Duke Du Jour

by Petie McCarty

  Lady Morton nodded slowly. “Thank you for being honest with me, my lord.”

  She swayed a bit on her feet, and Dexter took her arm. “Maybe you should sit down, madam.”

  “No, I am fine.” She straightened as though making a decision. Her chin came up. Her color returned. “Do you have plenty of firearms?”

  “All my men are armed with a pistol and a short sword,” Herford said.

  “Lord Dexter and I each have a pistol, my lady,” Jared said, “but we appreciate your concern.”

  “One each? That is hardly sufficient.”

  She rose, went to a large cherrywood cabinet in the corner of the study, selected a key from a small ring hanging at her waist, and unlocked the cabinet door. Inside, dozens of pistols hung from racks on the doors and interior walls, and several hunting rifles stood stacked against the back wall.

  “Good Lord, madam,” Dexter muttered in amazement. “You have a veritable armory.”

  “What can I say? My husband loved to collect guns. Please help yourself, gentlemen. There is extra ammunition in the drawers below.” She headed for the door. “I will have Conrad pack some bandages just in case.”

  Jared and Dexter each selected two pistols.

  Bullen chose two rifles from the assortment offered. “I am more skilled at distances. I spend a bit of time hunting at Haverly.”

  “Let me guess. When food gets tight?” Jared asked, not caring that he had an audience.

  When Bullen nodded, Jared cursed under his breath. No matter how many times he was reminded of Seven’s perfidy, it angered him all over again. His own flesh and blood had let people go hungry, so the man could gamble, drink, and chase skirts. It all ended here.

  Tonight, the Reston name meant honor. He would rescue Ariana or die trying. To hell with getting back to the future. They would have to live without him.

  Bullen put a hand on his shoulder. “You have taken care of all that, remember?”

  “Right.”

  “I will have our horses brought around,” Bullen told Dexter.

  Jared turned to the earl. “I am ready. I will do whatever must be done to secure Ariana’s freedom.”

  Dexter had busied himself loading their extra pistols. “Not without a plan you won’t. The stews in Spitalfields are no walk in the park.”

  Hell, Jared had been there just last month, but his Spitalfields had premier retailers and restaurateurs, not the deplorable stews he headed toward tonight.

  “Are you familiar with my meeting place?” he asked the earl.

  “A bit. I have informants nearby. I believe the address is the old keeper’s lodge at the end of Half Moon Alley near the forest and park bordering Sir Paul Pinder’s estate. The house was built at the end of Elizabeth’s reign, but it is a public house now. If I am correct, we will have a devil of a time getting close without the Frenchies spotting us.”

  “Lovely.”

  What Jared would not give for the 9-mm Glock he kept in his London townhouse, or rather his future townhouse. Or even the modern rifles in his gun cabinet at Haverly. He could do this alone then and not risk everyone’s lives. Dexter was right. The Frenchman could not afford to let Ariana go.

  “Not to worry, Your Grace,” Herford was saying. “My men are expert at melting into the background. We will cover your back.”

  Herford took enough pistols and shot for himself and his men and headed for the mews where he had mobilized them after Jared’s instructions arrived.

  “It is my front I’m worried about,” Jared said, as the runner slipped out the terrace door. “What if they shoot me as I approach the house?”

  “They won’t,” Dexter assured him.

  “How do you know?”

  “The Frenchman will want to toy with you for a while. He needs to know with whom you might have shared his plot—how many people know. You need to find out what his intentions were for Wellington for two reasons. Some of the kidnappers may not survive to be questioned, and there may be other Frenchmen”—he grimaced—“or possibly Englishmen we don’t know about, who are involved in this plot.”

  “I’ll get him to spill his guts.”

  “You will be alone out there, my friend,” Dexter said solemnly.

  “Ariana is all alone out there, too.”

  “You won’t know where we are once you go in. You will just have to trust us to be close enough to watch your back.”

  “Simple enough,” Jared said, trying to sound calm.

  “He will torture you to get the names and information, so tell him whatever you have to in order to keep yourself alive and safe.”

  “I will not!” Jared said indignantly.

  Dexter grinned. “I meant make up the names, you clodpate.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Dexter stared hard at him for several heartbeats. “You are different now.”

  “Of course, I am. I can’t remember anything.” Jared grinned.

  The earl did not. “Collins is the only unknown. I hate that. We are counting on the man to make the proper disturbance, so we can rush the place. And if he betrays us—”

  “Then I will figure something else out,” Jared said determinedly. “I will get Ariana out of there or die trying.”

  “Lady Ariana,” Dexter corrected, but a smile tugged at his mouth.

  He glared at the earl.

  “So it’s like that, is it?”

  “I don’t know what you are blathering about.”

  The smile broadened. “Sure you do. You’re in love with the chit.”

  “Don’t call her a chit,” he growled.

  “She is a tough girl, Jared. She will be all right.”

  His hands curled into fists. “She has to be.”

  Lady Morton returned with a packet of bandages, which she handed to Dexter. “Bring my niece home safely, gentlemen.”

  Jared nodded. “Count on it.”

  ****

  Ari’s arms ached from being bound behind her back. Lucilla stood guard over her in the back room of the two-room cottage that stank of sweat, dirt, and rancid grease. The hussy had laid claim to the only sittable furniture in the small chamber—a cot with a filthy moth-eaten mattress—leaving Ariana to huddle on the floor. Roulet and two of his spies held court in the outer room.

  Upon their arrival, the big man Henri had frog-marched her into the front room of the small cottage. The room was fairly large and open with a table, two chairs, a small cupboard, and a fireplace, smoking heavily with a newly laid fire. Roulet had briefly questioned Ari before shoving her in this back room with Lucilla.

  The Frenchman had pushed her down in one of the chairs, then leaned over her. “Has Reston spoken to anyone of my plan?”

  Ari tried to look calm, though she trembled. Maybe if she convinced him she knew nothing, he might still let her go. “What plan?”

  “You know exactly what plan.”

  “I swear to you, I don’t.”

  He tried another tack. “Who has Reston talked to about me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He raised an arm to strike her, and Ari flinched, awaiting a blow that never came.

  “I do not hit women,” Roulet muttered, “though they often make me reconsider.” He leaned in close until his cheek was inches from hers. “There are other theengs I do to women to make them talk.”

  Ari swallowed hard.

  “No!” Lucilla cried. “I don’t want you touching her!”

  Roulet’s gaze flew to the hussy. “You would protect her?”

  “Of course not. You are mine is all, and I refuse to share you with another woman for any reason.”

  Roulet’s footpads chuckled. The big Frenchman did not. He was at Lucilla’s side in two strides, her head yanked back by his fist in her hair. Hairpins scattered wildly across the plank floor, making little pinging noises.

  “Don’t you ever tell me what to do,” he warned. “I will be weeth any woman I choose.”

  “But—”

  He yan
ked again and her eyes watered. “Be careful, Lucilla, ere you outlive your usefulness to me.”

  Lucilla gasped, and he released her to stumble back and regain her balance. She glared at Ariana, as though the attack had been her fault.

  Roulet was back at Ari before she could blink. “What do you know, ma douce petite?” he growled.

  “Nothing, I swear.”

  Close enough his breath raked her cheek, he said, “You rode with Reston to London, and you know nothing?”

  “The duke dumped me at my aunt’s house the minute we arrived in London,” she cried, “and I have not talked to him since.”

  Roulet reared back to study her face, then lurched forward so fast she flinched. “He cares for you, no?”

  She felt the tears and let them come. “No,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean?” His roar blew the loose curls away from her face.

  She closed her eyes. “He does not care for me at all. He thinks I am a hoyden.”

  Roulet’s head fell back, and he roared with laughter. “If you rode to London dressed as a boy with heem, then you are a hoyden, ma petite.”

  Ari glared at him.

  “If he cares nothing for you, then why is Lucilla so sure he will come to rescue you?”

  “Honor.”

  Roulet roared again with laughter. “Honor? The man has no honor. He betrayed hees country for us.”

  “Never!” Ari cried.

  “Oui, ma douce, but he did. We paid heem for information, to spy for us.”

  “You lie!”

  “Oui. Reston was regrettably shot before he could tell us what we needed to know. Now, we must silence le duc permanently—before he ruins all my new plans.”

  The door burst open, and Dawson entered.

  Ari gasped.

  Roulet smirked. “So, you do know heem?”

  “I told ye she did,” Dawson grumbled and glowered at her.

  “You’re lucky you escaped,” she spat at him.

  The highwayman grinned. “What can I say? I be talented.”

  Roulet popped him in the back of the head. “Enough. Did you deliver the note?”

  “I did. Found me a street urchin to take it to the lady’s house. Fastest urchin in St. Giles. The servants never saw nothin’.”

  “Good.” Roulet dragged the highwayman over to Ari. “What do you know about heem?”

  “Only that he tried to kill Reston.”

  “And why would he do that?” Roulet pressed, his voice gone soft, his eyes narrowed.

  “That is something I’m sure His Grace would like to know.”

  Roulet stared skeptically at Ari. “Reston has no idea why Dawson wants to kill heem?”

  “See ’ere, I was only following—” Dawson blustered.

  Roulet backhanded the highwayman to silence him.

  “Well?” The Frenchman stared hard at Ari.

  “No, he does not.”

  Roulet yanked her half out of the chair. “Don’t you lie to me!”

  “She is telling the truth,” Lucilla interjected. “Reston has lost his memory.”

  Roulet eyed Ari for confirmation.

  She nodded.

  “Enough!” Roulet let Ariana go, and she slumped in the chair. He paced the room, once, twice, then ordered Henri, “Bind her feet and throw her in the other room. Lucilla, you stay in there weeth her.”

  “Why should I—”

  “Do as I say!” Roulet thundered.

  “Fine,” Lucilla groused and started past the Frenchman.

  Roulet grabbed her arm and yanked her close. “My leetle viper had better keep track of her prey.”

  Lucilla licked her lips. “Anything for you, Jean-Claude.”

  “You mean anytheeng for the man with the most money,” Roulet growled, then kissed her hard and released her.

  Lucilla started to protest, but the look in Roulet’s eyes stopped her.

  As Henri knelt to bind Ari’s feet, the front door opened, and her third abductor from the ball—a thin, wiry man—poked his head in.

  “Why are you not at your post, Jardin?” Roulet snarled.

  Jardin grinned. “Because look who I found in the weaver’s alley.” He pulled the captured highwayman, Collins, in the door with him.

  “Mon dieu! Where thee hell have you been?” Roulet demanded.

  “Captured,” Collins answered sullenly.

  Without thinking, Ari cried, “How did you get away?”

  Collins glared at her. “I hit yer friend Bullen in the ’ead when no one was lookin’.”

  “Oh no!”

  “What about Cochran?” Roulet wanted to know.

  “Dead—back at the inn where the nobs caught me.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Dawson muttered.

  “What’s she doin’ ’ere?” Collins nodded at Ariana. “They’ll come ’ere after her.”

  Roulet watched Collins for a long minute. The highwayman looked panicked to Ari.

  “We want them to come. La belle fille ees the bait.”

  Ari glared at her captor. “I told you—”

  “Shut up!” Roulet barked.

  “I don’t likes it,” Collins grumbled. “I just got away.”

  “You do not have to like it. Just do your job,” Roulet ordered. “How many men does Reston have with heem in London?”

  “Now, he gots three,” Collins said without hesitation. “A runner—”

  Dawson gave a snort of disgust.

  “—an earl, and if he’s still alive, the man Bullen what I conked his ’ead.”

  “An earl, you say,” Roulet murmured.

  “Aye, m’lord. The one called Dexter.”

  Roulet’s eyes went wide. “So, the eenfamous Earl of Dexter has joined Reston, has he?”

  “Ye knows ’im, m’lord?”

  “Mais non, but the earl ees a spy hunter. We found out when mon ami Jean-Pierre disappeared after a meeting he said he was to have with thees Lord Dexter.”

  Roulet spun to Ariana. “What do you know of heem?”

  “Only that he is Reston’s childhood friend. They attended Eton together,” Ari managed, with as much calm as she could muster, while Roulet’s giant bound her feet tightly together.

  Roulet’s gaze shot to Lucilla.

  “It is the truth,” she said sullenly.

  “Get yourself a mug of ale,” Roulet told Collins and poked a thumb at the cupboard where a small oaken keg sat, “then join Jardin outside. He will show you what to do. Rest up. We will need you later.”

  He glanced at Henri’s handiwork. “That ees good enough. Now haul la jeune fille into the back room.” He gestured to Lucilla. “Go with her. Guard her.”

  He glanced around at his men. “We need to make plans for what we do to Reston when he arrives.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The horses thundered the length of Holborn Road, traveling west to east and paralleling the Thames River. Any pedestrians or vehicles still about in the middle of the night swiftly scattered from their path. Jared and Dexter led their posse, Harry gamely keeping pace alongside the big horses. The runners came behind, and Bullen brought up the rear.

  “I always cover your rear,” he told Jared when they exited Lady Morton’s stable.

  Through the stews of St. Giles and Seven Dials, the vigilantes rode. The new gas lighting now available in Mayfair and the west end of London did not stretch this far, but the full moon allowed Jared glimpses of the wretched houses they rode past. Broken windows patched with rags and paper were more common than whole windows, and dirt and squalor wallpapered the pitiable portrait. Decaying foundations and building supports stood out like broken bones on combatants in a war not to be won.

  Dexter noticed Jared gaping at the deplorable structures. “Wretched, are they not?”

  Jared could only nod. Never had he seen such squalor.

  “Bad enough the structures are in such poor condition, but they are overcrowded as well with every room rented to a different famil
y. Or families.”

  A long gutter ran the length of the rowhouses, filled to overflowing with the excrement du jour. The smell of the public commodes out front, serving more than one house, was enough to knock Jared off his horse.

  “And our House of Lords ignores their condition,” Dexter finished derisively, “preferring only to preserve the aristocracy in their proverbial bubble.”

  Jared said nothing as he rode on. What could he say? Had he ever supported a movement to improve the lot of his fellow man? Had he ever investigated the conditions in the less exclusive side of his future London?

  Over an hour had elapsed by the time the hunters had ridden through Cheapside and arrived at the honeycomb of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys known as Spitalfields. The older houses had wide latticed windows in the upper stories—Dexter said the windows were needed to light the weavers’ looms. Some windowpanes were broken, some not, some bandaged with rags or paper, some not.

  Dexter took the lead here and directed their group to Bishopsgate Street and the White Hart Inn and Tavern, a three-story structure with latticed windows on floors two and three. The well-lit arched entrance beckoned them inside where the tavern patrons eyed them warily.

  The clientele was all male, except for two plump barmaids running food and pitchers of ale to the men. The patrons were all clad the same—dingy shirts and neckcloths covered by coats either too large, too small, or in some cases, nonexistent. The unsavory scent of cooked onions permeated the room. Or was that from the patrons?

  “Hey!” the innkeeper hollered from behind the bar where he pulled an ale draft from a propped keg. “Ye cannot bring yer ’ound in ’ere. I runs a clean establishment, I do.”

  Surprised, Jared glanced down into Harry’s soulful eyes. He had ordered the wolfhound to stay when he dismounted, and as usual, the dog had ignored him.

  Jared’s gaze shifted to the innkeeper. “Maybe you should tell him. He doesn’t always listen to me,” he said cheerfully.

  The innkeeper strode from behind the bar. “Get out of ’ere, ye mutt!” he hollered and waved his filthy towel.

  Harry inched closer to Jared. His ears lay flat, and his dog chops peeled back to show teeth, but the snarl stopped the innkeeper cold.