by Elisa Braden
“Aye. But for the likes of us?” Drayton shook his head and snorted. “Finest thing we can expect is a good pint after a long day.”
Christ, what a depressing thought. Perhaps Drayton was content to collect human rubbish for a pittance, a pint, and the poor satisfaction of keeping men like Bertie Pickens from fouling civilized society. But Jonas meant to have more. Another year or two, and he’d have the funds to leave Bow Street behind for good.
“Would have liked the Pickens job, though,” Drayton muttered, scratching his grizzled jaw. “I’ve almost saved enough to purchase a new stone.”
A wormy pang crept through Jonas’s chest. “Stone?”
“Aye. For my sister. Some evil sod defiled the churchyard last month, broke up her marker with a hammer.” A small, grieving smile haunted the hound’s face. “Betsy deserved better.”
He shouldn’t care. Hell, hadn’t he learned by now that everybody had a sad tale to tell? Dead sister. Dead mother. Bad leg. Bad lot. If he didn’t fight for his own piece of ground, he’d never claim it, let alone keep it.
This was why it didn’t pay to form attachments.
One of the young boys Bow Street employed for errands squirmed between two constables and rounded the desk, breathless with an eager gleam. The boy was new. Jonas estimated the gleam would disappear within a month. “Letter for you, Mr. Hawthorn!” The boy extended the envelope and adjusted his cap. “It has one of them fancy seals.”
Jonas took the letter, noted the fine, swirling script, and dismissed the boy with a nod. The boy didn’t take the hint. Instead he hovered in place, bristling with curiosity.
Drayton leaned forward to pat the boy’s shoulder. “Off with you, now, Tommy. You’ve more tasks before the day is done.”
The boy nodded and dashed off through the throng of human refuse.
Jonas broke the seal and unfolded the fine paper. “Why do you bother learning their names?” he murmured.
Drayton’s answer was a long pause, a hard stare, and an echo of Jonas’s earlier words: “They’re anyone as much as you, eh, Hawthorn?”
He shook his head. The boy wouldn’t last six weeks. Eight, if he toughened up.
“Who’s that from?”
Frowning, Jonas quickly finished reading the letter. Then, he read it again. Then, he unfolded the additional page that had been included with the missive.
A shockwave rang through his body. As Drayton would say, bloody, bleeding hell.
“Hawthorn?”
“The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham.”
Drayton’s shaggy brows arched. “The dragon? What’s she want with you?”
“A task.” Jonas collapsed back against the chair, stunned by the sketch, astounded by the coincidence. He rubbed his jaw and blinked. Then he read the letter a third time. “One of ‘unutterable urgency,’ or so she claims.”
“Does she mention a reward?”
An incredible one. Had the old woman added three zeros and a thousand acres without realizing? She hadn’t appeared senile last time he’d seen her. “Aye,” he muttered. “But she demands I travel to Northumberland at once.”
Grunting, Drayton shifted in his chair and rubbed the ache in his leg. “Best be warned what you’re takin’ on, Hawthorn. They don’t call her ‘dragon’ because she has scales.”
Jonas shot the man a wry half-grin. “I’ve survived her ladyship’s fire before.”
“Nah. Might have been in the vicinity, but not square in her sights.” Drayton gave a full-body shudder. “Better off working for Blackmore.”
The formidable duke had employed Drayton for various tasks over the years. He paid well, but anybody who worked for him earned his coin thrice over.
Jonas had little doubt the dragon would be worse. But the reward … his heart kicked harder at the mere thought of it.
He’d be done. Done scraping. Done hunting. Done with rich nobs and their precious baubles. Done with London’s refuse and desperation.
One final job—one—and he’d be free.
The thought drove him to his feet. He plucked up his coat and pencil. He tossed the newspaper in Drayton’s lap and donned his hat before sidling past the other man’s chair.
“Hawthorn! Forget somethin’?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
Drayton nodded toward the velvet pouch he’d left on the desk.
Jonas settled his hat tighter. “Nah.” Shrugging on his coat, he shot the older man a warning glance. “Clark and Sons does shite work. Talk to Harris. He’ll make your sister a proper stone.” He shoved through the crowd and out onto Bow Street.
Within ten minutes, he’d reached his lodgings. The rooms weren’t much—the upper floor of a two-story house on a forgettable side street. The plaster was neither gray nor brown, but rather a distant memory of white. The bed was narrow and whined every time he turned over. The single window looked out on an alley. The place was clean—he preferred clean over filth—but empty. He also preferred empty.
Quickly, he dug in his lowest coat pocket to retrieve his knife. Then, he dropped to his knees and pried at the third floorboard to the right of the window, just beneath the plain, scarred washstand. He shoved the washstand aside with his shoulder and, using his fingertips, worked the board loose and lifted it free. Finally, he pulled a small box from the crevice.
The box had been old when he’d bought it at a pawnshop the previous year. Small brass hinges protested whenever he opened the lid. But he only bothered to look inside when darkness gouged too deep, when need overcame his resistance. Besides, the size of the box was just right—small enough to fit in his pocket and big enough to keep what needed keeping. And the lining was silk. Snowy, pristine silk.
He ran a thumb over the carved wood surface, a relief of moon and stars. He opened it. Tucked Lady Wallingham’s letter and sketch atop the dreams he’d sketched himself. Then, he closed the lid, slipped the box into his pocket alongside his knife, replaced the board, and shoved the washstand back into place.
After gathering up his few possessions, he left his rented rooms and made his way outside. One of the girls who plied her trade between his street and Covent Garden leaned against the side of the house. She brightened with a calf-eyed smile. “A fine day to you, Mr. Hawthorn,” she cooed, working her shoulders to plump her bosoms above their confines.
He tipped his hat in his usual dismissal and continued past her without a word, but she persisted.
“Care to take me upstairs? I’d not charge you.” She sauntered after him, her hips twitching back and forth in an exaggerated sway. “Come now, Hawthorn. Never seen you bring a woman home. Man like you—strong and ’andsome. You ’ave needs, aye?” She fluttered her lashes and trailed fingertips across his shoulder blade. “I’d even let you be a bit rough, if you’d care to.”
She’d offered her services many times before, and he’d never accepted. For one thing, the girl was too young—eighteen, perhaps. For another, she was all wrong. Blonde hair instead of black. Dark eyes instead of light. Buxom instead of slender.
Ordinarily, he’d show more patience. He’d disguise his true nature with grins and harmless banter. Reject her brazen offers by suggesting she’d find more receptive customers in a tavern on a scorcher like today. But why bother? He was leaving. With luck, he’d never see her or this place again.
Lifting her wrist away with his thumb and finger, he tilted his head and let her have a good look at the man she’d invited to slake his hunger with her.
The prostitute swallowed visibly, withdrawing her hand. Caution replaced brazenness.
Without a word, he left the girl behind. Left his rooms behind. Soon, he would leave London behind, and everything would change.
Automatically, his hand traced the box in his pocket. Yes, everything would be different now. All he had to do was complete one small task for a dragon.
*~*~*
Grimsgate Castle towered above flat, open fields like a ship of the line on a quiet sea. Rather than whit
e sails, however, the sprawling pile of stone occupied a knoll at the edge of the water, square towers looming dark against a feathery sky.
Jonas knew he should have slept a few extra hours at the last inn. His ride to Northumberland had taken only two days, but his eyes felt like dry gravel. He smelled of horse and sweat. His stomach protested the brick of bread he’d eaten at his last stop.
Well before noon, the early-August heat was sweltering, despite a goodly breeze off the water. He hoped like hell Lady Wallingham would demand he bathe and shave before soiling her furniture. Imagining her wrinkling that imperious nose at his dishevelment almost made his misery worthwhile.
He guided his hired mount up a winding gravel drive past the old towers of the gatehouse. By the time he stood inside Grimsgate’s grand hall, surrendering his dust-stained hat to a stiff-necked butler, he’d decided his first purchase would be boots that fit his feet without blistering.
“This way, sir,” the butler said, waving toward a set of arches at the rear of the cavernous hall. The castle was grand, he’d grant that much. A vast sprawl of multiple towers encircled by a stone wall, the complex of structures and gardens occupied an entire hilltop. Inside the main keep, stone walls were enriched with square-paneled wood, massive fireplaces, and high, beamed ceilings. Everywhere, signs of old bloodlines and titled influence were prominently displayed—portraits, tapestries, shields painted with the Wallingham crest. Equally, the castle itself, with its abundance of windows and polished stone floors, spoke of immense wealth. Upkeep on the windows alone in a place like this must cost hundreds of pounds per year.
The butler led him through a set of doors into what he assumed was a drawing room. The enormous space boasted several large carpets, two fireplaces, multiple red-draped windows, dozens of furnishings ranging from gold-striped chairs to a black-and-white marble chess table.
And one purple-clad dragon.
She set her teacup in its saucer with a clink and arched a white brow. “I trust there is a sound reason for your delay, Mr. Hawthorn.” She sniffed and angled her chin upward, even as her mouth curved down. The twin plumes tucked into her white coiffure bobbed their agreement. “Waylaid by a vagrant who forced you to wear his garments, perhaps?”
He gave her brief bow. “I left London the day before yesterday, when I received your letter, my lady.”
“Hmmph.” She gestured to the chair opposite hers, a winged leather piece that probably cost six months’ rent. “Do sit down, boy. You’re giving me a pain in my neck.”
He shrugged out of his coat, draping it over the arm of the chair before sinking onto the seat.
“Are you quite accustomed to informality, Mr. Hawthorn?” Her tart tone disapproved.
He glanced at his shirtsleeves before grinning. “Aye.”
“Here, we call such impertinence rude.”
His grin widened. “Aye.”
She snorted. Was that a smile fighting to take hold of those old, wrinkled lips? He thought so. “Fortunately for us both, I do not require a gentleman but an investigator. One of some skill, if no manners whatever.”
“Your letter mentioned a missing item.”
“Items, Mr. Hawthorn. A trunk. Its contents are extremely valuable.”
He nodded. They must be to justify such a colossal reward. “When did it go missing?”
“Recently.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
“Where did you last see it?”
“Here.”
“In this room?”
“In this castle.”
“Don’t you have a bloodhound that could track—”
“Humphrey was laid low during the period surrounding the disappearance. Ill-advised consumption of meat pies from the rubbish pile, I’m afraid. Dreadful mess. By the time he recovered, there was no scent to be followed.” She sniffed. “I trust you’ll exhibit greater restraint, Mr. Hawthorn.”
Sighing, he narrowed his eyes upon the old woman. She was tiny—more like a bird than a dragon. But her voice carried far beyond her size, not loud but clear. She spoke the way field generals spoke, so as to be heard above gunfire.
“What did the trunk contain?” he asked.
“Nothing a thief would find alluring.”
“Was the trunk itself valuable, then?”
“It is a trunk, Mr. Hawthorn. Wood and leather. Well crafted, perhaps, but hardly worth stealing.”
“Then, the contents must be costly.”
“They are of infinite value to me.”
“But you refuse to tell me what they are.”
“Find the trunk. That is your task.”
Grinding his back teeth, he tried another grin and leaned back against buttery leather. “Might a servant have mistakenly moved the trunk without your knowledge?”
Jewel-green eyes sparked with a hint of indignation. “My servants do not so much as swallow their supper without my knowledge, Mr. Hawthorn. Or they are not my servants for long.”
“But if they had—”
“They did not,” she snapped. “Someone has stolen my possessions. It is your task to find them and bring the thief to me. Now, do you intend to sit there with that insufferable male grin you mistake for charm and continue asking doltish questions? If so, I shall summon Mr. Drayton at once. He, at least, will have the good sense to wear a proper coat whilst he wastes my time.”
Her hands, he noted, clenched the arms of her chair. Fragile fingertips dented the leather. Lady Wallingham was a formidable woman, but she rarely exhibited tension. Too superior, he supposed. Other signs—carefully controlled breathing, tightened cords in her neck—added to his conclusion that her distress was both acute and real.
He leaned forward to hold her gaze. Deliberately, he dropped his “insufferable male grin” and let her see his resolve. “I will find your trunk, my lady,” he said quietly. “Of this, I can assure you.”
Several breaths passed while they gazed at one another—gauged one another. Finally, she nodded, her plumes bobbing. “I trust you will. Within a fortnight, young man. Or I shall reconsider my decision to hire you instead of Mr. Drayton. Perhaps hounds are superior trackers, but a wolf hunts for his survival. In all things, motivation matters.”
He frowned. “Am I the hound or the wolf in this analogy?”
“We shall see, Mr. Hawthorn. Results will tell.” She gave him leave to question her staff and search the estate. Then, she informed him that he was to conduct his investigation discreetly, as she was hosting a house party.
He cursed beneath his breath. Bloody hell, this was all he needed—tracking down a lost trunk amidst a sea of aristocratic guests, all of whom would likely bring trunks of their own.
“I assume you bathe upon occasion,” Lady Wallingham said tartly, waving her fingers in his direction. “Despite appearances.”
Once again, he gathered his patience and nodded.
“Splendid. My butler, Mr. Nash, will show you to your chamber.”
“That’s not necessary, my lady. I’ve taken a room at the inn—”
“Do you enjoy infestation, Mr. Hawthorn?”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“Biting insects one scarcely sees. Rats with a taste for human flesh. Do you crave such discomforts?”
“No. I can’t say that I—”
“Then, I suggest you accept my generous offer and follow Mr. Nash. Luncheon is at two. You will wish to bathe and don a proper coat.”
This time, he frowned. Luncheon? What the devil? “Are you suggesting I dine with you and your guests?” He asked only because the idea was absurd, and he wished to see her horrified reaction. This should be amusing.
“Precisely.” With a calm lift of her brow, she rang a bell and granted him a small smile. “Wear a fresh shirt. Doubtless everyone at my table will be appreciative.”
He started to inquire if her cup was filled with brandy rather than tea that morning, but the stiff-necked Mr. Nash arrived to lead him from the room in
proper stiff-necked fashion.
Bloody hell. Why on earth would she want him mingling with her guests? Did she suspect one of them of filching her trunk? He’d have to wait to ask. The dragon dismissed him in favor of her lorgnette and correspondence.
Nash led him back along the lengthy, windowed gallery toward the grand hall. “Her ladyship has asked that the staff cooperate fully with your investigation, Mr. Hawthorn. If you require assistance in any regard,”—the butler coolly eyed Jonas’s boots and coat—“anything at all, you have but to inquire.”
“Her ladyship wants me to join her guests at luncheon.”
“Indeed, sir.”
He watched the man’s face, waiting for signs of incredulity. “Any idea why?”
“She wishes your presence, sir.”
“A Bow Street officer. Dining with lords and ladies at a marchioness’s table.”
“We have arranged a bath for you, as well as suitable attire.”
Jonas stopped. “Nash.”
The lean, rust-and-gray-haired butler halted and turned on his heel, hands clasped at his back. His face showed only the discipline of his profession. “Yes, Mr. Hawthorn?”
“What has luncheon to do with finding her trunk?”
“So far as I am aware, nothing at all.”
“She gave me a fortnight to complete my investigation. Luncheon wastes my time and hers. Makes no sense.”
“It is as her ladyship wishes, sir. Her reasons are her own.” Nash lowered his chin to a slightly less pompous angle. “However, in my experience, one is well advised to assume her reasons are sound.”
Old dragons were not to be questioned, apparently. “Very well. Lead on. The sooner we dine, the sooner I can finish what I came here to do.”
“Indeed, sir.”
As they neared the grand hall, voices echoed along the gallery. A man and woman. Accents that spoke of money and entitlement.
“… invited us to his annual hunt in November.” The low, masculine voice sounded through the arches. “She may certainly wait until then to find a husband. Or next year, for that matter. Your urgency baffles me.”
