by Shana Galen
Oh, very well. Just about anything was more interesting than Lady Yorke’s soiree. Watching grass grow was more interesting, and sitting in his carriage for the last hour, circling the same street, was about as interesting as watching grass grow. He sighed and massaged his temples. He might as well sit here. It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do, since Parliament did not sit tonight. He smiled, thinking of the speech he’d given at the last session. It had been a rousing denunciation of a proposed bill to allocate more funds to help the poor.
The poor! What about the military or the farmers? What about the deuced Irish problem? Dane had argued quite successfully—as the bill had been defeated—that the poor deserved their fate. They were lazy or preferred sloth to hard work. Dirty, uneducated, and immoral, the lowest classes were barely human. Best the country look to the future—feeding its people and defending them.
As an earl, Dane not only had the responsibilities of a landowner, a peer, and a member of Parliament, he had social duties as well. He was so utterly weary of the same balls, the same insipid debutantes, the same ridiculous conversations about the weather. He hated London during the Season. And this was only the beginning. Duty could be extremely tedious.
He’d thought if he accepted invitations and made appearances, his mother, the Dowager Countess of Dane, would stop haranguing him about finding a wife. If anything, she was worse than she had been before. He should just pick a girl already and be done with it. They were all the same, at any rate.
If Brook had been sitting here, he would have rolled his eyes and said Dane had it so hard, being the earl. But not everyone could be a hero like Brook. Not everyone could go about saving people. Someone had to be ordinary.
But devil take him, if this was what Brook’s position entailed, then the man was welcome to his heroics. Dane was about to fall asleep from the sheer tedium.
The coach began to move, and Dane frowned. He hadn’t ordered his coachman to drive. Were they being waylaid by highwaymen? At least that would make the evening a bit more interesting.
And then he heard the scream.
Dane shot up and opened the curtains just as his brother’s voice called out, “Open the door. Open the bloody door!”
Dane threw open the carriage door, even though the conveyance was still moving. It slowed briefly, and Brook threw a wild animal inside the carriage. Dane jumped back, out of range of the creature’s claws, just as Brook dove inside and slammed the carriage door. “Drive!” he yelled.
The carriage lurched forward, racing at a speed that could not be safe, even had they not been on the crowded streets of London. But he had no time to worry about the jehu’s dangerous driving. The creature lunged at him, scratching at his leg and managing to get a pretty good bite of his calf. “Ow!” he yelled, shaking it off.
It fell back, and Brook threw a hood over its head. That confused it, and his brother took advantage of its disorientation and bound its hands.
Hands? It was human?
“What the devil is that?” Dane asked.
“It’s a who, and her name is Elizabeth,” Brook told him, teeth clenched with the effort it took to secure the knot in the rope binding its—her—arms.
“That is a woman?” A woman had just bitten him? Damnation, but his leg hurt like hell. He peered closer and noted the dirty dress she wore. His gaze traveled upward…yes, she was definitely a woman.
“That,” Brook said, falling back into the squabs in exhaustion, “is Lady Elizabeth Grafton.”
Dane had always thought that when the day came and his brother made a mistake—a monumental mistake, the sort Dane was exceedingly careful never to make—he would be glad. But damn if his leg did not hurt him, and he was too worried for his brother’s sanity—and truth be told, his own safety—to be able to say I told you so.
Dane glanced at the woman again. He didn’t know who she was, but she was not the daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon. She was some sort of street rat. The smell of her alone was enough to prove bathing was not a luxury she frequently, if ever, enjoyed. And her language. No lady knew words like those she’d spewed at Brook. Dane didn’t even know some of the curses. And the dirt. He’d have his valet clean these breeches immediately.
“Are you feeling well?” Dane asked. “Have you hit your head recently?”
Brook glared at him. “It’s her.”
But before Dane could dispute him, the creature—female, if Brook insisted—must have caught her breath, because she began thrashing around again. She couldn’t see with the hood over her eyes, and her claws were restrained, but she could still kick. Dane moved from one side of the seat to the other to avoid her quick feet. She would make a fearsome pugilist if her fists were as fast as her feet.
“I can’t take her to Lord Lyndon like this,” Brook said.
Dane frowned. He didn’t like the implications of that statement. When Brook didn’t go on, he suggested, “You could toss her back out on the street.” He looked out the window and saw they were in Mayfair now. Perhaps they should not unleash such a creature on Mayfair. They might keep driving and leave her somewhere safer. Somewhere like Scotland. Or the Americas.
“I’m not tossing her back on the street.”
The woman quieted, as though listening for her fate.
“We could put her on a ship. Australia might be far enough away.”
“No!” the wench cried and began thrashing again. Dane held out a hand to protect himself.
Brook rolled his eyes. “Dane.”
Dane spread his hands. “You said yourself she was a thief. That’s the least of the punishments she might receive.”
“True, but I was thinking we might reform her.”
Dane narrowed his eyes, and the girl spoke up for the first time. “I don’t want no reforming.” Her voice was muffled beneath the hood.
Dane pointed an accusatory finger at the woman. “You heard her. She doesn’t want no reforming.”
“Nevertheless, we take her home—”
“Home!”
“And we clean her up and make her presentable before we give her to Lord and Lady Lyndon.”
“No!” This from the creature.
This time Dane didn’t avoid her kicks, and his knee suffered the consequences. “Damn it!” Those breeches would be past saving.
“Let me go,” she screamed, kicking again. “You bloody cockchafer! Let me out, you bastard boat-licker!” She went on, and Dane glanced at his brother incredulously. He’d never heard a woman speak thus.
“I feel as though I should take notes,” he said over the noise. “I might impress the fellows at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
“You might be thrown out,” Brook observed. “In any case, I’m taking her to Derring House.”
Now Dane was out of patience. “No, you are not. Susanna is there, and Mother. We cannot inflict this”—he gestured to her contemptuously—“upon them.”
“Nonsense,” Brook said, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture Dane knew meant he had made up his mind. “Unlike you, they love a good charitable cause. And it wouldn’t kill you to smudge those lily-white hands once in a while.”
Dane looked at his spotless gloves. It might not kill him, but it would certainly pain him. “I thought the idea was to keep the rabble and the criminals out of Derring House. It’s bad enough one can’t walk the streets without having one’s pocket emptied, or that highwaymen all but own the roads. A man’s home should at least be safe.”
Brook scowled. “You sound like Father.”
“And look what happened to him. The last housebreaking killed him.”
“He was already ill and fading.”
“The pilfering and ransacking of his home certainly hastened the end.”
Brook did not argue, and Dane took his brother’s silence as tacit agreement. Dane had lived in London for part
of the year all his life, and he was familiar with every sort of crime and criminal. He’d been the target of crime more often than he could count. But Dane carried a heavy walking stick or a pistol when warranted. He could handle himself. The death of his father, though, had angered Dane and fueled his hatred of the lowest class, what he thought of as the criminal class.
When they arrived at the town house near Berkeley Square, Dane stood firm. He was the earl, though his brother often conveniently forgot, and he was not going to allow this wench—that was the only polite word he could think to call her—in his home. Unlike many of the older homes, the kitchen and scullery of Derring House had been situated in the rear yard, which was accessible either through the service rooms or from the outside via a short walkway. The location reduced the risk of the house burning if the kitchen caught fire, and provided for a larger suite of service rooms. His mother and Susanna would still be out, and most of the servants would be in their quarters at this hour. The kitchen should be empty.
Dane instructed the coachman to stop near the servants’ stairs before the carriage would be visible to the butler, who was undoubtedly keeping watch for their return.
Dane looked at Brook over the still-fighting woman. Didn’t the wench ever tire? “How do we extricate her?”
“We carry her.”
That did seem to be the only way, but that didn’t mean Dane had to like it.
“If we bring her into the house proper—”
Dane raised a hand, cutting his brother off. With a sigh, he removed his gloves and his coat and showed his brother with hand motions what they would do. If the woman didn’t know what was coming, she couldn’t plan her attack. Brook nodded, made some of his own hand gestures, which elicited a rather vulgar one from Dane, and then with a sigh, Dane opened the carriage door and hopped out. He nodded, and Brook shoved the woman out the door and into Dane’s arms.
He knew better than to hold her too close. As he’d seen Brook do, he tossed her over his shoulder and held her knees close to his chest so she couldn’t kick him as hard, or anywhere truly vulnerable. He winced at the stench of her and thought perhaps he would simply burn the shirt after this. Dane looked up at the coachman, who was staring at them open-mouthed.
“Not a word.”
“Yes, my lord.”
She was lighter than Dane had expected, and he carried her quite easily down the steps and into the kitchen. Brook went ahead of them, opening the door and lighting a lamp so they could see. Adjacent to the kitchen proper was a small common room where the servants ate or sewed or congregated when they had free time. Dane elected to put her in one of the chairs in the common room. It was farther away from knives and other items that might be used as weapons.
He set her down and jumped back. She immediately flailed around and fell off the chair. Brook nodded at her. “You should untie her. She can’t use her hands to catch herself.”
“You untie her,” Dane said, but he knew he was going to have to do it. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t leave her tied up. It wasn’t humane. Gingerly, he approached her. She seemed to sense where he was, because the hood turned in his direction, and she kicked out at him. He avoided her feet and managed to slide behind her. He grabbed her wrists and attempted to loosen the rope. That wasn’t going to work. She’d tightened the knots with all her fighting. Dane went to the kitchen, found a small, sharp knife, and returned.
But he couldn’t cut the rope without cutting her if she continued to squirm. “Listen,” he said, jumping away when she turned toward his voice and aimed a kick. “I’m going to cut the ropes, but you have to be still, or I’ll accidentally cut you.” He spoke quietly and calmly, as he might when addressing a skittish mare.
“I’m going to kill you,” she screeched.
Brook’s brows shot up. Dane tried to keep calm. “That would be much easier to accomplish if your hands were free.”
She stopped kicking long enough to consider these words. Finally, she said, “If you try anything—”
“Woman, I assure you, I have no designs on your virtue. Nothing you do could tempt me.” In the light of the lamp he could see even more clearly the stained dress she wore, the ring of dirt at her wrists, and the half-moons of black under her fingernails. And there was the odor of her unwashed body. He had no desire to move any closer to her. As he watched, she held out her wrists so they were away from her back. Cautiously, Dane stepped beside her and knelt. She didn’t move when he slipped the knife under the ropes. He sawed once, and she was free. He jumped back as quickly as she did. Immediately, she pulled off her hood and crouched low, surveying her surroundings.
Dane could only stare at her. “You’re just a girl.”
Her head whipped in his direction, her dark hair flying in front of her face. “I may be a girl, but I can take you.”
Dane held his hands up to ward her off. “I have no doubt you would like to try.”
“We will not hurt you,” Brook said.
“You,” she sneered. “You nabbed me. What is this place?” She looked around. “A bawdy house?”
Dane raised a brow. “It’s a kitchen.”
She did not look as though she believed him, and she continued to jerk her head about, jumping at the slightest sound. Dane was intrigued. He’d judged her thirty or older. She had a woman’s body, but her face was still that of a girl’s. She couldn’t be more than one and twenty, if that. And though her hair was a bit matted, her face had been scrubbed clean—or at least relatively clean. So perhaps she did not relish being dirty. She had large blue eyes that flashed with anger and hatred. This was no simpering miss. The ladies at Almack’s would have fainted dead away.
A knock sounded on the door, and she jumped to face it, hands outstretched as though to fight off an attacker. “What is that?”
“We call it knocking,” Dane said. “A polite customary way to inform others you would like admittance.”
Brook opened the door, and the Derring family jehu stood in the doorway. “Yes, Ezekiel?”
“Note came for you, sir. I thought it best if I brought it.” His gaze found the girl, and he seemed relieved she was unharmed. “Wouldn’t want the other servants asking questions.”
“Thank you.” Brook closed the door and broke the seal on the letter. “Damn it.”
“What is it?” Dane asked.
“I have to go. Bow Street—”
“No.” Dane shook his head. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”
Brook shrugged. “You don’t have that sort of authority. I have to go.” He started for the door, and Dane moved in front of him, holding the door closed with his hand.
“Now? This moment?”
“It’s urgent.”
Dane glared at him. “What am I supposed to do with her?” he asked through a clenched jaw.
Brook glanced back as though he’d forgotten her for a moment. “Clean her up. I’ll take her to Lord Lyndon tomorrow.”
“If you really expect to present that girl to Lord Lyndon as his daughter, you are completely daft.”
“We’ll see,” Brook said. He moved forward then gave Dane a pointed stare when he didn’t remove his hand. With a curse, Dane stepped aside, and Brook was gone.
Dane turned and looked at the girl. She looked back at him, a challenge and a threat in her eyes. God save him. He’d only wanted relief from the ennui of the Season. He didn’t want a she-devil to contend with. Brook had said to clean her up. Dane supposed that meant clean clothes. But there was no point in putting clean clothes on a dirty body. He’d have to make her wash.
The servants’ hip bath was kept in the corner of the room. He’d only need to heat some water over the stove. Not that he knew how to work the stove. That was why he had a cook. He’d have to fetch the cook. And when he returned, the girl would be long gone. Was that such a bad thing? Dane thought not, but his brother woul
d disagree. Dane didn’t really care about ruffling Brook’s feathers, but he did wonder why his brother thought this girl could be Lady Elizabeth Grafton, daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon. He knew the story of little Lady Elizabeth. She’d disappeared one day in the park, and despite an exhaustive search for her, she’d never been found. The nanny had been blamed and thrown in prison, but Dane suspected the poor woman was innocent. There were men who kidnapped children to send to the colonies, or for darker reasons. Dane tried to remember more details. He’d been about ten at the time, and the little girl perhaps five. So that would make her twenty now. He glanced at the girl before him. She was about the correct age.
“If you would meet your parents, you will have to wash and change.”
“I don’t have parents,” she declared. No surprise there. She was obviously the spawn of Satan.
Still, it was interesting. An enterprising thief, as she seemed to be, might see opportunity in pretending to be the daughter of a marquess. “Then you are not Lady Elizabeth Grafton?” he asked.
“My name is Marlowe.”
Dane waited.
“Just Marlowe,” she added.
“And you are not the daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon?”
“I don’t know the bloody man. Now, if you’ll just let me go—” She attempted to push past him, but Dane—setting aside his distaste for the dirt covering her—caught her about the waist. She jumped back, and he stepped to the side before she could hit him. Looked like she had a good right hook too.
“I’m afraid I cannot let you go.”
She glared at him. “Why not?”
“So glad you asked. Two reasons, actually. First of all, my brother is a prime investigator. I don’t know how he does it, but he knows information. Which leads to the second reason. If he thinks you are Lady Elizabeth Grafton, I must give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“That’s a fancy way of saying I’m a liar.”
Dane spread his hands. “It is nothing of the sort.”
