"Of course," Ava said in a soothing tone, as they resumed their walk, "If anyone is to discover us, I shall say that you were a completely unwilling accomplice to my plan."
"Do you think we could get a pastry as well?" Mary queried, her mind obviously on Gunter's menu, and not the trip to the docks.
"We can get anything we like," Ava assured her, as they reached the gate which led to the west side of the square. "As long as we've found —"
Ava did not have a chance to stipulate her requirements, for the sight of a very familiar carriage stopped her dead.
"Lud," she whispered, tugging on Mary's sleeve, "It's Kilbride."
The two women hesitated by the gate, as Ava wondered what on earth she should do. A large part of her—the cowardly part—wished to turn on her heel and flee as far away from Grosvenor Square as her feet could carry her.
"Do you reckon he's here to apologise?" Mary asked in a whisper.
"Most likely," Ava replied, trying not to recall the hurt that she had felt the night before. That Kilbride had chosen Lady Emily to be his bride based on her fine lineage should not have come as a shock to Ava, but it had deeply pierced her soul to hear him say those words, and she knew why.
A part of her, a part that she had been trying valiantly to repress, had secretly hoped that if the duke had ever discovered her true identity, that he would be able to see past it, to the woman she was. Now she knew that Kilbride desired sons who had the blood of generations of aristocrats coursing through their veins, more than he desired a simple girl who recognised the pain within his soul. She could have cursed herself for being so stupid, for thinking that a duke might love a poor orphan.
"I suppose we'd best get this over with," Ava said with a sigh, as she squared her shoulders and strode resolutely out the garden gate and toward Fairfax House. She had just reached the front steps, when the door of Kilbride's carriage opened and the duke appeared.
"Lady Emily," he called, his voice croakier than usual, "What a coincidence, I have just arrived."
"Do come in," Ava said in response, wishing that the hurt she felt would magically transform itself into anger, but it did not. The very sight of Kilbride made her ache—even if he did look rather more dishevelled than usual. His handsome face wore a look of pain and despite her anger, Ava felt a stab of pity for the man. He was not the only one who had transgressed, she thought with a guilty conscience, for she had been lying to him since the first day they had met.
Her sister's plan, which had seemed so exciting when Emily had first proposed it, had now completely lost its allure. Kilbride was not a lump of granite, whom one could trifle with, but a man with feelings—feelings which could be hurt as easily as her own.
Ava kept this thought at the forefront of her mind, as she led Kilbride inside the house and into the drawing room.
"I must call for tea," she said vaguely, as they both settled down into their seats. As much as she did not want to, Ava knew that she needed to end things with him now, for she could not bear to string Kilbride along for any longer—it was too cruel.
"I'll fetch it, my Lady," Mary offered, disappearing from the room in a flash, leaving Ava and the duke completely alone.
There was a moment of awkward silence, before Kilbride launched into his apology.
"I wish to say sorry for what I said to you last night," he said, standing from his chair and pacing the room. Even in her abject misery, Ava could appreciate the duke's fine physique; his power and musculature were in sharp contrast to the feminine decor of the drawing room, which was decorated exclusively in pastels and lace.
"There is no need to apologise, Your Grace," Ava replied quietly, "I am glad to know why you wish to marry me, for it makes what I am about to say much easier."
"Don't," Kilbride spun on the heel of his Hessian, turning an imploring face toward her, "Please don't say it, not just yet. Last night, I was so panicked that I could not think straight. Of course, your lineage is important, but that's not why I wish to have you as my bride, Emily. I desire you, body and soul. Your sweetness, your grace, your kindness, your enthusiasm for life; all of this has bewitched me, and—"
"And?" Ava asked, as Kilbride broke off in a hoarse croak.
"And I have never had a woman look at me like you do," he admitted quietly, as though he was ashamed of his feelings, "When I look into your eyes, I feel as though you see into my soul, and all my feelings of loneliness disappear.
Loneliness; Ava closed her eyes against that word, for it was something she knew well. There was, she knew, no greater poverty than feeling unwanted, and she too had spent many years of her life feeling invisible, just waiting to be found. Before her now stood a man, who saw her, who understood her, who wanted her, and it tore at Ava's soul that none of it was real.
"Gracious," she said in a light voice, as she attempted to break the heady, intoxicating tension between the two of them; "Did Mary go all the way to China to fetch that tea?"
"I don't care about the blasted tea," Kilbride interjected, striding across the room to her and hauling her to her feet; "I care about you Emily; I have never cared about a person as much in my entire life."
"I am not the person you think me to be," Ava protested, her own voice now throaty with emotion, "Please, believe me, Your Grace."
"Raff," Kilbride replied, as he hauled her against him, "For goodness' sake woman, let me hear my name upon your lips."
"Raff," Ava whispered, and the moment she had said it, the duke's mouth came crashing down upon hers.
Their kiss last night had begun softly, before it had grown in passion, but today there was nothing soft about the way Kilbride kissed her. He held her against his chest in a crushing grip as his lips claimed hers possessively. He was more man than duke now, his polished manners slipping away to reveal a base need, that both excited and frightened Ava.
Even if she had wanted to, she could not have pulled herself from his embrace, for her treacherous body was too in thrall to the man who held her.
We must stop, Ava thought hazily, as she melted against Kilbride's chest, though her resolve quickly slipped away. They could have stayed like that for hours, but luckily a startled voice, interrupted the pair.
"Tea," Mary called from the open door, her voice so high-pitched it was a wonder that anyone bar a dog could hear it, "I've brought the tea."
Mary bustled into the room, her face beet red and set the tray down upon the table, as Ava and Kilbride broke apart. The Irish woman cast Ava a rather knowing look, before she glanced down at the tray and let out a loud theatrical sigh.
"I forgot the milk," she said, turning back to the door, "I'll be back in a minute."
"There's a jug on the tray," Ava called after her, but Mary ignored her and disappeared into the hallway.
"Forgive me," Kilbride said, once they were alone again, "I should not have done that; I just needed to make you see..."
"See what?" Ava asked, taking a resolute breath before she looked at him, "See that you are an accomplished kisser? I will admit that you are, Your Grace, but it does not change the fact that I cannot marry you. Please, just leave me be."
Never, in all her life, had she spoken such cold words to another human being, and the look on Kilbride's face left Ava close to tears. He looked as though she had physically slapped him—and who could blame him, after her enthusiastic response to his kissing? He must have thought her a tease—a lady who was happy to trifle with his affections for her own amusement.
"Well then, I must apologise again," Kilbride said, the open expression on his face changing to a mask of indifference, "For wasting your time, my Lady. Good day to you."
With a nod, Kilbride swept from the room, passing by Mary who had returned with a jug of milk.
"What happened?" Mary whispered, rushing toward Ava.
"I have ended our—I mean Emily's—engagement," Ava replied with a deep sigh. The very act that had brought her here, and that she had thought would be simple, had left her exhaust
ed to her very bones.
"Merciful heavens," Mary exhaled, blessing herself and sloshing the milk from the jug in the process, "Thank goodness for that, now we can end this charade and bring Lady Emily back."
"Not just yet," Ava replied, casting Mary a beseeching look, "We still have to find Harriette."
"All you were supposed to do, was to break your engagement with the duke," Mary argued, "And you've done that. Poor man, he was quite besotted with you."
"You mean he was quite besotted with Emily," Ava corrected her absently, for she was looking out the window, trying to catch one last glimpse of Kilbride.
"No, I meant you," Mary replied hotly. Ava turned her attention to the lady's maid, whose hands were upon her hips, and whose face was creased into a frown of annoyance. "The duke was besotted with you. I saw him when he was with Emily—the real Emily—and he was a different man to the man he is with you. Then he was rude, bored and completely indifferent, but he has been dancing attendance on you since they day you arrived. Like a love sick-puppy so he was, the poor sod."
"Well he would not have looked so love-sick, if he knew that the lady he was pursuing was a nobody," Ava retorted, guilt making her short tempered. She could not bear to listen to Mary's judgemental tone; it was clear that the Irish woman did not like the way that Ava had treated Kilbride, but nor did Ava.
"Well," Mary blustered, "You didn't give him a chance to prove you wrong, now did you?"
"This isn't a fairytale, Mary," Ava cried, "And I am not Cinderella—why can't you understand?"
Ava's voice had risen in anger, and the moment she finished her outburst, she knew that she had insulted poor Mary. The lady's maid looked highly affronted, but before Ava had a chance to apologise, she spoke;
"Well, I know when I am not wanted," Mary said with a sniff, "If you need anything I'll be in my room, my lady."
Without a backwards glance, Mary swept from the room, leaving Ava completely alone.
What have I done, she thought sadly; she had swapped lives with her sister, thinking it would lead to happiness—but now she was more alone and sadder than ever.
Chapter Eleven
There was no better way to forget one's troubles, than by focusing on the troubles of others, Raff thought the next day as he made his way back from the docks.
He had spent the morning with Douglas McCasey and his enchanting wife, Annalise, in their bijou lodgings in Bloomsbury. The couple, who had met in Paris, were both passionate about the plight of London's poorest children, and had described to Raff the abject horrors that many orphaned children were forced to endure.
The lives led by the climbing boys had particularly perturbed Raff. As Emily had already explained to him, the boys were often taken from orphanages at a young age—some could be as young as three—and sent to work seven days a week, from dawn to dusk.
The task of climbing chimneys was both physically painful and dangerous; some boys suffered from skin lesions, which festered and became infected, others from respiratory ailments which plagued them for life, and many poor boys died from falls. Others, McCasey had told him, died as a direct result of their master's treatment; from beatings, starvation, or because they had set a fire below some poor young boy, to encourage him to climb, but had accidentally asphyxiated the poor boy in the process.
"Some boys simply lose their strength, halfway up the chimney," McCasey had concluded gravely, "Their bodies give up and they fall to their deaths, but there is no one to mourn their passing. They are discarded and then replaced with another poor boy, and the vicious circle continues."
The findings that the McCasey's had presented to Raff, had left him with a sick feeling in his stomach. He thought on what Emily had said, that he had a duty to use his power to help those less fortunate, and knew that she was right.
"I will put everything I have behind your cause," Raff had vowed, "I will need to press Parliament to instruct a committee to examine the hardship of these poor boys' lives—of the lives of all the children who are indentured into servitude, for that matter—and from there, we will hopefully have the will of the House, to change the laws."
"How wonderful you are," Annalise had cried, gifting him with a bright smile. She certainly was a striking woman, Raff had thought, finding himself a little bedazzled by her smile. He knew that she had been an actress in Paris, but her accent had a definite English lilt to it—a rather moneyed lilt, in fact. Raff had tried, somewhat, to press her on her background, but she and McCasey had swiftly moved on to discuss a particularly nefarious master sweep, whom they thought would be an excellent candidate for the committee to investigate.
Mrs Bridger, also known as Mother Brownrigg, employed over a dozen climbing boys, who lived with her on Swallow Street. The boys, Raff was told, began work in the wee hours of the morning and returned to their lodgings in the late afternoon, having worked for nearly twelve hours straight.
Raff, keen to discreetly observe the poor boys, had made his way on foot down toward Swallow Street, which was situated close by to the West India Docks. There he had loitered discreetly—well as discreetly as a man dressed in such finery could manage. He had ignored the light-skirts from the nearby bawdy house, who had eyed him appreciatively, paying no heed to their calls, and eventually they gave up, focusing their attention instead on the dozens of sailors, shipmen and tars who teemed through the street.
Raff had been waiting a half hour when he saw them; a straggly line of boys, feet bare, clothes tattered and every inch of them covered in black soot, being herded down the decaying street by a trio of older boys. They made such a sorry sight, that people visibly recoiled upon spotting them. Some of the lads, Raff noted, looked half-starved, and none of them had any of the vigour of normal children.
They look just about ready to give up on life, Raff thought with alarm, yet none of them could be older than ten.
He watched from under the brim of his hat, as the door to number three Swallow Street was thrown open by a plump woman, who waved an angry hand at the boys.
"Quit your dawdlin'," she roared down the street, "There's work to be done in here."
More work? Raff didn't think that any of the lads looked capable of another step, let alone more work, and yet they meekly followed the older boys through the door, evidently aware that there were jobs to be done before anyone would feed them.
A burning anger filled Raff, as the door to the house slammed shut behind the boys. That woman, Mother Brownrigg, had every look of a person who lived an idle life; soft hands, plump cheeks—all funded by the cruel labour of a dozen helpless boys.
He rather wished that he had his Flintlock with him, so that he could barge through the doors and rescue the poor boys from the clutches of Mother Brownrigg. However, it was not just this dozen boys who needed saving; there were hundreds, if not thousands, of climbing boys all over London and what was needed was law reform.
The thought of Mother Brownrigg festering in Newgate was at the forefront of Raff's mind as he turned toward home. He was so occupied, in fact, that as he passed onto East India Road, he almost failed to notice the two familiar figures scurrying along the footpath on the opposite side of the road.
It was Mary whom he noticed first, and then only because he heard her before he saw her. The Irish woman appeared to be in foul form, loudly remonstrating her companion for some indiscretion as they hurried along their way.
Raff blinked, then blinked again, when he realised that the young woman walking beside Mary looked rather familiar. Initially, given her clothing and the starched white cap upon her head, Raff had assumed the girl to be a servant, but her svelte figure and the black curls which peeked out from under her cap told him otherwise.
What on earth?
Raff paused, nearly knocking over a young man in the process. The lad let out a yelp and turned, as though to start an argument, but took one look at Raff's bulk and quickly continued on his way. What were they up to, Raff wondered again, hanging back lest the two women c
aught a glimpse of him. There was no business, that Raff could think of, that would require a well-bred young lady to venture into this part of town.
Careful not to be seen, Raff crossed the road and followed the two, at a distance, as they made their way back down to the West India Docks. They stopped outside the door of The Star of the Sea, an inn which evidently catered to sailors and tars, and to Raff's horror, after conferring for a moment, both women ventured inside.
Lud, he cursed under his breath, the silly girl—anything could happen to her inside. Spurred by a sense of masculine protectiveness, Raff hurried to follow the pair inside. The Star of the Sea was, mercifully, one of the dock's more sedate establishments. When Raff entered into the warm bar, it was deserted, though a fire danced in the grate and the murmur of voices could be heard from the room beyond.
Feeling rather conspicuous, Raff tiptoed across the rough, wooden floor, and positioned himself near the open door from which the voices were drifting.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he heard a woman say hotly, "I ain't never heard of no Lady Anna Darlington."
Lady Anna Darlington? The name sounded familiar to Raff's ears, but he could not quite place it.
"You have," Emily spoke then, her voice was instantly recognisable, and equally as heated as the woman's she was arguing with; "We spoke with Mrs Blythe just yesterday, and she said that after Lady Anna disappeared, you left to open an inn by the docks."
"And so what if I did?"
"Well, Mrs Blythe thinks it rather strange that after Lady Anna disappeared, you suddenly inherited enough money to open this fine establishment."
Raff blinked as he registered what Emily had just said—of course, Lady Anna was the daughter of Lord and Lady Darlington. The girl had disappeared some twenty years ago, when Raff was but a boy himself, but he knew of the tale—though why Emily was so concerned with it was beyond him.
"Are you saying I had something to do with her vanishing like that?"
The woman with whom Emily was arguing sounded very, very angry, and Raff wondered should he intervene or bide his time a tad longer.
The Duke's Bride in Disguise (Fairfax Twins Book 1) Page 12
