A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

The man saluted, turned on his heel, and left.

  Gantry poured a glass of brandy. He lifted the glass bottle high as if to make a show of the amber liquid, but merely sipped at it. “You let Mrs. La . . . Jordan, Mrs. Jordan go on her errand but are having her watched. Hmmm. Hypocrite.”

  “How is that wrong? If she’s right that Markham is a threat, then she’ll benefit from my protection.”

  Feeling quite satisfied with himself and his planning, he hummed and rocked until Lionel went to sleep. Busick was in a much better mood. His nanny didn’t go off debauching.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit wrong, that you and I are here watching your baby and the women who should be caring for this infant are gone, one even to a gaming hell?”

  “Gantry,” he said in a whisper. “Could you get the basket?”

  “Basket? The bread basket on the sofa?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Jordan didn’t bake any today. Put the blue blanket in there and we’ll have sort of a Moses basket.”

  With a shrug, the viscount brought the basket and set it near the desk. “Just don’t test this in a tub of water or a moat. It’s not going to end well, Pharaoh.”

  “I’m not putting this boy at risk, but the handle is something I can grasp and still maneuver with my crutch.”

  His friend returned to the sideboard and scooped up his glass. “You seem awfully upbeat. Your nanny’s not here. The other woman is headed to corruption.”

  Maybe he meant to empty the brandy this time, even smack it to his lips, but when Gantry was wound up, wound up tighter than a watch spring, it took him forever to finish anything. “Why again are we here watching a baby and not out galivanting like your subordinates?”

  “Well, for one, you are still married.”

  “Lady Gantry left me, remember? I’m as free as I wish.”

  “Nonetheless, I need to be here when my nanny comes home. She’s obviously in some sort of pique. I think she pretended to be away to prove a point.”

  He settled the snoring Lionel into the reed basket and covered him with a blanket. “A pique, a point. Women and games. What’s a gentleman to do?”

  With a roll of his eyes and a hard shake of his head, Gantry began pacing again, back and forth across the room.

  Why was he struggling?

  His friend wasn’t trying to get Lionel to eat or struggling to determine the best course of action with Patience. That m-word, marriage, had started to rear its ugly head. It was a proper, convenient arrangement to share custody of Lionel for two people who needed to be in close quarters, in each other’s faces, every day to raise this baby.

  Busick wanted to punch the desk leg, right on the curlicue scripted J for Jordan, and then his own B.S.

  Colin had been dead a few months, not the respectable eighteen months society wanted before anyone should become attached to the man’s widow. Well, he didn’t know LaCroy to be her when he became attached, but so was his luck with women.

  His friend paced faster, the poor wound up clock.

  Was he doing this for Busick’s sake?

  “Spit out what has you so uneasy. My bread basket is full of a sleeping soldier, but my ears are open.”

  “Six weeks, Repington. A full six weeks since anyone has seen Lady Gantry.”

  “Yesterday was five weeks and six days of her being missing. Why is this evening different?”

  Waving the letter, he started moving again. “My sister says she sent her a birthday present and gifts for the girls.”

  “Nothing for you? I didn’t know you were the sentimental type.”

  “I don’t want a present.” He stopped, dropped his head, clasping his neck with a loud slap. “I want her.”

  “Then, what’s keeping you from finding her? If you are staying because of me . . . Don’t. I have things well at hand. Aren’t we good, Lionel?”

  The baby snored, but pap milk was on his green pinafore as well as Busick’s cravat. He’d awaken soon, looking for the good stuff. “Bear with me, son, your nanny will be back soon. Or maybe we should go get her.”

  “Son? You are in the family way, Duke. Has the bachelor father thought of his plans for the mother?”

  “No. I still need to . . . verify—”

  “You don’t need to verify anything. Your mother would know her. She’d make a point to see the woman at least once just to savor the gossip of Jordan’s foreign wife.”

  His voice broke a little.

  Then, Gantry returned to the sideboard and finished his half-finished drink. “In your gut, you know Mrs. LaCroy is Lionel’s mother. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. Not until she’s back at Hamlin.”

  “And that’s why we are the best of friends, so stupidly similar. I’ve tried doing nothing these past weeks. I’m out of my mind, wondering where my wife is or if the fool woman is intending to leave.”

  “I thought she already left you.”

  “No, you daft, Duke. Leave England. Return to Demerara.”

  “Well, if you are done with her and she wants to go, let her. You can’t keep someone who wants to leave.”

  “And you can’t sit around testing them to see if they will stay. You care for Jordan’s widow, but you goad her just to test her character. You should know her by now.”

  Was that what he was doing? Testing her dedication to Lionel and to himself?

  “Duke, this woman has Wellington’s great general on nursing duty while she’s free to do whatever.”

  “She didn’t go with the barrister and Mrs. St. Maur; she stayed with the countess.”

  “Well, St. Maur will be back soon from her adventure.”

  “Why?”

  “As soon as she learns gaming hells only allow men, she’ll see her mistake.”

  “Only men can go into a gaming hell?”

  “Yes, only men. You know this. We’ve been to a few.”

  “No, not for a long time. All men?” Busick rubbed his chin. “Lieutenant, repeat the field report from the major.”

  “Why?

  “Just repeat it, man.”

  “Mrs. St. Maur left with the barrister and an unidentified man about a half an hour ago. To go to a gaming hell.”

  Busick jerked up, his back twinging from the motion. “Gaming hells only admit men or those they presume are men.”

  “Duke, you think the nanny is impersonating a man again?”

  Patience had a notion in her head, and the fool woman would see it through. “Send for Shrewsbury. She is the key to everything. She may even know where to find Lady Gantry in Town. She’ll definitely know where to find my gambling nanny.”

  Gantry wiped through his hair. He looked poised to run. “I’ll go get the countess myself.”

  “Tell her that I need her for Lionel. That will hurry her.”

  His friend left at a glorious speed, and Busick looked down at his ward.

  Sometimes, mothers don’t come back. The wanderlust in them needed to be released. But some needed to be chased after and given reasons to return. Busick didn’t know which camp Patience belonged, but she’d know his opinion on the matter posthaste.

  CHAPTER 23

  GAMBLING STAKES

  The stench from the gaming hell had to be in my clothes, my hair, even my skin at this point. The cigar smoke was thick, as thick as the cursing, the spilled liquor, and my disappointment. I brushed at my emerald-green tailcoat hoping to clear away the last hour.

  “Patience.” Jemina asked as I climbed into the carriage, “Did you find Sullivan?”

  “Yes.” I said, only the one word, for I had nothing else to offer. Hearing my husband’s character run down as Markham’s pigeon stole everything—words, sentences, reason.

  “Patience, I don’t understand. You look ill.”

  “Things became a little unsavory.” Mr. Thackery dumped his top hat on the seat. “I think we’ve done enough tonight. If we leave now I can make my standing appointment.”

  Jemina and I both must have shot him shocked l
ooks.

  He held up his hands. “Fable reading to my daughter before bed. Nothing sinister, but I am a widower, a bachelor for what it’s worth.”

  I hated that, to deprive a child of her father, but we were so close to the truth. “Please. We can’t be done.” I folded my arms about me. I was shaking, shaking hard. “This man we just met wasn’t the Sullivan I saw arguing with Colin, nor did he relieve any debts. He can’t be a reverend. He was foul. His cigar, his clothes, his mouth—all foul.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Jordan. But we did learn some things. Your husband was known to gamble.”

  That was a nice way to put it. Hearing this Sullivan laugh at how Markham used Colin—taking his money, soiling his good name—I was disgusted.

  Mr. Thackery patted his rumbling stomach. “I suggest I take you both back to my aunt’s.”

  The barrister seemed quite calm and even debonair as he took the drunken Sullivan’s foul comments on Thackery being a half-breed. The dear man did not strike out as I wanted.

  I seethed for him. “We’ve not found my A. Sullivan.”

  “Yes, but we haven’t been caught, either. My reputation is spotless. I’m not in the mood to tempt fate again. There’s only so much hatred one can take in an evening before something unfortunate happens.”

  I saw fury swirling in Thackery’s eyes and understood. This wasn’t retreat but self-preservation. I wondered how much abuse he had to ignore to maintain his position. Colin had been right about Town. At least on this, he’d tried to protect me.

  Jemina balled her fists. “No, Mr. Thackery. No, Patience. We’ve come all this way; we have to see this through. We need answers. Let’s go to Piccadilly.”

  The duke would see things through. He didn’t wage half battles or come at things unprepared. “Jemina is right. We made it out of here without harming your reputation. Can’t we try the next gaming hell?”

  Thackery sighed, a desperate throaty noise. “My reputation is important. I don’t have the luxury of my colleagues to fail. Ladies, my walk has a delicate balance.”

  I stared at him but couldn’t fathom why a man, even one of mixed raced, would ever have to be so careful. Men had all the advantages.

  When he pulled out his pocket watch I thought about Lionel and Repington. Since working at Hamlin, this was the longest I’d been away from my son. I tired of disguises. I’d done enough hiding with Colin.

  “Patience, you’ve heard the barrister. You’ve heard my opinion. What do you think? Is this masquerade done?”

  I put my hand in my pocket and grasped my father’s knife. Trailing my thumb over the jewels, I felt my courage rallying. “We must continue. If the inspector at Piccadilly isn’t my A. Sullivan, then we need to start over. I’d rather know that now.”

  Thackery held up his hand. “Will it give you peace to know your husband was an extortioner? Some women would prefer their men to be decent.”

  I picked up the diary from Jemina’s fingers. “If this is indeed a record of extortion, then I know Markham was involved. You heard the drunken minister’s sermon. Markham’s the controlling one.”

  “Or this gambit could prove nothing. There’s that possibility.”

  I picked at the buttons of my waistcoat, so pretty the clinking sound of the brass. Pretty wasn’t a shield. Truth was. “I need to know that I tried everything. Let’s go to the gaming hell in Piccadilly.”

  Thackery straightened his stylish waistcoat of bright blue, then knocked on the roof of his carriage. “I figured you say that. At least Piccadilly has decent food. You up to pretending to be a man one more time?”

  “Yes, Mr. Thackery. I am.”

  I’d been able to work the room at this hell, observing everyone without being seen. This was a practiced gift Colin had given me. It saddened me that I’d learned the lesson so well.

  * * *

  A half hour of my stewing passed as the barrister’s carriage rumbled along the street. Through the window, I saw the scattered stars. My thoughts mirrored the jumbled sky.

  Colin, Markham’s dupe—how much did my husband suffer?

  How could I have made things better?

  Now the harsh words I’d overheard between them made more sense. Colin was agitated at Markham, but the fiend had such a hold on him.

  The carriage stopped. A footman opened the door to an elegant neighborhood, very different from the shadowy one we’d left. “Piccadilly?”

  “Yes. We’re not far from the famed White’s gentlemen’s club.”

  Thackery rolled his top hat in his palms. “It’s quite brilliant to place an elite gaming hell so close to where titled pigeons can fly in, perch, and lose their inheritances. My father visited quite often.” His laugh sounded scornful. He scooted closer to the door. “Ready, Jordan?”

  “It’s LaCroy. Always when I pretend, LaCroy.”

  “It’s best,” Jemina said. “The last thing we need is for gamblers to decide you need to pay his debts.”

  Thackery popped on his hat. “Mrs. St. Maur, you continue to amaze me. The way your mind works, adding up numbers and loose ends. You’re right.”

  His full lips drooped into a frown. “This may take a little longer than the last. Will you take care?”

  Jemina’s brow scrunched as she threaded her needle. “Why longer? Is there a bigger wait to get in? A secret handshake you have to teach Patience?”

  “No, I’ve heard their beefsteak is superb. If you two have me dragging about at this late hour, I will be fed. Shall I’ll bring you something back? A treat perhaps.”

  “No favors for me.” She handed me my hat. “Take care of LaCroy.”

  She grabbed my hand. “You’ll have luck at this one. We’ll know the truth.”

  I hoped she was right and feared that she was, too.

  With a nod, I followed the barrister out of his carriage and up the steps of Piccadilly.

  We checked our hats, but I kept my dinner gloves and shoved my hands behind my back.

  Brutish walk in motion, stone face in place, I followed behind Thackery.

  “By Jove.”

  I’d said that aloud, but at least it was the right god, the English one to express my wonderment.

  Mesmerizing. This was no hell, nothing like the last. It was a clean, orderly place. Exquisite furniture with klismos and Egyptian-styled chairs.

  Footmen in silver liveries stood along the walls. Had I been in my servant’s disguise I would’ve stood out as too simple and plain.

  My pulse swooshed in my ears. It was louder than the yells of the man waving his cards boasting of his stakes as he stood at a crowded table. A collective shout of yeah came from men at a long green stand as they watched a fellow rolling dice.

  “Yes, LaCroy. The same cribbage cards and hazard tosses you saw at the last establishment are played here. It amuses me how vice can look different with better lighting. Shall we?”

  “Yes, Mrs. St. Maur notices the same about light.”

  My heart went to Hamlin, missing its lights—my Lionel and my duke, who were the same, morning, noon, and night.

  Part of me, that woman with the easily broken heart, missed being at Repington’s side, him barking out commands while sheltering me from his perceived harms.

  “Do keep up, LaCroy.”

  Thackery looked cross, but then he sort of smiled as he rubbed his pocket watch. He seemed uncomfortable, as if we were still in the dingy gaming hell.

  He coughed. “All is well, my friend. Circulate.”

  Circulate? He had to be kidding. I followed close behind the barrister like a puppy, not breaking stride, not slowing until we stood under the grand chandelier.

  Shiny clear crystals twinkled above. They grabbed the light of the sconces and scattered it about the room. Pretty and serene, like my old chandelier. I missed it. I missed Hamlin. I was ready to go, ready to make peace with the duke and trust we could work together for Lionel’s benefit.

  Thackery circled back and knocked my shoulder. “Sir, you need to ke
ep moving if you are going to enjoy all that the club has to offer.”

  I nodded and moved in the direction he pointed, a long bar. “The waiter is pouring drinks. You could use one.”

  The man filling goblets wore a dark livery with a starched cravat.

  So similar to the duke. I could smell Repington’s starch, his rum.

  This cosmetic must be burning me up, making me emotional, making me think such odd things.

  With a shake of my head, I cleared away these girly feelings and repeated manly things—gambling, excess, boots, polished and glossed black.

  Then I heard a voice that cut up my insides.

  Markham.

  The blackguard was here.

  Over my shoulder, I saw that high, pinched nose lifting in the air.

  The knife in my pocket called to me. I hated him enough. From what was said at the last gaming hell, I knew he’d taken advantage of Colin as much as he had me.

  Hand on the bulge in my pocket, I turned.

  At the door, the fiend stood. The above-it-all sneer on his horrible pale face once drove fear into my heart. Not now, not with my baby safe with Repington.

  Something caught my arm. The jerking almost flipped the knife from my fingers.

  Thackery handed me a glass of wine. “I may have forgotten to mention Mr. Markham frequents this establishment. Take a sip and go to the bar.”

  “He’s responsible for all that has happened. All that has gone wrong.”

  “Yes, but you are responsible for your future. Turn around. Let the anger pass. Let clear thoughts prevail.”

  That was the opposite of everything I wanted, but I forced my feet to move. I had to be smart, smarter than I had been before.

  Swirling the crystal goblet, I watched the deep burgundy kiss the sides of the glass, then leave tinted legs, little rose breeches before dripping and settling.

  As I put the wine to my lips, the hair on my arms and the braids under my wig stood on end.

  Markham stood beside me at the bar.

  Not spitting or cutting my eyes at him, I kept my head down, sipping slowly from my glass. If he saw my gaze, he’d know my face and the hate in me.

  “LaCroy, there’s Sullivan.” The barrister pointed across the room. “I believe he’s who you need to see to get credit. You lost enough at the last club.”