because he’s skinned, again, and spending his nights trying to enlarge what little coin he has left at the tables. Could be at any one of a dozen places.”
“Is he . . . all right?” She gripped the top of the screen, standing on tiptoes, not caring that her anxiety for Ashton showed.
“He’s Ash. He’ll survive.”
“Can you find out where he’ll be tomorrow night and send me word?”
“I suppose I could. If I were sufficiently motivated,” he said, rocking back, clearly considering how he might make use of such information.
“How about . . . I promise never to lock you in a room with my three sisters,” she said, with wicked intent.
His jaunty mood dampened. “You don’t have to be so vicious. A simple ‘please, milord’ would have sufficed.”
An hour later, Reynard entered the bar of the Savoy and spotted Redmond Strait propped at the mahogany railing with a glass of fine Irish in his hand. The roguish old prospector had sent him an urgent message asking to meet at the elegant hotel’s bar . . . about the same time Daisy’s message arrived asking for a meeting. Red waved him over and offered him a drink.
“Scotch,” he told the bartender, and they adjourned to a nearby table.
“What is this about?” Reynard asked, propping the head of his walking stick against the table and removing his hat and gloves, setting them aside.
“You know a whole lot o’ folks, right?”
“I think that could be fairly said of me.” Reynard had never considered modesty a virtue.
“Well, I need to find somebody.” Red threw back the rest of his Irish and motioned to the bartender for another.
“And who might that be?” Reynard studied the westerner, dead certain now that the two favors he was undertaking would align, saving time.
“Ashton Graham. He’s gone missin’.”
“Ummm. And what do you want with him?”
“I wanna wrap my fingers ’round his throat and throttle him within an inch o’ his miser’ble life.” Red scratched his grizzled chin and narrowed one eye, taking on a piratical air.
“Oh, well
, you may have to get in the queue, old boy.” Reynard nodded to the bartender, who set his drink before him and sipped. “The way he’s blowing through gaming establishments in the unsavory precincts of town, he’s making a fair number of enemies. As clever at cards and dice as he is, he has only one neck, and far too many people want to wring it.”
“Damn.” Red turned that over in his mind, not liking the sound of it. “Looks like I’ll just have to get to ’im first.” He leaned over the table toward Reynard, who flinched in spite of himself. “Where do I find ’im?”
* * *
The Chancery was a gambling den where wealthy patrons from Mayfair dared to rub elbows with a dangerous, sometimes criminal crowd. It was quite the thing in certain well-heeled circles for men to dip their toes in an exciting bit of iniquity. Situated near the river, west and south of St. James, the gaming house occupied what was once a wealthy trader’s town house, and was run by a woman whose beam and tonnage rivaled the White Star Line’s best steamer.
Beulah MacNeal sat on a substantial settee on a mezzanine overlooking the bustling floor of the Chancery, and she spotted them the minute they came in, dressed in rumpled suits, with hair sparse and eyes shifty. . . . They were out of place and seemed to know it. The shorter, skinnier one jumped at every burst of laughter or crack of a dealer’s shoe. The taller, heavier one was clearly looking for someone and maneuvered them to a clear space near the bar, where they could see the trade arrive. As they waited they filched food from the trays coming out of the nearby kitchen, filling their mouths and then pockets with stolen morsels.
They didn’t have to wait long; in lumbered two robust specimens she knew to be knucklers—men who did messy jobs for people who didn’t want to get their hands dirty. She watched as the pairs met, talked, and struck some kind of bargain.
* * *
“He’ll be here any time,” Bertram, Baron Beesock, told the hired bruisers. “I’ll signal like this when he enters.” He pulled on his ear.
“Remember,” Seward put in, from behind Bertram’s shoulder, “he’s no novice to fisticuffs, so don’t let him get in the first swing.”
“Forget niceties. A knock on the head from behind is as good as a punch in the face to drop him,” Bertram said, narrowing his eyes. “Once he’s down, you can take your time breaking ribs and gouging eyes. Make him pay. But before he passes out, be sure to tell him his uncles say “Go to Hell.”
“What about th’ money?” one of the punishers demanded.
Bertram handed over a small, worn bit of leather that jingled.
“Feels light.” The fellow peeked inside and scowled. “The guv said we wus to collect first.”
“We’ll be watching from the roof,” Bertram said. “When it’s done, you’ll get the rest.” As the brutes backed off to watch the door, he smirked. “Ashton does well at the tables, he’ll have money on him. There’s a certain bit of justice, don’t you think, in him paying his own punishers.”
“We better hope he has enough on him to do so”—Seward watched the way one of their hirelings popped his big boney knuckles, and swallowed hard—“because we’re flat broke.”
* * *
Far above, Beulah beckoned over one of her muscular peacekeepers, handed him a scribbled note, and sent him with that message to the fellow who had been asking after this pair . . . the Fox.
* * *
Ashton paused a moment outside the door of the Chancery, feeling a bit too sober for the kind of action he would see inside London’s most infamous gambling hell. Just setting foot in the place was asking for trouble and he’d already had more than enough trouble to last a while. He explored his tender jaw, moving it from side to side. Sore losers were becoming an epidemic in London’s underbelly. But just a few more nights and he’d have enough to make his way to New York and a new life.
Grimly he set his face and shoulders and entered the place. Gambling was the one activity that seemed to stave off thoughts of all he was leaving behind. Of whom he was leaving behind. He strolled the perimeter of the playing floor, sizing up the competition and choosing a table of likely players. He had just snagged a brandy from the bar and was headed to a seat when a small mountain stepped into his path. Before he knew it, the bruiser was pushing him back behind a nearby column, where another big bloke waited to yank his arms behind him, and wrestle him to the back door.
He resisted, but calling for help never crossed his mind. This was a known hazard of his recent occupation—hard persuasions from unhappy tablemates and henchmen with more beef than brains. He’d dealt with such before and wasn’t overly concerned when they shoved him out into the damp, ill-lit alley. He stumbled and righted himself, turning to spread his arms and flash a disarming smile.
“Gents, this is some sort of mistake.” He watched one approach from the front with an ugly smile. He turned slowly, trying to keep both knucklers in view, but lost track of the second one. “I don’t know who sent you, but I’m quite sure I’m not the object of your strenuous intentions.”
“Yeah, you are, milord,” the closer one said, showing yellowed and decaying teeth that made Ashton pray there would be no biting involved. The next instant he was reeling from a powerful blow to the back of the head—crumpling slowly, seeing stars—and struggling to remain upright.
He got both feet under him, just in time to look up at the ham-sized fist headed straight for his nose. Instinct kicked in and he dodged, sending that blow raking the side of his head. With his skull pounding and ears ringing, he staggered and scrambled to focus the pain into a some kind of response.
A heartbeat later, he dove at the big man, knocking him back against a wall and delivering a series of furious punches. Beneath his obvious fat the bruiser bore layers of protective muscle, but that was not enough to keep him from feeling Ashton’s blows. Guttural curses and grunts of pain were all the bully-boy could manage. And then came another attack from the rear—something hard and heavy that landed across his ribs and knocked the breath from him.
Ash fell, rolled, and tried to fend off well-placed kicks and more blows with what looked to be a weighted truncheon. They’d come prepared to do real damage. In that split second, Ashton realized he was in a fight for his life.
* * *
Arthur arrived at the Chancery in a cab that refused to wait. As it drove away, he stood on the cracked pavement, eyeing the light and noise coming from the shaded windows, and the heavy door that opened only from the inside. If only he’d been able to convince the Fox to accompany him. The bounder said he had a previous commitment and flippantly wished the duke “good hunting.”
The door was opened by a large fellow with a pox-ravaged face and a piercing glare. Arthur provided Boulton’s name and that he was under instructions to consult Mrs. MacNeal, the proprietress. Whispers were passed to smaller men dressed as waiters, who led him to the rear of the establishment and up a set of substantial stairs. He had noticed the mezzanine overlooking the playing floor as he followed them, but had failed to see the very large woman sitting above it all, watching the trade below with a keen interest.
“The Fox sent you?” she asked, looking him over.
He nodded, momentarily dumbstruck.
She waved a hand at a nearby chair and he perched on the edge of it, trying not to stare at her greatly exaggerated curves and overly abundant bosoms. The candlelight surrounding her was kind, but couldn’t soften the calculating glint in her eyes. Her melodious voice was as compelling as a stage magician’s.
“You are looking for someone,” she crooned. “Who?”
“Ashton Graham,” Arthur said, feeling very much out of place. “My brother. I was told he would be here tonight.”
She looked to the runner standing nearby, dressed in black. He bent to her ear and after a moment she nodded. “He was here. I believe he met with some gents who escorted him outside . . . into the alley. Not really my business, what happens outside my walls. Perhaps you’d like to go and see if he’s still there.” She n
odded to her assistant, who led Arthur down the steps and around tables of well-lubricated gamblers and revelers to a rear door.
The heavy door slammed behind him the minute he stepped into the dim alley, and it took a moment for him to realize that the thrashing bundle on the ground was Ashton and that the hulking fellow nearby was kicking the living daylights out of him. Shocked, Arthur looked around and saw a second bruiser rising from a pile of refuse with a vicious smirk. His brother—they were beating Ash!
Before he realized what he was doing, he seized the first thing at hand—an oak stave from a broken barrel. Raising it with both hands, he came up behind the bastard who had just gained his feet, and with a fury he’d never experienced before, swung that wood for all he was worth.
The force of the blow exploded up his arms and jarred his very teeth, but he lunged forward and swung back the other way in a blind fury. The thug bent with the first blow, gasping for air, but the second blow connected hard with the back of his head and he dropped like a plank.
Arthur’s presence registered with the second man, who turned from Ash to brandish his truncheon at Arthur with a sneer. “You wanna taste o’ this, pretty boy?” The second bruiser’s foot caught as he lunged, and he stumbled straight into Arthur’s swinging club.
Arthur called to Ash and headed for him, but his opponent shook off the blow and came upright. Ash whipped around on the ground to grab his ankles and send him sprawling. Seconds later, Ash was on him, landing blows of pain and fury, snarling, incoherent with rage.
Arthur came to his senses first, and grabbed Ashton—“Enough! He’s done!”—pulling him back, then off the inert thug.
Everything was still except their pounding hearts and heaving chests. As the roar of blood receded in his head, Arthur helped Ashton to his feet and led him over to a pile of discarded pallets and broken barrels. He pushed Ash to a seat on an overturned half barrel and inspected his face.
