The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1

by Grace Callaway

  Harry had seen a lot at the navvy encampment; he’d never witnessed anything quite like this.

  Men and women occupied mattresses strewn on the floor. Naked bodies tangled in eyebrow-raising permutations. Couples, trios, and more. Bodies formed an undulating chain, slapping flesh and moans and groans spilling into the hallway.

  Heat crept up Harry’s neck as Tom came back to his side. He wondered how the “lad” would react to the depraved scene. Glancing at the carnality, Tom evinced no sign of discomfort and turned to face the whore.

  “Cast your ha’penny lures elsewhere.” Scowling, Tom hitched a thumb at Harry. “The cove’s with me.”

  “Like that, is it?” She smirked.

  Before Harry could respond, Tom turned to him, saying imperiously, “Stop gawking at the cut-rate goods. O’Toole’s minions ain’t far behind.”

  “I wasn’t gawking—” Harry found himself talking to his companion’s retreating back.

  Exasperated, he strode after the other, who was no country bumpkin. He was certain that the minx ahead of him was none other than Miss Thérèse-Marie Todd, the only daughter of brothel owner Malcolm Todd and the only grandchild of the most infamous cutthroat of the age:

  Bartholomew Black, King of London’s criminal underclass.

  And cold-blooded murderer.

  According to Inspector Davies, Harry’s supervisor, Black was responsible for numerous deaths. For years, the police had tried to hold him accountable for those and other crimes. All to no avail.

  Mouths shut. Evidence disappeared.

  The underworld protected its own.

  We’ll get the bastard this time. Determination had hardened Inspector Davies’ time-worn features. Even Black cannot incinerate more than a dozen people and get away with it.

  Davies had briefed the new constables, including Harry, on Black’s family members and known associates. He’d assigned a round-the-clock watch on the cutthroat’s fortress in St. Giles, his officers in civilian wear for the sake of discretion and their own safety. Harry had been on duty tonight when he’d spotted a diminutive figure making a furtive exit from the walled estate. Recalling that Black had a granddaughter who was known for mischief, he’d made the decision to abandon his post and follow. At the Hare and Hounds, he’d seen through Miss Todd’s disguise, observed her shenanigans, and gone to her aid.

  The last part had been instinct. She might be a member of London’s most dangerous family, but she was still a female and a dainty one (at least in size). Neither his code nor his conscience would allow him to stand by and watch while she was beset by a gang of ruffians.

  Even if her behavior was reckless, bold, and that of a lunatic.

  One thing had led to another, and now he was caught up in a mad chase through the stews with the suspect’s granddaughter. A female who dressed like a lad, fleeced cutthroats at cards, and didn’t blink at the sight of an orgy.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, he thought darkly.

  Yet there was no going back, only forward. He would worry about what to do once he got Miss Todd and himself out of the present predicament. They came to the end of the passage, a heavy door blocking their way.

  She tried the knob. “Blast it, it’s locked. And I don’t have any hairp—”

  At the slip, her first thus far, Harry felt his brows rise.

  “—picks.” She caught herself. “Forgot my lock picks, I meant to say.”

  “Allow me.” Removing a set of picks from his pocket, he set to work. The lock clicked in seconds.

  “Zounds, that weren’t your first time, were it?” Beneath her short wig, her eyes were a light, mysterious color that the dimness refused to yield. But there was no hiding that they were wide and fringed with the thickest, curliest lashes he’d ever seen. Intelligence sparkled in that gaze, along with an exuberance that seemed oddly…innocent.

  Yet appearances could be deceiving—especially when it came to women.

  Harry’s jaw clenched. He was no longer the greenhorn he’d been back at Cambridge. He wouldn’t fall for feminine wiles, and especially not those of this chit who was, according to Inspector Davies’ report and Harry’s own observations this eve, about as harmless as a loaded pistol.

  Footfalls thudded, and voices grew louder.

  In the next heartbeat, Miss Todd was through the door. He went after her and found himself in a luxurious courtyard. It was as if he’d stepped into a different world.

  Perplexed, he took in the majestic wall of trees that shut out the shabbiness of the bordering buildings. Here there were blooming flower beds and marble statuary, a white marble fountain that tinkled a merry tune. Mews occupied the far end of the courtyard. Miss Todd headed over, and he trailed her, his boots crunching on the graveled path, the sky a dark canopy of diamond-studded velvet.

  Reaching the mews, Harry saw wooden steps leading to the groom’s quarters above the stalls. He scrutinized the upper floor for any sign of occupants: the panes remained dark, moonlight reflecting off their fathomless depths. Miss Todd opened the door to the stables with obvious care, the well-oiled hinges making no sound. She craned her head this way and that before entering, gesturing him to follow.

  Inside, the space was softly lit by lanterns. The stalls were occupied by sleek horses which would fetch a pretty penny at Tattersall’s. Miss Todd continued down the window-lined row to the stall at the end. She opened the Dutch door and ushered him into an empty cubicle piled with sweet-smelling hay.

  “We can wait ’em out in ’ere,” she said.

  He didn’t see a back door. “If our pursuers come in, there’s no escape route.”

  “They won’t dare come in.”

  “How do you know that?”

  A hint of pink crept above her fake mustache. “Just, um, a hunch.”

  Before he could question her further, there was a sudden movement beneath her coat.

  “What the devil?” He blinked as a line of fur darted from her jacket pocket. It wound its way up her body, looping itself around her neck like a collar. The animal was cream-colored, with dark brown accents on its tail and paws. The strip of brown around its eyes resembled a mask, and, along with its pointed ears and twitching pink nose, gave it the look of an inquisitive bandit.

  “You brought…a ferret?” he asked stupidly.

  “This is Swift Nick Nevison. Where I go, he goes.”

  The fact that she had a ferret named after an infamous highwayman was bizarrely fitting.

  “Swift Nick,” she chided, “we don’t hiss at friends.”

  The ferret stopped hissing at Harry and bared his fangs instead.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance as well,” Harry muttered.

  Apparently determined to carry on her masquerade, Miss Todd swept him a jaunty bow. “My thanks for your assistance tonight. Your name, sir?”

  Voices sounded, silhouettes growing larger in the window.

  Harry acted on instinct, tackling her into the pile of hay. He twisted to bear the brunt of the fall, and Miss Todd let out a little “oof” as she landed atop him. Swift Nick, who’d been detached from his mistress during the process, hopped up and down on the ground beside them, hairs raised and spitting mad.

  “Hush, Swift Nick,” she said breathlessly. “Go hide. Don’t come out until I tell you.”

  After a lingering glare at Harry, the ferret scrambled off.

  Harry remained stock-still, his arms around Miss Todd, their heartbeats thudding in unison.

  “They’re in there.” The voice belonged to Barton, the lout Harry had given an uppercut. “I can smell ’em.”

  “Let’s go in,” another brutish voice said.

  “Stop. We have to leave at once.” Smithers’ sniveling tones emerged. “This courtyard is Black’s territory.”

  Harry’s head jerked, his gaze meeting Miss Todd’s. Hers was unflinching, and she didn’t seem to realize that her moustache had been lost in the scuffle. Without that strip of hair, her mouth was revealed
as pink and plump, the sensual dent in the bottom lip distractingly feminine.

  She wriggled, making him aware of her other attributes as well. With her draped over him, he could feel her shape through that bulky disguise. She was slender yet delicately curved in all the right places.

  “Bugger Black. I ain’t afraid o’ ’im.” Barton’s bravado filtered through the stable walls. “Codger’s old now, weak. Mark my words, a new King is coming—”

  “Shut your yap,” Smithers hissed.

  A shot blasted, followed by a sharp cry. Harry instinctively rolled over to cover Miss Todd’s body with his own. Shouts sounded outside.

  “Bloody ’ell, Barton’s dead! Bullet between the eyes!”

  “There’s a shooter above the stables!”

  Another shot rang out.

  “Run, the bastard’s still shooting!”

  Footsteps pounded as the brutes made their escape. Then…silence.

  Harry mouthed, “Stay here,” to Miss Todd, who remained perfectly still, eyes wide and luminous. He got up, hearing the almost imperceptible creak of steps outside…someone stealthily descending from the groom’s quarters. Removing his flintlock, he exited the stalls, horses nickering as he passed. Through a window, he glimpsed Barton laying on the ground, eyes open, blood trickling from a neat hole in his forehead.

  Harry neared the door. Soles scraped just beyond. His grip on his weapon tightened.

  The door flung open, and Harry found himself face to face with a Chinese. The man’s hair was bound in a long ebony braid, his wiry figure clad in a high-collared tunic. His eyes were steady…as were his hands, which held a shotgun.

  Both men kept their weapons raised, aimed at each other.

  “Ming, don’t shoot!” Miss Todd came dashing toward them.

  “Miss Tessie?” The Celestial—“Ming,” apparently—blinked. “Why you here? And dressed like boy?”

  “I, um, got in a bit of a bind.”

  Sliding Harry an abashed look, she peeled off her side whiskers, removing her cap and wig. She shook out the pins, and his breath hitched as luxuriant sable curls tumbled to her waist.

  “Please put the gun down, Ming. This gentleman came to my aid.” She smiled at Harry, her eyes shining, and his chest tightened oddly. “He’s a hero.”

  Slowly, Ming lowered his weapon, shaking his head. “Mr. Black not like this. Not like at all.”

  3

  They arrived at the Black residence at midnight.

  Ming had insisted that Harry come along, and his shotgun had brooked no refusal. Thus, Harry found himself entering the veritable fortress which occupied an entire block in the heart of the rookery. His past reconnaissance hadn’t allowed him to see beyond the guarded spiked gate and dense wall of brush. Now, with a word from Ming on the driver’s perch, the pair of guards let them through, iron bars clanking shut behind them as their carriage rolled down the pebbled drive.

  With wary anticipation, Harry watched as Black’s lair came into view. Moonlight dappled the gothic mansion, an eerie silver-plating of the turrets and arches. When the carriage stopped, he exited first, turning to help Miss Todd down. Her hand felt soft and dainty engulfed in his. She ended the fleeting touch, ascending the front steps with nimble grace.

  As he followed her up to the recessed entry, he had a feeling of being watched. He glanced up, saw dark silhouettes huddled along the roofline. The cloud cover passed, and the exposed moon shed light upon stone gargoyles. They stared down at him, some grinning evilly, others keeping a brooding vigil.

  Bartholomew Black knew how to set a stage.

  Once inside, Ming told Miss Todd to go upstairs and change.

  She bit her lip. “Do you think I ought to leave Mr. Bennett alone?”

  During the short ride over, she’d again asked Harry his name, and he’d hesitated. If he let his true identity be known, Bartholomew Black might trace him to the police force. Knowing the underworld’s animosity toward law enforcement, Harry didn’t think the cutthroat would take kindly to a constable embroiled in his granddaughter’s affairs. Moreover, he couldn’t risk compromising Davies’ surveillance.

  Thus, Harry had introduced himself as Sam Bennett, the identity that combined his father’s first and his mother’s maiden names. He’d lived as Bennett for so long that, in some ways, it didn’t feel like a lie.

  “Upstairs. Change,” Ming said to Miss Todd.

  “But you know how Grandpapa can be.” Miss Todd worried her lower lip with her teeth. Her eyes, it turned out, were an uncommon shade of green with a touch of grey…like verdigris, the compound produced from soaking copper plates in acid.

  “I don’t want Mr. Bennett to be alone with him,” Miss Todd was insisting. “You know how easily Grandfather’s temper can spark.”

  “Master see you dressed like boy, you see more than spark. You see Chinese fire flower.”

  At the calm words, Miss Todd flashed an impish grin. “All right, Ming. You win.” She dashed to the stairwell, pausing there to add, “Keep an eye on our guest, will you?”

  “I can take care of myself,” Harry called out—as usual, too late.

  Miss Todd had disappeared up the steps.

  The imperturbable Ming took Harry to the drawing room to await Black’s arrival.

  Left alone, Harry took stock of the surroundings. The polished mahogany furnishings and thick Aubusson rugs radiated luxury. He might have been in a grand Mayfair drawing room, or, indeed, any one of his siblings’ homes. Although he came from country-bred, middling class stock, his brother and four sisters had, much to the ton’s and their own surprise, married into the Upper Echelons.

  The Kents had come a long way from their humble beginnings in Chudleigh Crest. As fate would have it, several members of Harry’s family had even crossed paths with Bartholomew Black. Although Harry wasn’t privy to all the details, he knew that, many years ago, his brother Ambrose’s wife, Marianne, had paid off some debt to Black. And Andrew Corbett, the man who’d wed Ambrose and Marianne’s daughter Rosie, had also had encounters with Black.

  Corbett was a product of the underworld, and, as he told it, he’d barely survived Black’s incendiary wrath as a young man. This supported Inspector Davies’ belief that fire was Black’s modus operandi and that the cutthroat was behind the fiery explosion at The Gilded Pearl.

  I must make the most of the opportunity. Harry firmed his resolve. Things might not have gone as planned this evening, but now he had rare access to the suspect’s domain. He would not waste it.

  His boots moved soundlessly over the plush rugs as he traveled the perimeter of the high-ceilinged room. He didn’t know what to search for. Keeping an eye on the door, he rifled through the drawers of an escritoire: nothing but candle stubs, an inkwell, and some broken quills. He continued on past several seating areas, one of them around a carved stone fireplace. His shadow glided over a silk-covered wall lined with columns. Between the columns hung gilt-framed portraits in the style of famed painter Benjamin West.

  Intrigued, Harry peered at the signature…make that by West.

  Upon closer perusal, he saw that gold placards beneath the portraits identified the subjects as members of Black’s family. There was one entitled “Althea Bourdelain Black,” showing a regal matron, her dark hair bound in a pearl-studded coronet. Framed by crimson curtains, she sat by a table, her beringed hand resting delicately on a bible. The paint brought out the richness of her forest green eyes, the blood-red of her heart-shaped ruby pendant and ring.

  The next several portraits were of Black’s only child Mavis, spanning her development from girl to womanhood. In all of them, the painter had emphasized her doe-eyed fragility. The last picture depicted her as a young lady, sitting on a swing beneath the bowers of a leafy oak.

  Harry came to the portrait at the end. It was one of Black himself, dressed in the style of the previous century with white silk breeches and an embroidered jacket. Beneath a powdered wig, Black’s piercing dark eyes seemed to stare dir
ectly at the viewer.

  “They don’t make painters like they used to,” a voice boomed.

  Harry turned to see Bartholomew Black framed in the open doorway.

  Black looked as if he’d stepped out of his own portrait. He had on the same type of old-fashioned wig and breeches, his waistcoat blooming with exotic stitchery. Instead of a jacket, he wore a maroon silk banyan.

  On any other man, the outmoded get-up might appear foolish. Nothing, however, could diminish the palpable aura of power and ruthlessness that swirled around the King of the Underworld. It reminded Harry that the civilized ambiance was just for show. Lives had been brutally cut short by this man’s command.

  Muscles tensed, he reviewed his plan. Keep your identity hidden. Learn as much about the suspect as you can. Stay alive.

  As Black neared, Harry noted that there were a few differences between the man in the portrait and the one in the flesh. Even London’s most powerful cutthroat couldn’t escape the ravages of time. Deep lines were etched into Black’s broad face. He had a walking stick, not just for decorative purposes. Harry observed the weight Black put on the cane, the white-knuckled grip on its brass knob.

  Black stopped next to Harry. He was shorter by several inches, but his husky, barrel-chested figure gave him the presence of a larger man.

  “Know who did these portraits?” he demanded.

  At the non-sequitur, Harry said warily, “Benjamin West, I believe.”

  “Bloody right, it was. West was ’ead o’ the Royal Academy, only the best for my family. But the damned codger ’ad to go and cock up ’is toes before ’e could paint my Tessie.”

  Black grunted as if he took West’s death some twenty years ago as a personal affront.

  “Inconsiderate, I’m sure,” Harry said wryly.

  Gaze thinning, Black pointed his walking stick at a chair by the hearth. “Sit.”

  Harry thought it best to comply.

  Black took the adjacent studded wingchair, a throne-like affair several inches higher off the ground than Harry’s seat. Nonetheless, Harry’s height brought him eye to eye with his host.

  “Explain yourself,” Black commanded.