Bloody hell, I can’t take another day of this.
Or, more precisely, I can—but I might end up throttling Tessa Todd.
These were Harry’s first thoughts upon awakening.
It had been a week since he’d started guarding the recalcitrant miss. A week of pure hell. When she’d claimed he would regret taking on the job as her bodyguard, she hadn’t been jesting.
Groaning, he slung an arm over his eyes. He’d experimented with explosive chemicals. Used incendiary devices to blast tunnels through mountains. How could he have guessed that guarding a mere slip of a female would be the most dangerous job he’d ever had?
She’d run him through the bloody gauntlet. It turned out that Miss Todd was not only clever and devious, both of which he’d gleaned from their first meeting, but she also had the sense of humor of an adolescent boy. He had two young nephews who would undoubtedly snicker at her pranks. Being on her List of Retribution, however, was no laughing matter.
It all began on his first day as her guard. He’d refused to allow her to visit some “chum” of hers named Alfred. Not only would it be improper for her to visit the blasted fellow unchaperoned, but this Alfred lived in one of the worst parts of Whitechapel. When Miss Todd insisted that she’d been visiting Alfred on her own for years, Harry had been appalled.
What had her family been thinking to allow her behavior to go unchecked for so long?
He’d put his foot down; she’d gone to sulk in her chamber.
Afterward, whether for her own amusement or to punish him, she’d started practicing violin. He’d heard cats copulating with more grace. Just as he suspected that his ears might be bleeding, one of the maids brought him a tea tray. Grateful for the respite, Harry had added generous spoonfuls from the sugar bowl before taking a gulp. He’d instantly spat the salty liquid out.
Miss Todd’s laughter had echoed from the other room.
The next day, he’d accompanied her to Potter’s, a Covent Garden tea shop that appeared to be the equivalent of Gunter’s for the wealthy denizens of the underworld. In the light-filled dining room, well-dressed patrons ate ices and cakes that arrived on tiered plates. He’d planned to wait outside, but Miss Todd had insisted that he stay. When he’d eyed the tea she’d poured for him, she’d flashed him a challenging grin.
“I solemnly vow that I’ve added nothing to your beverage…this time,” she’d said impishly.
Reluctantly, he’d taken a seat in the chair beside her, and the moment his arse hit the chintz seat cushion, an ignominious sound had trumpeted through the room. His face flamed as he recalled the shocked stares, gasps, and titters of the other patrons. All the while, Miss Todd had tried—unsuccessfully—to stifle her chuckles behind a napkin.
From beneath the cushion, he’d removed a device made from a pig’s bladder. One that made farting noises, for God’s sake. Then came her pièce de resistance.
Harry got up from the cot and lit a lamp, his living quarters flaring into view. He’d been assigned the room in the mews behind the house, and the space was comfortable and utilitarian. He splashed his face at the washstand, his reflection in the looking glass showing his dark mood. After Potter’s, he’d taken the high road and offered her a truce: he would take her on an outing of her choice, as long as it was suitable for a lady.
She’d decided to go shopping.
Arriving at the Pantheon Shopping Bazaar, she’d asked him quite prettily (that in itself ought to have tipped him off) to hold her reticule while she and her maid went inside a shop. After ascertaining that there was no secondary exit to said shop, he’d agreed and had been waiting for her to emerge when two guards suddenly descended upon him, truncheons in hand.
Apparently, a young miss had reported a man of his description stealing her purse. It had taken no little explaining to extricate himself out of that predicament. Passing patrons had looked at him as if he were horse shit clinging to their shoes.
Why are you surprised? His chest burned. Being humiliated by a woman is nothing new.
The memory of his desperate desire to please Celeste De Witt, how stupidly he’d fallen for her ethereal looks and seeming fragility, tore at his gut. For four years, he’d worshipped the ground she’d walked on. As a man uncomfortable with flirtation, he’d nonetheless conjured up awkward compliments and flowery sentiments in order to gratify her. If Celeste had requested that he fetch the moon, he’d have asked if she wanted the stars as well.
Well, he’d learned. He no longer believed in angels or putting women on pedestals.
He saw Tessa Todd precisely for what she was: a devilish brat who ought to be turned over his knee. At the thought of spanking the minx, an inexplicable surge of heat flooded his groin.
He cursed, raking a hand through his hair. He didn’t understand his physical reaction to the chit, and he didn’t trust things he didn’t understand. Logically, he couldn’t deny that Tessa Todd was attractive. Her eyes shifted between green and grey depending on her mood and flashed verdigris fire when she was angry (he ought to know). Her features were delicate and fresh, her figure enticingly petite, and, if she wasn’t such a hellion, she might bring to mind a porcelain figurine.
Nonetheless, he knew who she was. Celeste had hidden her true nature behind a façade of demure virtue, but Tessa Todd had no qualms about being a wicked, spoiled miss through and through. In fact, she seemed to take pride in it. Knowing her capacity for deception and manipulation ought to have neutralized his attraction to her, yet his baser instincts warred against his rationality—and the latter, he realized with self-disgust, was far from claiming a decisive victory.
Perhaps he’d just been celibate too long. He hadn’t been with a woman since Roxanne, hadn’t wanted distractions while he was finding his footing. But now he recognized the pent-up need building in him, putting him on edge.
Do not let Tessa Todd get under your skin, he told himself. You have a mission to complete. Rein in the troublesome chit—and your own bloody self.
With brisk efficiency, he finished dressing and reached for his boots. This was his spare pair: his favorite Hessians had been ruined by Miss Todd, who’d somehow managed to furtively fill them with honey. Scowling, he took the precaution of sticking his hand into the battered leather footwear—unadulterated, Praise Jesus…though a bit shoddy.
The state of the boots was due to the fact that he found shopping as enjoyable as a visit to the tooth drawer. His wont was to get fitted once, have multiple duplicates made, and wear the items until they could no longer be decently worn. Or until his glamorous sister-in-law, Marianne, declared his wardrobe a state of emergency and corralled him into a shopping expedition. Luckily, Marianne wasn’t here, so he donned his boots, which were old but comfortable, and vacated the room, heading across the dark courtyard to the kitchen.
The cavernous room was warm and bustling with activity. A black stove lined one wall, pots and pans hanging neatly from hooks. The servants were milling about the large central worktable, preparing for breakfast. The smells of frying meat and fresh bread permeated the room.
Harry returned the friendly greetings and received more than one sympathetic look.
“Ready for another round, are you, Bennett?” Jim, the second footman asked, grinning.
“Hush, Jim.” Mrs. Gates, the bespectacled housekeeper, looked up from the list she was consulting on the worktable. “If the master hears you speaking with disrespect, you’ll find yourself out on the street, and you’d deserve it.”
Jim snorted as he hefted up a tray. “Master would have to be ’ome to’ ear me, wouldn’t ’e?”
The footman had a point. Since Harry had started work, he’d seen little of Black. He hadn’t been able to do much in the way of reconnaissance due to Miss Todd keeping his hands full. She was an early riser, but it was not yet dawn, so he had some time before she started to wreak havoc anew. Now was a good time to gather information.
“Has something been keeping Mr. Black busy?” he said casual
ly.
“Just the usual murder and mayhem,” Jim called before he disappeared up the steps.
Murder and mayhem? Is he referring to The Gilded Pearl?
“Pay Jim no mind,” Mrs. Gates said, a reproving line between her brows. “If he spent half as much time on improving his skills as he did on idle chatter, he’d be a first footman by now.”
She turned to chastise a pair of chatting housemaids, who scurried off to do her bidding.
Seeing the cook’s arms tremble as she lifted a large saucepan from the stove, Harry strode over to assist. “Allow me, Mrs. Crabtree.”
She relinquished the heavy pan with a grateful smile. “Much obliged, Bennett.”
“My pleasure.” With her plump, pigeon-like figure and frizzled hair, the good lady reminded him a little of his own mama. He set the pan down on the worktable, next to a dish of baked eggs. “The cream sauce smells delicious.”
“It’s the tarragon.” Her eyes twinkled. “And the splash o’ sherry.”
“My mama made shirred eggs in the same fashion.”
“Do your kin live in London?”
He hesitated. “My parents passed some time ago.”
“I’m sorry to ’ear it.”
“Thank you.” Although his mama had died when he was twelve and his papa a decade after that, Harry still felt a pang when he thought of them. Marjorie and Samuel Kent had been a loving couple and devoted parents; sometimes, he wondered if he would ever experience the security and happiness of his early years again.
“It ain’t easy losing kin. I lost mine when I was a girl.” Mrs. Crabtree spooned the sauce carefully over the eggs. “If it weren’t for the master, I’d have ended up in the orphanage or worse.”
“Mr. Black took you in?” Harry couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
“Owe ’im everything, I do. ’E provided for my care, saw that I got trained in a trade. And I ain’t the only one ’e’s ’elped. With the Corn Laws leaving folk starving in the streets, ’e funds the free kitchens o’ the parish churches and finds work for the men where ’e can. The government may not care ’bout the common people, but Bartholomew Black does.”
Her assertions astonished Harry.
“And contrary to Jim’s palavering, the master was busy this week looking after poor Miss Mavis—Mrs. Todd, I mean,” Mrs. Gates put in. “A more loving father I’ve never met.”
“Poor Mrs. Todd.” Mrs. Crabtree clucked her tongue. “She relies upon ’er papa during ’er spells. Lord knows she ’as no one else.”
The cook and housekeeper shared a knowing look.
Recalling his instructions to collect any information about Black and his family, Harry asked, “What about her husband?”
“That one.” Mrs. Crabtree snorted. “All ’e cares ’bout is filling ’is coffers. If Mr. Black weren’t there to keep ’im in line, ’e’d ne’er show ’is face around ’is own ’ouse.”
He filed the fact away. “And Miss Todd? Is she close to her parents?”
“Poor girl always looked up to her father, not that she saw much of him,” Mrs. Gates said. “She and her stepmama are fond of each other, but Mrs. Todd needs her peace and quiet.”
“Both of which are in scarce supply around Miss Todd,” he muttered.
Mrs. Crabtree chuckled, and Mrs. Gates looked as if she was fighting a smile.
“You’re faring better than most, Bennett.” Approval glinted in the housekeeper’s bespectacled gaze. “Most of your predecessors didn’t last a sennight. Ran off with their tails between their legs. Takes brawn and brains to keep up with our Miss Tessa.”
“Now she may like to play ’er tricks,” Mrs. Crabtree said in a consoling tone, “but beneath that pluck, the girl’s got a ’eart o’ gold. Treats all o’ us below stairs wiv kindness, ne’er forgets a birthday, is always the first to ’elp when there’s trouble. Remember when Mr. Black’s old valet broke ’is arm, Mrs. Gates?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Miss Tessa went personally to visit him and bring supplies to the family. She visits the orphanages, too, you know. I don’t know what the children like more: the food she brings or the tricks she’s taught Swift Nick to perform.”
“Like ’er grandfather, that one,” Mrs. Crabtree declared.
It was a compliment, Harry knew. Still, he was having a difficult time reconciling this new perspective on Black and his granddaughter with what he knew of them.
Heavy steps shuffled into the kitchen, and Mrs. Gates greeted the newcomer. “Good morning, Lizzie. Is Miss Tessa ready for her tray?”
Lizzie, a robust woman with a perpetually downturned mouth, shook her head. “Told me last night that she weren’t to be disturbed this morning. Wanted to stay abed, she said.”
The words roused Harry’s suspicion. “From what I’ve observed, Miss Todd is an early riser.”
“A week and you got her pegged, have you?” Lizzie’s arms crossed beneath her ample bosom, her expression reminding him of a bulldog’s. “Well, I’ve been with Miss Tessa ten years, and I daresay I know her better than you.”
Of the staff, the lady’s maid had been the only one to take an antagonistic attitude toward Harry.
Aping her mistress, no doubt.
“It is my job to understand Miss Todd’s patterns,” he said.
“It’s my job to see her wishes obeyed,” Lizzie shot back. “And she don’t want to be disturbed.”
Rather than argue, he headed for his charge’s bedchamber.
The house had servants’ passages constructed throughout, and he took the stairs to the first floor, Lizzie huffing and puffing behind him. He paid her no mind, opening the panel and exiting onto the hallway. Passing gilt-framed landscapes, he strode towards Miss Todd’s suite and knocked briskly on her door.
“Miss Todd, this is Bennett,” he said.
When there was no reply, premonition knotted his gut.
“She’s still sleeping.” Lizzie’s indignant voice came from behind him. “Stop that racket before you wake her up.”
He knocked louder. “Answer me, or I’m coming in.”
“Don’t you dare open that door!” Lizzie screeched.
He tested the door handle. Locked. Of bloody course.
Rearing back, he charged shoulder-first at the door. The barrier flew open, and he had an instant to register the empty room before an icy torrent rushed over him. Dumbfounded, he swung his head up, swiping at his spectacles to clear his vision.
Through the clinging droplets, he saw an empty bucket over the door. It was suspended by a system of ropes and pulleys, the mechanism triggered by a string tied to the door handle. He might have been impressed by the complexity of the apparatus if he wasn’t so furious.
Steam fogged his lenses.
“Told you not to open the door,” Lizzie said.
At his smoldering glare, she shrugged and left.
A drop of water slid down his brow. He ripped off his spectacles, searching his coat pockets for a handkerchief. A snarl left him when that came out sopping wet as well.
This is the last bloody straw. He stalked down the hallway. He’d played by a gentleman’s rules, taken the higher road—no more. He was going to hunt the chit down and when he did…there would be hell to pay.
7
“You didn’t,” Pretty Francie gasped.
“Oh, yes, I did,” Tessa said. “As I speak, Sam Bennett is likely getting the soaking of his life.”
Her three friends—Pretty Francie, Belinda, and Daisy—looked at her. At each other.
Laughter rang through the room.
A half-hour earlier, Tessa had slipped into The Underworld, the pleasure house owned by her father. She’d been coming to the club for as long as she could remember. When her mama had died giving birth to her, her father had been left with the care of an infant. A busy man who couldn’t be bothered with domestic details, he’d simply brought her along to work.
Tessa couldn’t recall if he’d ever hired a nanny for her; she’d ne
ver needed one for the wenches had taken her under their collective wing. The Underworld was her second home, and, at the early hour, she’d caught her friends just as they were getting to bed after a night’s work. Now they were enjoying a chat in Pretty Francie’s chamber.
The women wore bright, clingy peignoirs while Tessa was once again in a lad’s get-up. This time, she’d chosen slim-fitting trousers and forgone the scratchy wig, tucking her plaited hair beneath a cap. Even during daytime, a woman alone in the stews invited danger. Without the hindrance of petticoats and skirts, Tessa moved with confidence through the streets, her daggers tucked snugly in her boots.
As she chatted with her friends, Tessa surreptitiously monitored Belinda. Since being beaten and robbed by O’Toole, Belinda had lost some of her natural vivaciousness. The bastard had taken more than money from her: he’d punched a hole in her self-confidence.
If Grandpapa would give me a seat at the table, I’d stand for Belinda and all the women like her, Tessa thought fiercely. I’d make bastards like O’Toole think twice about taking advantage of the defenseless.
Thankfully, Belinda appeared more like her old self this morning, her honey-colored curls bouncing as she giggled, the bruises around her right eye faded to a mottled green. Swift Nick Nevison had his front paws on her generous lap, munching on pieces of cold mutton that she fed him from a plate.
“I almost feel sorry for this Bennett fellow.” Pretty Francie lounged on her bed, her trademark auburn hair tied in rags. Her handsome face was heavily painted. At thirty-four, she was now the club’s madam and rarely serviced customers, but she liked to keep up appearances. “’E didn’t know what ’e was taking on.”
Years ago, when Pretty Francie had been a house wench, she’d been especially kind to Tessa. Daisy and Belinda had joined The Underworld some time later, and Tessa considered them, along with Francie, to be her bosom friends.
Sitting at the foot of Francie’s bed, Tessa shucked her cap, tossing it onto one of the bedposts. “He knew perfectly well what he was in for because I warned him. Said flat-out that I wouldn’t tolerate having my freedom curtailed. Why would I need a bodyguard when I’m perfectly capable of handling myself?”
The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1 Page 6
