Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  “Forgive me, Lord Dalton. I didn’t—”

  Ernest made his way toward her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “May we speak, Mrs. Graham?”

  The housekeeper frowned in surprise, the creases on her forehead deepening. “Why yes, My Lord. Of course.” She shot a fierce glare at the housemaid, shooing her away with a leathery, lined hand.

  Ernest folded his hands behind his back. “You were here when my sister passed away.” He kept his voice low, not wanting his mother to overhear from the withdrawing room across the hall.

  Surprise flickered across Mrs. Graham’s eyes. Then she nodded. “Yes, My Lord. It was a sad time indeed.”

  Was the old woman’s voice wavering slightly? Or was he simply imagining things?

  “Can you tell me how she died?”

  Mrs. Graham hesitated. “Why, she was a sickly baby. Weak from the moment she was born. We was all surprised she lived as long as she did.” She gave a sad, dramatic sigh.

  The same story Ernest had been fed throughout his entire life. No doubt the household staff had been given the same tale. Or told to tell the same tale. Ernest felt that restlessness inside him shift and build.

  Deciding he would get no more from Mrs. Graham, he made his way out to the stables.

  Ernest had always liked their groom. As a boy, he had visited the stables often to hear Phillips’ tales of his time at sea; adventurous yarns populated with pirates and smugglers and cannon fire. Ernest had known, of course, that Phillips’ stories were most likely made up, but the fact hadn’t stopped him from enjoying them.

  The Duke had frowned upon Ernest spending so much time with one of their servants, determined that his son associate only with people of his own standing. It was one of the few things Ernest and the Duke did not see eye-to-eye on. How could he come to know of the world, he argued, if he spent his time around people just like him?

  “All the things worth knowing,” his father would say in return, “can be learned by spending time with people of our caliber.”

  Ernest knew better than to fight with his father. And so, he had always waited until the Duke was out of the house to visit Phillips. His mother had always been too withdrawn to either notice or care.

  Phillips looked up as Ernest swung open the door of the stables. He was running a comb through the mane of the piebald mare, rubbing the animal’s nose and speaking in gentle murmurs.

  “You’re not taking her out again, My Lord,” he said, in a curt, husky voice. “You ran the poor girl ragged yesterday. She’s not as young as she used to be.” He turned back to the horse, as she nosed his shoulder. “You and I have that in common, don’t we, my girl.”

  Ernest smiled. “I’ll let her rest, Phillips. It’s you I came to speak to.”

  The groom raised his caterpillar eyebrows. “Oh yes?”

  “It’s about my sister.”

  Phillips didn’t speak at once. “Oh yes,” he said again. Ernest heard the strain in his voice.

  This time, I’m not imagining it.

  Ernest hesitated. “I believe she’s alive,” he said bluntly, watching the old man’s face carefully to gauge his reaction.

  Phillips’ face gave nothing away. He turned to Ernest. “And why do you think that?”

  Ernest held his gaze. “I have my reasons. What can you tell me about her? You were here when she—” He paused, “when she left.”

  The old man turned back to the horse, combing her mane with renewed vigor. The back of Ernest’s neck prickled.

  Phillips knows something.

  Ernest felt a sudden swell of resentment for the household he had grown up in. There was rarely a hair out of place in all of Graceton Manor, yet there were so many unspoken things lying beneath the surface, Ernest felt sure. Secrets stuffed into wardrobes and pain hidden behind curtains of pipe smoke. Sometimes this place was simply suffocating.

  He took a step closer to Phillips. “You know something,” he said.

  The groom shook his head. “No. I arrived here just months before you were born. Your sister was already gone.” He rubbed his bristly chin, as though deep in thought. “But there’s a man you might speak to. George Owen. He used to tend the gardens here when you was just a lad. I heard him speak of the girl on more than one occasion. Said he used to cut the thorns from the roses, so she didn’t prick her fingers.” He ran a wiry hand along the horse’s mane. “I used to think it strange. After all, everybody said your poor sister died when she was just an infant.”

  Ernest’s thoughts knocked together. He thought of a tiny girl playing among the rose bushes, dressed in a smock embroidered with flowers.

  “This man, Mr. Owen. Where can I find him?”

  Phillips shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. I ain’t got any thought of where he is now. He was an east London man. Came from Bethnal Green. Perhaps you might try asking there.”

  Ernest nodded, full of fresh determination. He nodded at Phillips. “Thank you.”

  The old man narrowed his eyes. “Not a word to anyone about what I just told you. Your father would have me out on the street.”

  As Ernest made his way out of the stable, he heard Phillips call to him. He turned back to face the old man.

  “Be careful, My Lord,” the groom said, his eyes hard and determined. “If you go out there looking, make sure you’re ready for what you might find.”

  Chapter 3

  Ernest stood in front of the mirror, feeling a right fool.

  The patched grey greatcoat he had borrowed from Phillips hung from his shoulders. Too embarrassed to ask the old man for his unmentionables, he wore a pair of faded corduroy trousers he had found by raiding the laundry room.

  He eyed himself. The trousers were far too big, and not wanting to give away the game by accessorizing with one of his own leather belts, Ernest had tied them at the waist with a length of rope. Phillips’ coat, in contrast, was so tight around the shoulders that Ernest could barely lift his arms. He buttoned the greatcoat to his neck, careful to cover the silk shirt he wore beneath. Catch a glimpse of such a thing, and the people of Bethnal Green would know he was a fraud. He combed his fingers through his thick auburn hair, doing his best to untidy it. His thick locks fell neatly back into place, half an inch above his collar. Ernest sighed and pulled on the blue woolen cap he had borrowed from the groom. Perhaps he might pass for a working-class man if he kept his collar up and his eyes down.

  Out of sight of the Duke and Duchess, Ernest slipped out of the house and hurried through the grounds, careful to trudge through as many mud puddles as possible to take the shine from his boots.

  It was a long walk from Pimlico to Bethnal Green, but he was determined to play the part, and so dug his hands into his pockets and began to stride through the city.

  He watched the streets change from whitewashed avenues to winding, lightless lanes. Watched suits and embroidered waistcoats replaced by grimy shirts, flower sellers replaced by beggars. How foreign the East End was to him…

  Despite his upbringing, Ernest had never considered himself a sheltered man. He had spent two years marching across Europe in the army and had seen plenty of his own country on holiday jaunts during his university days.

  And yet this part of the city felt like another world. Here, houses were crammed together, and were so crooked they looked to be holding each other up. Through the windows that were not patched with rags, he could see countless people in each room. In the late afternoon light, men stumbled out of taverns and argued in the street. Women sat on street corners with wailing babes in their arms. And the smell, good Lord, that smell…that unidentifiable mix of waste and rot and death. Ernest had never come across anything so vile.

  For a moment, he stood motionless on the corner of the street. How was it possible that so many people might live this way, while the ton swanned about comparing vintages of their favorite wines? The injustice of it began to burn inside him.

  He hoped Unity had not ended up in this part of the city.

&nbs
p; But he was not looking for Unity here, he reminded himself. He was looking for George Owen. A man who was little more than a name. Ernest had no idea where to begin.

  Glancing down a shadowy alleyway, he caught sight of a sign swinging from the awnings. A pawn shop.

  As good a place to begin as any.

  Ernest pulled his hat lower over his ridiculously-neat hair and made his way down the alley. He pushed open the door. The shop was gloomy; its window bathed in dust and partially blocked by an enormous wooden chest of drawers.

  The man behind the counter looked him up and down.

  “Buying or selling?” he asked huskily.

  Ernest frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you buying or selling?” the man repeated, impatience in his voice.

  “Ah. Neither, I’m afraid. I’m simply after information.”

  The shopkeeper studied him with narrow, flinty eyes. “Information? It’ll cost you.”

  Ernest nodded and dug into his pocket. He hesitated. What was an appropriate sum for such a thing? Offer too little, and the man would refuse to speak. But offer too much and his ruse as a working-class man would be destroyed. He pulled a penny from inside his coat and dropped it on the counter. The man took it, sliding it into his pocket. He looked at Ernest knowingly.

  “You got plenty more where that come from, don’t you now?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Ernest. “I’ve had little work this week. I’ve been too ill to venture down into the mines.” He could feel his cheeks flushing at the ridiculousness of his lies.

  “Too ill to venture down into the mines,” the man echoed. “You’ve a tongue like a king, yet can only manage a penny?”

  Sighing, Ernest dug into his pocket and produced a shilling. He’d only been at this game five minutes, and already his cover was blown.

  The man grinned. “That’s more like it.” He scooped up the money. “Now what is it you want to know?”

  “George Owen,” said Ernest. “Do you know him?”

  The man flashed him a row of crooked, yellow teeth. “No, sir. I do not.” His smile widened. “But I thank you for your time.”

  Ernest trudged back out to the street. A man stumbled past him, a bottle of brandy swinging from his fist. “Excuse me, sir,” called Ernest. “Do you know a man named George Owen?”

  The man whirled around, stared at him, then burst into a wild cackle. He tossed back another mouthful of liquor.

  Ernest sighed. This was pointless. What had he been thinking, striding into the city and just hoping someone might be able to help him?

  He looked about him. In a nearby street, someone had lit a fire, and its orange glow was illuminating the shadows. On the corner sat a crooked stone tavern, men spilling out onto the street. Ernest could hear laughter coming from inside.

  Good. I need a drink.

  Weaving his way through the drunkards, Ernest pushed his way inside.

  The tavern was dark and noisy, the room filled with loud voices and the clinking of glasses. Lamps flickered at each end of the bar, long shadows lying over the room. A curtain of pipe smoke hung in the air.

  Ernest removed his hat. It wasn’t fooling anyone, he felt sure. It just made him look like more of an idiot. He pushed his way toward the bar and ordered a brandy. Glass in hand, he wove toward an empty table in the corner of the room, too self-conscious to stay in view. He tossed back the brandy. It was hot and fierce in his throat, nothing like the smooth vintages he was accustomed to drinking. But the burn of it made him feel alive. And so did the pulsing energy of this place.

  Ernest had always known his life had been a privileged one. He had always known, of course, how lucky he had been to have been born into a family with money. He had always had everything he needed: food, clothing, entertainment. And he had always known that there were plenty of others who were not so fortunate. But that knowledge had always been a distant, theoretical thing. A thing he had not realized the full impact of until he had ventured out here to hunt down the mythical George Owen.

  I need another brandy.

  As he made his way back to the bar, a shout rose up from a corner of the tavern. Ernest turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man waving an arm in the air wildly. The man’s other hand was clamped around the wrist of a young woman. She was dressed alluringly in a tightly-laced green dress, her blonde hair piled messily on top of her head. A working-girl, Ernest guessed, though he’d had little experience with such a thing.

  The man pulled the woman toward him, her feet shuffling on the floor. Seized with urgency, Ernest shoved his way across the tavern, trying to reach them. But then the woman stepped closer to the man and pinned him with fierce eyes. She hissed at him with words Ernest couldn’t hear. The man let his hand fall. Tossing a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, the woman turned and strode across the tavern.

  Ernest found himself staring after her, a strange unbidden blaze beginning to take root inside him.

  Chapter 4

  Rachel could feel the man’s eyes on her.

  She was used to men’s eyes on her, of course, but there was something different about this man’s gaze. It didn’t make her skin prickle, the way it so often did when she felt a potential client watching her. She glanced at the man curiously from across the tavern. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye as that big bastard of a man had grabbed her wrist. Watched him approach her, then stop, as he realized she’d had control of the situation.

  She studied him, as surreptitiously as possible. He was a strange sight. He was tall and broad shouldered, with dark, intelligent eyes. His clothes were ill fitting and dirty, yet his hair was smooth and neat. There was a look of permanent bewilderment plastered on his face.

  Perhaps she ought to approach him. She’d not had a client tonight, and there was rent to be paid, after all.

  Pressing her shoulders back, she sidled across the tavern toward him. The game was always the same.

  Evening, sir. You like what you see?

  And yes, the intensity in this man’s eyes told her he liked what he saw.

  But as she drew closer to him, she stopped.

  There was something different about this man. He was not like the foul-breathed animals which frequented this place. There was that hair, yes, but there was also that shirt she could see peeking out from beneath the collar of his coat. It shone white in the candlelight. The man’s cheeks and chin were neatly shorn. And those hands, Rachel looked closer at them, clasped tightly around his glass. Clean hands. Neat nails. A rarity in this place.

  What is a man like him doing here?

  And what was he doing dressed in filthy rags that clearly belonged to someone else?

  She shook her curiosity away. What did it matter? She could never approach a man like that, no matter how intensely he was watching her. She was nothing but a filthy, penniless woman of the night. Not the kind of woman who could ever go near such a man.

  She turned away and began to walk back across the tavern, heat rising inexplicably in her cheeks.

  “Pardon me, miss.”

  The man’s voice was smooth and gentle. Rachel froze. For a second, she was afraid to turn around.

  Pardon me.

  What a strange thing to hear, after the grunts and curses she was usually gifted by the men in this place.

  When she dared to face him, the man was looking at her with concern in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Rachel felt something shift in her chest. When was the last time a man had looked at her with concern?

  She straightened. “Yes. Thank you. I’m quite all right.” She flicked back a strand of blonde hair that had fallen over her eyes. “I can hold my own against these animals.”

  He gave her a small smile. “I’m quite sure you can.”

  Rachel sucked in her breath, strangely unwilling to walk away. Her feet felt stuck to the floor.

  Look at him, she thought. A lord, perhaps. Or a duke. Fine stock hidden beneath a poor man’s rags. D
id he actually think he was fooling anyone?

  She gave him a short nod. “Thank you for your help. It was good of you.” Reluctantly, she turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he said. “Perhaps you might help me.”

  Rachel turned back to face him, arching an eyebrow. “Help you? With what?”

  He hesitated. “Do you know a man named George Owen? He’s a gardener. At least, he used to be.”

  Rachel shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

  So that’s what he is doing? Searching for someone?

  The curiosity she had been trying to push away was suddenly reignited. And so, she realized, was her reluctance to leave.

  The man nodded, seemingly unsurprised by her answer. “Then perhaps you might help me with something else.” He glanced downwards. “It seems I am…rather unable to fit in in these parts.”

  Rachel gave him a crooked smile. “Aye,” she said. “I’ve noticed that.”

  The man’s cheeks colored slightly. How strange it was, she thought, that he might be ashamed of such a thing. Why would a man be embarrassed about having clean hair and nails? Why would anyone be ashamed of not knowing these filthy streets?

  “I wondered…” he began. “I wondered if you might…help me to fit in a little better. Teach me to speak like these people do and the like.” His words spilled from his mouth in a flurry, as though he was afraid he might lose his nerve.

  Rachel frowned. “You want me to teach you to be more of a lowly beggar?”

  He hesitated, relief falling over his face when Rachel began to laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I do.” He dug a hand into his pocket. “I can pay you,” he said, “whatever you wish.”

  Rachel eyed him. Just how much money was in that pocket, she wondered? She shook her head. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, surprising herself. “I don’t want your money.” She glanced over her shoulder. “There are rooms upstairs,” she said. “We can start now if you wish.”

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