The Duke of St. Giles

by Jillian Eaton

She murmured something unintelligible under her breath.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I did not quite catch that.”

  “Oh, that’s Lady Prudence,” Bettina said with a wave of her hand. “She’s only recently joined us from America. New York, wouldn’t you know. Such a dear, but a bit shy. You will have to excuse her.”

  “I see. Well ladies, it has been an honor, but I fear I must depart.”

  “So soon?” Theresa pouted. “But you’ve only just gotten here. And you haven’t even met Lady Eugenia or—”

  “My maid is not feeling well,” Sullivan interceded with a pitying glance in Mattie’s direction. “I fear the heat has gotten to her. I did tell her to wear something a bit lighter, but she does so like her dark, simple garb. Good afternoon, ladies. I am sure we will meet again.”

  Mattie’s jaw dropped, but before she could manage to snap out a scathing reply Sullivan turned on his heel, leaving her scrambling to catch up.

  “Who was that in the middle?” she demanded once they were out of earshot. For even she could tell whoever the woman was, she certainly wasn’t Lady Prudence.

  “That,” Sullivan said grimly as he took Mattie’s arm and towed her beside him as though she were a piece of baggage, “was Lady Amelia Collinsworth.”

  Mattie tried to tug free, but Sullivan’s grip was like iron, giving her no choice but to break into a trot to keep up or risk being dragged. “And who,” she panted as they left the village square behind and headed back towards their carriage, “is Lady Amelia Collinsworth?”

  “Only the woman West has been accused of murdering.”

  “But she is alive!” Mattie gasped. “Which means—”

  “Which means we’re going to London.”

  That evening, in a townhouse on the outskirts of St. Giles, West met with his second-in-command from the safety and security of his personal study.

  Niles Thompson, the same weedy, blond-haired thief who’d delivered Emily to West’s estate, listened to his employer in grave silence, his watery brown eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he absorbed the gravity of what West was saying.

  “That’s it then?” he asked in his rough, cockney accented voice once West had finally finished. “That’s the way of it now?”

  West brought his hands together atop his wide, sturdily built oak desk and nodded. “That’s the way of it now.”

  Never a man of many words but one who was far more intelligent and wily than his outer appearance would suggest, Niles mulled over everything he’d been told before he inclined his narrow chin in a short, clipped nod. “Fine.”

  West’s eyebrows rose. Considering the magnitude of what he was asking, he’d expected more of a response than ‘fine’. “It’s dangerous work,” he elaborated with a sweep of his arm. “Men will try to kill you. Women will attempt to woo you. Children will rob you blind.” He knew he wasn’t telling Niles anything he didn’t already know, but guilt and doubt rested in equal measure on his shoulders, making him uneasy. In his head he knew there wasn’t a better man in all of England to take over as the Duke of St. Giles, but in his heart… in his heart he was still struggling to let go.

  Let go of the only life he’d ever known.

  Let go of all the control he’d grown accustomed to.

  Let go of the title that was as part of him as his own name.

  Still, in the end, West knew it was for the best. He couldn’t have the new life he wanted and still keep the old. It was time to move on. Time to pass the torch to someone who still had the stomach for things he was beginning to struggle with. Time to let go of everything he’d built before it was taken from him by force.

  “Can’t say as I would mind being wooed.” Niles grinned, revealing a front tooth that had been chipped during a brawl two years ago; an injury he’d sustained by taking a punch meant for West. He’d broken his jaw in the same fight, and countless other bones since. He was ruthless and cunning and intelligent but more importantly than that – most importantly, to West’s mind – he was of St. Giles, and he cared for the rookery and all the people within it as a child would its mother. For that was the true responsibility of the Duke. To make money, aye, but to also be a leader for the leaderless and a voice for the voiceless. To stand up for people who didn’t know how to stand up for themselves. To ensure that amidst the chaos, there remained a certain sense of order.

  Standing, West went to his liquor cabinet and, reaching into the far corner, procured a bottle of whiskey. The first bottle, he recalled as he used his sleeve to wipe off a film of dust from the glass, he’d ever smuggled in from Scotland. He had been a nameless, faceless lad of nineteen then, so terrified of being caught his knees had knocked together the entire way home. Pouring two shots, he handed one to Niles and kept the other for himself.

  “To St. Giles,” he said, tipping his glass up.

  “St. Giles,” Niles echoed.

  They drank in silence, and let the whisky burn down their throats and pool in their bellies without speaking, each consumed with his own thoughts.

  Finally, when the candles began to sputter and the light in the room dimmed, West sat back behind his desk and pulled out a stack of papers with brisk efficiency. “I am signing over this townhouse and all its contents to you, as well as the tenement on Drover and the warehouse on the corner of Fourth and Hainswood. I will leave my men with orders to report to you without question. Which,” he said with a wink, “I believe they already do now. Congratulations, Mr. Thompson. You have just become a very wealthy man and a duke to boot.”

  Niles’ mouth opened. Shut. For once, he seemed truly at a loss for words. Not because he was refraining from saying something, but because he could not think of a single thing to say.

  Taking quill in hand, West signed his name and the date at the bottom of the deed before sliding it across the desk. “It only requires your mark, although I would advise you to learn how to read and write and speak without sounding as though you’ve just climbed out of a gutter.” He spoke without rancor or judgment, for before he’d taken it upon himself to do the same he had been exactly like Niles was now: illiterate and in possession of an accent so thick it was nigh on impossible for anyone outside of St. Giles to understand a word he said. All things considered, learning how to correctly enunciate his ‘R’s had been one of the hardest tasks he’d ever undertaken.

  Noting his successor’s uncharacteristically overwhelmed expression, he bit back a chuckle. “You will be fine. This is what you still want?”

  Niles straightened in his chair and ran a hand through his mop of blond hair. “More than anything.”

  “Then you’ll do a fine job of it. Some things you’ll muck up but you’ve a good head on your shoulders and the people already respect you. Pick one or two men you would trust with the life of your firstborn, damn the rest, and always stay one step ahead of the Runners.”

  “Is that why you’re getting out? I’ve heard the rumors about the murder…” Niles’ voice trailed off. His fingers tightened around the arms of his chair until his knuckles gleamed white in the muted lighting, and he bared his teeth in a grimace. “I wanted to tell you I don’t believe them. No one who knows you does.”

  Which was, in and of itself, a small comfort. West embraced his reputation as a hard, ruthless criminal with open arms. Encouraged, it even. But to be known as a murderer… as the murderer of a woman… even he had his limits. “No. The man accusing me has a grudge of a personal nature.” Which will be dealt with soon enough, he added silently.

  Now that he’d more or less handed off his title and all the responsibilities that went with it to Niles, making Collinsworth drop his baseless charges was the next – and final – item on his list. With enough money tucked away to see himself well into the next year, he planned on retiring to Rosemore for at least the next six months or so to try his hand at being a gentleman farmer before he reentered London as the new manager and co-owner of Darkhall. He knew the transition would not be without its fair share of difficult
ies, and he anticipated feeling the pull of St. Giles from time to time, but he was ready for a new chapter. Ready for a new beginning. Ready for a new life with Emily by his side.

  “Then why?” Niles persisted.

  For a man of few words, Niles was certainly asking his fair share of questions. Faintly amused, West stood up and shrugged into his waistcoat. The hour may have been late, but that didn’t mean he still did not have business to conduct. “Why what?” he asked, deliberately feigning ignorance.

  “Why are you doing it? Why are you getting out?”

  “For the only reason you ever should.”

  Getting to his feet as well, Niles followed West to the door. “Which is?”

  “Nothing short of true love.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Would you care to dance?”

  Emily looked down at the gloved hand shoved unceremoniously in her face and followed it up to the man it belonged to. He was tall and tidily dressed, wearing a waistcoat that was neither too flashy nor too dull. His brown hair was swept back from his temples, revealing a countenance that boasted a straight nose and square jaw. He was handsome and, judging by the cut and fabric of his attire, quite wealthy. His expression was kind, his voice pleasant. He even smelled nice, like leather and pine. In short, he was everything Emily was looking for in a husband. More than that, he was everything she needed in a husband.

  Except for one tiny detail.

  He wasn’t West.

  “No thank you,” she said politely. “I believe I will sit this one out.”

  The man smiled, revealing matching dimples. “As you’ve sat out every other one since you arrived? I have been watching you,” he said when Emily blinked at him. “It’s impossible not to when you are by far the prettiest woman in the room. Why are you hiding in the corner? You should be center stage in the middle of the room.”

  “Well perhaps I am hiding in the corner of the room for precisely that very reason, Lord...”

  “Kinsley,” he said easily. “Mr. Trevor Kinsley, at your service my lady. And might I have the pleasure of knowing who you are in turn?”

  “Lady Emily Wilmington.”

  If Kinsley recognized her name he didn’t show it, for which Emily was rather quite grateful. She despised how a man would treat her one way when he didn’t know her father was a duke, only to treat her entirely differently once he found out, as though suddenly she’d become a woman of great importance instead of just another wallflower. “A lovely name for a lovely lady,” he said, and Emily rolled her eyes.

  “I fear your flattery will get you nowhere with me, Mr. Kinsley.”

  He withdrew his hand, but did not step away. Behind him couples moved together in an energized waltz, colorful skirts flying in time with the music. The ballroom was well at capacity and it seemed everyone who was anyone in the London social scene was in attendance. Emily had decided to accept her handwritten invitation at the last possible minute, not because she wanted to spend the night surrounded by her peers, but because she knew her father was worried about her.

  He hadn’t come right out and said anything – such wasn’t his way – but she knew he was concerned nevertheless. She’d vowed Petunia to secrecy in regards to West, and she had yet to tell her father about her true feelings, but she suspected he knew something wasn’t quite right. Since her return he’d been handling her with kid gloves, as though one false word would send her into tears.

  Emily supposed, in some ways, she’d been doing the same with him seeing as she had yet to confront him about their financial ruin. Unfortunately, whenever the moment presented itself she could not seem to find the right words. She had hoped to never have to say anything. She had prayed that she would be able to quickly find a suitable husband who would be wealthy enough to pay off her father’s debts, but try as she might her heart wasn’t in it and even though she knew it made her a horrible daughter, she feared she would never be able to marry for duty instead of love.

  Still, mayhap she owed it to her father – and to herself – to at least give it an honest effort. Before she could talk herself out of it she stood up and held her arm out towards Kinsley. “You’ve managed to charm me into one waltz, Mr. Kinsley.”

  His dark eyebrows lifted. “Have I then?”

  “You have indeed.”

  Emily could not remember the last time she’d danced, but her legs remembered the steps well enough and soon she was gliding with – more or less – effortless grace across the room.

  Of all the dances, the waltz was the most intimate. First introduced by Baron Neuman only four years ago, it had recently gained popularity after finally being approved by the notoriously prudish patronesses of Almack’s which was to Emily’s favor as she vastly preferred it to the intricate, often confusing steps of the quadrille and cotillion.

  Halfway through she even began to enjoy herself, and when Kinsley smiled down at her she found herself smiling back up at him in return.

  “You are quite light on your feet,” he observed.

  “And you seem quite surprised.”

  His smile turned slightly rakish. “If I am it is only because I have suffered gravely at the hands of wallflowers before. Or rather I should say my feet have suffered.”

  “Did you just call me a wallflower?”

  “I believe I did. You were sitting in the corner by yourself,” Kinsley pointed out.

  Emily bit back a grin. “So I was,” she agreed. “But only because I did not want to dance, not because I wasn’t asked.”

  Kinsley threw back his head and barked out a laugh. “Thank you for that distinction. And here I found myself feeling sorry for you. I shall remedy that immediately.”

  “Please see that you do.” She liked him, Emily realized. She liked his appearance and the gleam of intelligence in his warm brown eyes. She liked that he was able to banter without being patronizing, and she liked that even though he’d thought her a wallflower and even though he had no idea who her father was, he had wanted to dance with her anyways.

  He was a kind man. A decent man. Exactly the sort of man she could find herself happily married to… if her heart did not already belong to another. For even now, even in the arms of a handsome man who had every quality any young lady could ever dream of in a husband, she looked at him and thought only of West.

  “I am sorry.” She pulled free of his grasp two notes before the music ended, and when he looked at her in confusion she apologized again. “It is not you. I never should have… that is to say I…”

  “Have I said something to upset you?” Kinsley asked, his brow creasing.

  “No. No, you haven’t.” All around them the dancers broke apart and clapped politely while the musicians took a brief respite. Within moments the room swelled with the sound of voices and Emily found herself pushed right back up against Kinsley as men and women began to mill about in tiny groups of twos and threes. She brought her hands up against his chest to steady herself, and he grasped her wrists.

  “You look pale, Lady Emily. Let me fetch you a glass of water and escort you outside.”

  Both of those things sounded positively delightful, but Emily shook her head. “I do not want to give you the wrong impression, Mr. Kinsley. I never should have danced with you to begin with. You see, I am—”

  “In love with someone else,” he guessed.

  Emily stared up at him in shock. “Why yes, but how did you—”

  “Because the emotions I see written all over your face are the same I feel myself.” He gently squeezed her wrists before taking a step back. “Stay here while I get us both a refreshment. Something a bit stronger than water, I believe.” One eye closed in a wink. “Then we can get some fresh air out on the terrace and compare our wretched love lives to make ourselves feel better. That is the saying, is it not? Misery loves company.”

  When he put it that way… “I would like that very much.”

  After a brief wait Emily found herself with a champagne glass in hand and escorted
outside onto one of the ballroom’s half dozen terraces. Glancing down to see the ground dropped sharply away beneath them she stayed close to the door while Kinsley, apparently unfazed by the height at which they found themselves, leaned carelessly against the iron railing.

  “Who has accompanied you tonight?” he asked before he tipped back his flute of champagne and took a long, deliberate sip.

  “My companion, Miss Petunia Weatherby.” Who would be understandably scandalized if she discovered her young charge out on a terrace unsupervised and in the company of a stranger.

  “And the man who has stolen your heart?”

  Emily lifted her own glass of champagne with a trembling hand and swallowed far more of the golden liquid than she should have. It slid down her throat in a delightful froth of bubbles and pooled in her belly, filling her with warmth despite the slight chill in the late spring air. “I cannot tell you his name.”

  As he seemed rather prone to doing, Kinsley cracked another smile. “That bad, is it?”

  “You could say that,” she mumbled.

  “You must tell me more than that. Is he old? Married? Does he have gout? He has gout, doesn’t he?” Kinsley shook his head. “You poor thing.”

  “For heaven's sake he does not have gout.” For the second time during their brief acquaintance Emily rolled her eyes. “And even if he were old or married why would I tell you? You are a stranger. I should not even be out on this terrace with you.”

  “And yet here you are,” he said with a mocking sweep of his arm. “And here I am because it’s easier, I think, to speak to a stranger instead of a friend.”

  Emily took a smaller sip of champagne and eyed Kinsley over the curved rim of her glass. “Are we not friends, then?”

  “No,” he said, sounding appalled at the very idea. “You are only a tolerable dancer and you’re in love with an old man suffering from gout. I could never be friends with someone like that.”

  It was, Emily thought absently, the oddest conversation she’d had in quite some time. And given the recent circumstances with which she found herself under, that was certainly saying something. Still, Kinsley was right. It truly did seem easier to say things to a complete stranger that she could not say to her father or Petunia or even to West.