The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  The letter was a tattered and well-loved mess now, being nearly five months old. Egg would surely be back from her wedding trip soon, if not already. Jeb was to check the posting inn at Brompton when he left Mr. Bottoms’s shop. Just another reason Olivia was on tenterhooks. While she longed for a letter from Egg, she dreaded what tidings the new Lady Bertram might have of the duke.

  He was likely married by now, though she had heard nothing of the marriage. But then she had stopped getting the papers when they had moved to the Point. And news, even of that magnitude, would never find its way to their tiny corner of the world.

  Olivia grabbed her cloak. She needed to get out of the house. Perhaps they would have chicken for dinner…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Daria’s maid stood as sentinel, squarely in front of the door, but when she saw it was the duke, she quickly moved aside. The woman was fiercely loyal but never a fool.

  He found Daria in the back sitting room next to a roaring fire.

  She was much altered. She looked so much smaller. It had only been a few months, but her soft, fleshy roundness had collapsed, her skin falling into slack, watery folds. She sat huddled in a large shawl, though the room was quite warm.

  “What have you to do with Olivia Weston?” he demanded.

  “How dare you burst into my private rooms and talk to me of that harlot.” But her voice sounded dull and lifeless.

  “Have you forgotten, madam, I pay for this house?” He charged across the room to her writing desk and began to look through her mess of papers. “And isn’t that rather the pot calling the kettle black?”

  “You are in quite a state, Monsieur Monk.”

  There was nothing but bills and ladies magazines. Disgusted, Rhys crossed back to her and leaned over her chair. “I am not in the mood for your games, Daria. Tell me what you were doing purchasing a painting of Mrs. Weston’s.”

  “You, my dear duke, have gone mad. I do not have the slightest notion of what you are ranting about. Now get out, you are blocking the fire.” She reached for a bottle by her elbow.

  Rhys stayed her hand. “You will answer me now, or shall I call in the Runners? It is your choice, but I warn you, you will fare much better talking to me.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, trying to get the bottle.

  Clearly Daria had replaced food with drink. Rhys held the brandy away from her. “Then you had better not test me, woman. Speak up.”

  “I know nothing of a painting.” She adjusted her shawl. “She came to me some months ago spouting some wild nonsense. She had the audacity to accuse me of starting that paltry fire at her shop. I sent her packing. I have not seen her since.”

  Rhys leaned in closer. “God help you if you did, Daria. God help you.”

  “Oh, do back away. You know I would never stoop to such loathsome dramatics.” But her gaze would not meet his.

  He backed away, afraid he might throttle her. “What do you know of a Monsieur Oeuf?”

  “Monsieur Oeuf? As in Egg?”

  “Yes, by God, the painter, Mr. Oeuf!”

  She only gave him a blank look.

  “Do you deny you were in Mr. Atticus Bottoms’s shop last week and purchased a painting?”

  “Oh that dreadful, dark thing? Lord, I would not have it on my walls for anything, all globs of paint slapped onto the poor canvas. You could not even tell if the people were meant to be lovers.” She snorted and eyed the bottle, wetting her lips. “I don’t know why he was so keen on the horrid thing. It was atrocious. I told him as much, but he insisted on having it.”

  Rhys set down the bottle, grasped the arms of her chair and leaned in. “Who insisted?”

  Daria shut her mouth.

  “Who was he, damn it? I know there was a man with you.”

  Daria drew herself up a little straighter in her chair. “A friend.”

  Rhys studied her for a long moment. Then he straightened and pulled the shawl from around her neck and shoulders. “Not much of a ‘friend,’ Daria. You are a fool to protect such a one.”

  Daria covered the bruises on her neck. Her other arm lay useless, encased in a sling.

  “Dee Gooden is dead,” He said and Daria’s gaze snapped to his. The first sign of life he had seen in her. “The body was nearly unrecognizable. I have no idea if this ‘friend’ of yours is responsible, but make no mistake, I will find out. Are you sure you have nothing to tell me?”

  She turned her head away from him and toward the fire. “Get out,” she said quietly. “Get out and leave me alone. I will tell you nothing.” She reached for the brandy.

  He believed her. He turned and left the room.

  As Rhys mounted his horse, he felt a tug on his cloak. He turned to see Foster, Daria’s maid.

  “It was Lord Biden, Your Grace,” the maid said. “Oscar Biden. That’s who done this to her.”

  Oscar Biden? Then it came to him. Lord Biden had been a favorite cohort of Rhys’s father. Rhys nodded to the maid and shortened his reins. But the woman grabbed him again.

  “You’ll see that he pays, won’t you, Your Grace?”

  “You may be assured of that, Foster,” he said, meeting her pleading gaze. “Thank you.” And he set his heels to Sid.

  “Biden,” Rhys cursed under his breath. Daria had indeed, sunk low. He’d heard the rumors, like everyone else. What if the man had Olivia?

  Rhys spurred Sid on, urging his mount to go faster through the gathering gloom.

  At White’s the majordomo had no information. “Lord Biden has not been a member for a number of years, Your Grace.” The man’s pursed lips made it very clear Biden had not chosen to quit the exclusive gentlemen’s club. “We attempted to send several bills to a residence in Dudley Street, but we were told his lordship had long departed that particular house and the landlord had no information as to his new apartments.”

  Still, Rhys went to Dudley Street. The landlord mentioned having to turn away several unscrupulous characters who came to call upon Biden. None resembled Dee Gooden. He recognized one or two as moneylenders. Biden had departed in the middle of the night owing five months rent. The man frowned. “I cannot be sure, but I believe there was some rumor as to his leaving for the continent.”

  Rhys pushed on to some of the seedier Hells throughout the city asking about moneylenders, but no one he contacted had seen the man.

  The next morning Rhys went to the docks, but if Biden had departed the country, he had not used his real name.

  The next three days brought no new information to light. Rhys spent every night in some brothel or gambling Hell and his days in the City with moneylenders or haunting Mr. Bottoms’s shop.

  He had just come from seeing a Mr. Ephraim Kline who had lent Biden fifty pounds just over three months ago. Mr. Kline would pay good money to anyone who found Biden.

  If only this infernal rain would stop. The London roads were like a stew—a thick brown gruel with bits of unrecognizable stuff sloshing up against one’s boots. And with the turn of unseasonably warm weather, the stench of summer had returned. Rhys dumped his soaking greatcoat and beaver in Safley’s arms. The butler frowned at the muddy puddle collecting on the floor.

  “Your Grace.” Wilcove held out a note. “This came for you about an hour and a quarter ago. The young man, Gibbons, I be—”

  “Gibbons?” Rhys tore the note open. “I need a horse. Now!”

  ****

  “Your Grace, I am desolate!” Mr. Bottoms yapped at Rhys’s heels like a terrier after a rat. “The young rube did not know what he had. This piece was quite different from Monsieur Ouef’s last works. It was pastoral and almost serene, but that is the impression only at first glance. One must look deeper and feel rather than see the turmoil hidden beneath the layers of paint.” The duke stopped his pacing and turned to silence the man. But Mr. Bottoms, mistakenly thinking he finally had the duke’s attention, spread his arms wide in a grand gesture and made his hands into claws “That great yew tree crowded into t
he corner of the scene, yet lowering over the whole painting.”

  “Have done! How do you imagine the description of a bloody painting will help us?” Rhys began pacing again. How could one think with that man yammering about turmoil and trees? “The boy gave no hint as to his direction?”

  “No, Your Grace. But I—that is Gibbons—” Mr. Bottoms pulled at one of the side curls of his wig, until it canted ridiculously over his ear.

  “Go on, man. You must tell me everything.”

  “Well, Your Grace, Gibbons happened to let slip it was you who wanted the painting.” Rhys took a step closer. Bottoms cringed as if preparing for an attack on his person, and his next words came in a rush. “When the boy heard that, he took off like a jack rabbit.” Rhys wheeled away lest he actually give in to his urge to do damage to the man. “I immediately sent Gibbons to fetch you just as you directed,” said Bottoms, nearly in tears. “I was unable to follow the lad. I could not leave the shop, and it was raining again. I was all on my own—”

  But Rhys heard no more as he left the shop yet again. The door banged shut behind him, and the wind and wet took over. Where to look? He squinted through the rain, looking up and down and into the alley.

  Nothing.

  Then he saw it. A passing coach’s lantern flared on the object. Rhys leapt toward the gutter, thrusting his hands into the muck before he lost his sense of the thing’s placement.

  It was a watch. Smashed and broken, but had been a fine piece. Dear God, he recalled something Bottoms had said about a fine watch.

  Rhys rushed back into the shop. “Is this the young man’s watch?”

  Bottoms took only a moment. “Why yes, Your Grace! It is the Henlein I was telling you of. I was devastated not—”

  Rhys flipped the case over. Blood. Bottoms gasped.

  But Rhys was halfway across the shop, headed for the alleyway.

  His brain went into an analytical frenzy. The watch had stopped at twelve. There was no minute hand on a watch this old, but Mr. Bottoms said the boy had arrived shortly after Gibbons had set out a pot of tea. They usually had tea at twelve. Bottoms had offered the young man refreshment in the hopes of prolonging his stay. But once spooked, the young man must have left within the next ten minutes or so, which would put the time at approximately a quarter past twelve. He would have been attacked within that hour. The dark, cave-like alley seemed the most logical place.

  The rain had nearly stopped, now falling as only a soft tap onto his hat and into puddles. Rhys drew a knife from his boot and stepped into the mouth of the alley. Something skittered off to his left, and a dog barked in the distance.

  Black eaves and jagged rooftops slanted over the narrow alleyway, blocking out what little light there was. A sudden wind blew and broken shutters creaked and flapped against the brick and mortar. But worse than the dark and eerie noises, was the smell of urine sharp in his nose, mixed with garbage so rank you could cut it with a knife. And something else…

  Was that a groan? He turned toward the sound. Taking a few tentative steps, he slipped on some slimy filth. He reached out to catch an old sagging door, ripping it half off its hinges. The alley sprang to life like a candle’s flare as disturbed creatures scurried from their hidden safety. Then, just as sudden, all was silent again.

  The sweet smell of iron. Bile rose in his mouth and he swallowed. He had not slipped because of refuse. He needed no light to know he stood in a pool of blood. He had found the poor young man. His knife held before him, Rhys hefted the door back with his other hand.

  Oh, bloody Hell. What he could see of the body before him was truly piteous.

  Using the old door as a stretcher, he and Gibbons carried the boy into the shop, Mr. Bottoms fussing the entire way.

  Rhys immediately sent Gibbons for the nearest doctor and then on to Roydan House for the duke’s carriage and Dr. Asher.

  Rhys did not know if the boy would live. As yet he had not regained consciousness.

  “Hazel,” the young man groaned.

  Rhys leaned closer. “You are going to be fine, lad. We have the doctor on his way. All will be well.”

  “I must go—” He tried to rise, only to gasp in agony.

  “You must not attempt to move. You have been badly beaten and likely have some broken ribs.” Rhys leaned closer. “Can you tell me who did this to you?”

  The young man’s gaze focused on Rhys. “You are the duke, the Duke of Roydan.” He tried to smile through his torn lips. “I did not tell him—” Then he lost consciousness again.

  “Damnation!”

  The doctor came, and the young man, Jeb, gained and lost consciousness several more times. Rhys was able to ascertain it was Biden who attacked Jeb, but the boy assured Rhys he had not told Biden where Miss Olivia was staying. He was quite proud of that.

  “Young man.” Mr. Bottoms hovered over the patient. “I was wondering if you might know the whereabouts of the painting you had been carrying?”

  “Confound it, man”—Rhys nearly wrenched the man out of his wig—“have done with your nattering. Can’t you see the poor boy is in a dire way? And you talk of paintings?”

  “The painting!” Jeb jerked up, almost losing consciousness again.

  Rhys turned back to the lad. “Settle yourself, boy. No one will hold you account—”

  Jeb rolled his head back and forth, moaning. “Oh, God, you don’t understand, he has the painting. The old tree and the—he knows where she is!” He tried to get up again.

  “Be still!” Rhys barked. “What are you saying?”

  “It’s of the Point.”

  “The Point?”

  “The painting is of the old tree and the farmhouse. Biden, he knows that house. He knows where she is.” He sobbed. “God help her.”

  Rhys grabbed his shoulders, “Where?” Jeb winced, hissing in a breath. Rhys made his hands relax. He took a steadying breath. “Where Jeb, where is the Point?”

  The boy blinked in obvious pain, fighting to remain conscious. Locking eyes with Jeb, Rhys willed his own strength to seep into the boy’s broken body. Please, God, don’t let him pass out again.

  “Stokesly Hall. The Earl of Stokesly’s estate. Near Twickham.” Then Jeb collapsed.

  Oh, God. Twickham was fourteen hours’ hard ride from London.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Was he too late?

  He knew from the various inns where he had changed horses that he had been gaining on Biden, but was it enough? At the last posting house there had been only one horse to spare. Rhys decided to leave his curricle and ride the last leg of the journey. As he and his newest mount, June, rode up to Stokesly Hall, the house and yard were in chaos. A huge traveling coach and several others carrying baggage were bunched before the portico. Rhys did not even dismount.

  “You there,” he yelled to a young footman. “I am looking for a cottage somewhere at the edge of this property.”

  The servant’s eyes scanned Rhys’s mud-spattered boots and cloak, ending with his, no doubt, haggard face shadowed by whiskers. Rhys clenched his jaw. He wasn’t used to being looked over and found wanting. But clearly the young man did not want to send a fox to a henhouse.

  He seemed to have passed muster. “You’ll be meaning the Point, sir.”

  Rhys nodded. “Yes, the Point. I need the direction.”

  “It’s about sixteen or more miles down this road.” The man pointed to a smallish track leading off the main drive. Rhys’s hopes collapsed. Still so far to go.

  The servant must have read his disappointment. “But you can get there in half the time if you go by the fields.” Gesturing to the northwest, he pointed to the beginnings of a wilderness path to the left of the house. “You’ll have to take a few fences though.” The man gave June a dubious look.

  “Hodgkins! Give a hand here with this trunk.” The young man pulled his forelock. “Just be sure to keep the sun over your left shoulder, sir,” and he turned to go.

  “One more thing, man!” Rhys s
houted. “Have you seen any other horse or equipage come this way?”

  “No, sir, just the new earl’s carriages.”

  Rhys dug in his purse and flipped him a coin. The young man caught it in a flash of his hand.

  The weak sun had long disappeared in the cloud cover, but even if it had shown its face, he could not have seen it for the dense forest. Rhys reached for his watch, only to find his fob. “Damn it all.”

  June snorted and stumbled, the poor beast almost done. A while back she had balked at one of the fences, almost unseating him. Valuable time had been lost soothing her.

  He had just decided he must try for the road, when he saw it—the huge yew—rising above the other trees. The cottage must be near. It must be. He picked his way through the trees, carefully marking the direction of the yew. The forest gave way to an open field. There it was, the old tree with a house beyond.

  But was he too late?

  Keeping to the tree line, no other horse or carriage appeared in the yard, he guided June to the barn. Shards of pain shot up from his feet as he hit the ground and his legs collapsed. He grabbed for a stirrup, and June sidled away in protest. His body cramped with fatigue but he pushed up on his legs and they held. Flipping the reins over June’s neck, Rhys pushed her toward the water trough and pulled out his pistol.

  He knew he should stop and take stock of the situation. He knew he should plan the best approach for the surest success, but all he could think of was getting to her, seeing her and holding her within his arms.

  First staggering, and then, as his legs began working, running, he burst into the cottage. The painting lay on a large work table.

  He was too late.

  The blow came out of nowhere. His pistol dropped, clattering to the floor. Rhys slammed into something. Glass and crockery rained down on him. He shook his head, attempting to get his focus back, trying to blot out the pain. But worse than the physical pain, was the pain of disappointment. He was too late.

  Blood ran into his eyes. He swiped at it with his forearm and blindly reached out, his fingers finding the shape of a broken bottle. Crouching he took a step forward, dimly registering the crunch of glass under his feet, as he waved the bottle in front of him. Where was the bloody pistol? And where was Biden?