The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1

by Grace Callaway

  “It’s been a while, sir,” Harry said. “Good evening.”

  “It is at that.” The confectioner stirred a pot. “Now can ye guess what I’m cooking up?”

  Harry sniffed the air. “Something with citrus?”

  “Lemon drops, sir. A favorite o’ the ladies. I add a splash o’ rosewater to sweeten the breath. ’Tis a good gift for sisters or, better yet,”—the confectioner winked broadly—“for a sweetheart.”

  The mention of a sweetheart reignited Harry’s turmoil.

  I don’t want him. I want you. Tessa’s bright honesty tautened his insides with desire…and guilt. He was lying to her about who he was. He’d infiltrated her family on a pretense and was spying on them for the police, an institution that all Blacks clearly despised.

  Even without those looming problems, he wasn’t sure that he was capable of giving her what she wanted. What most women, in his experience, wanted. He had no skill for sentiment or flattery; after the pain of Celeste, he’d vowed not to expose his heart again.

  And, to be honest, he didn’t know if he and Tessa were suited. She was...unusual. Did he really want a future that included ferrets and cutthroats and untold mayhem?

  Ambivalence gripped him. Because the folly of it was he did want her.

  God, he did.

  “I’ll take a tin,” he heard himself say.

  “I’ll ’ave the missus wrap it up specially.” Mr. Parbury beamed. “It’ll be ready after your visit.”

  Thanking the confectioner, Harry exited the cooking area, going down a short hallway to an unpainted door. He knocked before entering the cramped but cozy sitting room.

  “Harry.” Ambrose unfolded his long frame from the chair where he’d been sitting, his lean face creasing in a smile. “It’s good to see you, lad.”

  Shutting the door, Harry returned his older brother’s firm handshake. “You as well.”

  “Come, sit.” Ambrose waved to the table, which was laden with an assortment of pastries and sweets. “I told the Parburys it wasn’t necessary, but they insisted on the hospitality.”

  He took the chair opposite his brother. “They’ve never forgotten what you did for them.”

  “It was a trifle.” Ambrose poured tea into two chipped cups.

  It was typical of Ambrose to call hunting down a burglar with no more than a set of muddy footprints a trifle. The eldest Kent was as modest as he was capable.

  “You look well.” Harry helped himself to a slice of iced gingerbread. “How are Marianne and the children?”

  “Marianne is well and sends her love.” Ambrose’s amber eyes were warm as he spoke of his beloved. “Little Sophie continues to be a sweet, mild-mannered child, and Edward is…Edward.”

  Harry’s lips twitched. Ambrose’s heir Edward had gone from being a precocious boy to a certifiable genius whose curiosity oft landed him in hot water (a fate Harry could identify with). Edward was undoubtedly responsible for some of the silver swathing through his papa’s dark hair.

  “Enough about me. What is going on with you, lad?” Ambrose said quietly. “First Davies contacts me, telling me to keep the family at bay. Then I receive that cryptic message via mudlark that you wanted to meet in secret today.”

  Seeing the lines on his brother’s brow, Harry felt another tug of guilt. Being the eldest by some dozen years (Ambrose’s mama had been their papa’s first wife), Ambrose took the responsibilities of being the family patriarch seriously.

  He proceeded to fill his brother in on the last fortnight. He shared most details but left out the intimate ones concerning Tessa. Despite what she might believe, she was a lady and deserved his protection. Moreover, he wasn’t comfortable discussing feelings that he, himself, did not fully understand.

  At the conclusion, Ambrose swore. “Bloody hell, you’re spying on Bartholomew Black? Are you out of your mind? The man’s the most dangerous cutthroat in all of London!”

  While his brother had a point, he was also beginning to see the underworld king through a different lens. He’d witnessed Black’s devotion to his family and people. He thought about what Mrs. Crabtree had said: about all that Black had done for her and for the common folk, the ones to whom the government turned a blind eye.

  “Black’s not all bad,” he said slowly.

  “His enemies have been found in the Thames. In pieces.”

  With care, Harry said, “I recall that you and Marianne had some personal dealings with Black?”

  “Marianne owed him a debt. It was paid, and I shall say no more,” Ambrose said firmly. “Black may not be entirely evil, but he’s not to be crossed. Davies was right to send you to me. I’ll find a way to extricate you from Black’s employ. After that, I’ll be at your disposal: I’ll personally help you investigate that bastard De Witt.”

  Hell. He wasn’t going to be able to evade the truth. “I cannot leave Black’s employ.”

  “Is this about proving your worth? Because of what happened two years ago?”

  Bitterness and humiliation welled. Harry couldn’t deny that that was part of it. He’d lost everything: the job at Cambridge, the membership with the Royal Society, his standing with his peers. Was it wrong to try to redeem his good name?

  “Brother, it wasn’t your fault. You were duped by a pair of conniving thieves…and worse than thieves, if they are indeed behind this dastardly hellfire.”

  “That doesn’t excuse me for being a fool.” Self-disgust throbbed like a festering wound. “For being blinded by my emotions.”

  “You were young.” Ambrose’s golden gaze was steady. “You’ve always held your cards close to your chest, lad, yet I wish you would have told me what was happening at the time—”

  “There was nothing you or anyone could have done. In the scientific community, Aloysius De Witt is nothing short of royalty, and he decreed that I was a thief. And Celeste helped him to frame me.”

  The betrayal still burned.

  “Let the past go,” Ambrose urged. “For two years, you risked your neck playing with explosives in that navvy camp. Now you’re back, and you’ve jumped straight into a pit of vipers. You’ve done your penance, Harry, you’ve nothing to prove. You must move on.”

  The words struck an uneasy chord. He hadn’t thought of his actions as penance, only a desire to do something right. To reclaim the honor he’d lost.

  Now, however, there was more at stake. There was Tessa.

  No more hedging.

  Taking a breath, he said, “Black and his family are in danger, and I cannot abandon them.”

  “You’re worried about Black and his family? Why the devil would you care...oh, hell.” Ambrose’s keen gaze narrowed. “The granddaughter?”

  “Tessa’s not like her grandfather,” he said defensively.

  “Tessa?”

  And this is why I like to hold my damned cards close.

  Neck heating, he muttered, “She’s…a nice young lady.”

  That might not be the most apt description, yet it was difficult to convey the precise nature of Tessa’s appeal. She was a creature of contradictions. She was undoubtedly brazen, a mischief-maker and an occasional hellion. At the same time, she could be sweet, a vibrant sprite and a young woman with hidden vulnerability. She was unique, damned endearing.

  Just thinking of her offer to give a blood oath made him want to laugh.

  In truth, Harry didn’t fully understand the intensity of his attraction to her. He only knew that, in her presence, he felt more. More alive, more…himself.

  “Didn’t you say that when you met the chit, she was disguised as a lad and fleecing a band of cutthroats?”

  “Well, yes, but there’s more to her than that.” Seeing his brother’s look of incredulity, he explained, “She is high-spirited, yes, but mostly in a fun-loving sort of way. She cares a great deal about her family. Her loyalty to those she cares about is unquestionable.”

  He thought of their visit this morning to the families of the fallen guards. Of Tessa’s unexpect
ed maturity and grace as she consoled the grieving widows. Afterward, she’d spent time with the children, passing out the treats she’d brought and having Swift Nick perform tricks to entertain them. For a short while, she’d succeeded in easing some of the pain from those small faces.

  That her bright spirit could touch others shouldn’t have come as a surprise. After all, her light touched him too. Just thinking of her impish smile spread warmth through his gut.

  “As much as I hate to point this out, I fear I must. You are one of the most intelligent men I know, Harry. When it comes to females, however…”

  Clearing his throat, Ambrose didn’t finish. Didn’t have to.

  The past had proved that Harry’s judgement when it came to the opposite sex was far from sound. Forced to question himself now, he couldn’t deny that Tessa did have traits in common with Celeste. The main ones being her ability to trick and, aye, manipulate—he thought of their first blistering kiss—to achieve her end.

  Yet he told himself that she was not Celeste. She was loyal and fierce and feisty: Celeste had been none of those things. Moreover, he wasn’t the green lad he’d once been. While he desired Tessa, he wouldn’t offer her, or any woman, his heart on a silver platter. He wouldn’t lose control of his heart or head again.

  “I learned my lesson the last time,” he said shortly.

  “Well, I’m glad we are discussing the matter instead of you brooding in isolation like you did before.” Ambrose leaned forward. “Lad, I want what’s best for you. And I’m telling you this Tessa Todd is nothing but trouble.”

  Harry couldn’t help but raise a sardonic brow. “Are you saying you’ve never been attracted to a woman who promised trouble?”

  Ambrose’s cheekbones turned ruddy. “That was a different situation entirely.”

  “As I recall, Marianne was a suspect you were investigating.”

  “Touché.” Sighing, Ambrose held up a hand. “If you won’t be swayed, how can I help?”

  “I need you to look into De Witt’s financials. To see if money could be a motive for him.”

  “Done.” His brother paused. “What about his laboratory? How are you planning to find it?”

  “I’ve watched De Witt for the last two nights. His schedule was the same: he goes to some ton event, then spends the rest of the night gambling at Crockford’s. Tonight, while he’s out, I’m going to search his house.”

  * * *

  Harry parted from his brother with a revised plan. Ambrose had convinced him to hold off the search of De Witt’s home until tomorrow, so that Ambrose could gather reinforcements. Thus, Harry now found himself with some unexpected time. Recalling an errand, he stopped briefly at his room before heading to another destination.

  Upon arriving at The Underworld, he saw a long line of patrons snaking out the front door. He took the back entrance and asked for Pretty Francie. A few minutes later, the bawd emerged, dressed for work in a low-cut purple gown, a matching feather in her auburn hair.

  “Mr. Bennett.” Curiosity sharpened her painted features. “Weren’t expectin’ you.”

  “Pardon the intrusion.” Bowing, Harry proffered the reason for his visit. “I’m making good on my promise to return Miss Belinda’s cloak.”

  “That’s thoughtful o’ you.” She took the garment. “Not many coves would remember such a trifle.”

  He thought wistfully of his favorite pair of boots, the ones Tessa had ruined with honey, and he muttered, “It’s not a trifle if it’s one’s favorite.”

  “True enough.” Francie’s expression turned grave. “Ow’s Tessa faring since the attack?”

  This time around, Black hadn’t managed to suppress the gossip about the attack on his home. Tongues wagged in the underworld as much as in any ton ballroom. The only thing Black had managed to quash were the details concerning the weapon used in the assault. Hellfire remained a secret.

  “She’s fine, but she won’t be returning here in the foreseeable future.” Harry didn’t wish to be unkind, but he needed Tessa’s friends to understand what was at stake. “I cannot allow her to compromise her safety.”

  Rather than offended, the madam seemed relieved. “’Bout time someone looked after that girl.”

  “That’s why Mr. Black hired me. I’ll do my best to keep a rein on her.”

  “Our Tessa don’t need no reins.” Francie snorted. “What she needs is understanding. Much as ’er grandfather dotes upon ’er, ’e don’t understand ’er.”

  Unable to help himself, Harry said, “What doesn’t he understand?”

  The bawd turned assessing eyes upon him. “You care about ’er?”

  “She is my charge,” he said stiffly. “Her wellbeing is my responsibility.”

  “That’s all she is to you, then? A responsibility?”

  Faced with those unblinking eyes, Harry found he couldn’t lie. He said nothing, and Francie must have read the truth in his silence for she gave a satisfied nod.

  “The thing you got to know ’bout Tessa is that she does things for a reason. Now that reason ain’t always clear—bit o’ a trickster, that one—but she ain’t a spoilt brat like you think.”

  Recalling his and Tessa’s very public argument here, he flushed. “I don’t think she’s a brat.”

  Not most of the time, anyway. He’d gotten to know her better. He’d even formed a hypothesis as to the cause of her willfulness. Having witnessed her interactions with her father and grandfather, he suspected that her defiant behavior resulted from a history of having her wishes ignored or denied.

  In the face of that adversity, many ladies would become subservient or compliant or just give up. But not Tessa: she was a fighter. Harry had to admit he admired her bold spirit, even if he sometimes felt the brunt of her strong will.

  “Tessa’s got a sense o’ honor stronger than most men. Gets it from her grandfather, though ’e don’t see it. When you found ’er dressed like a lad, cheating that bastard Dewey O’Toole at cards, she weren’t doing it for fun. Not just for fun anyway,” Francie amended.

  Harry frowned. “Then why did she do it?”

  “On account o’ what O’Toole did to Belinda.”

  The truth slammed into him. “O’Toole was the one who put the bruises on her?”

  “Blighter did more than beat Belinda: ’e stole ’er blunt, too. Not because ’e needed the money, but just because ’e could,” Francie said starkly. “Belinda weren’t ’erself after that, and that’s why Tessa stepped in.”

  “Why didn’t Todd do something about it?” If possible, Harry’s esteem for Tessa’s father dropped even lower.

  Francie darted a glance around, hushing her voice. “’E ain’t got the bollocks to stand up to the O’Tooles. And ’e don’t give a damn about us wenches, not like Tessa does. Girl’s got a ’eart o’ gold and looks after ’er own.”

  It was the second time someone had said that about Tessa. A feeling spread through Harry, like the prickly pleasure-pain of an awakening limb. And along with it another feeling…

  Remorse.

  He’d underestimated her. His mind had failed to recognize the truth he’d felt: the goodness at her core, the virtue rooted in her like a sturdy flower abloom in the rookery’s dirty streets.

  Shaking his head, he said, “Why didn’t she tell me or her grandfather? She let us believe she was just out on a lark.”

  “Belinda made ’er swear not to tell anyone. And Tessa’s a woman o’ ’er word.”

  Remorse bled into self-recrimination. To think, he’d compared her to Celeste, questioned her suitability to be his bride.

  “She is a remarkable woman,” he said in a low voice.

  “She’s no wilting violet, that’s for certain. But she’s more fragile than she lets on, thanks to that bleedin’ finishing school.”

  He frowned. “What happened there?”

  “High-kick twats treated ’er like rubbish is what. Bullied ’er without mercy.” Francie’s lips pulled tight. “Four years and weren’t a
day she didn’t arrive with ’er eyes puffed up from crying.”

  Harry’s chest clenched. That Tessa had been subjected to such cruelty made him want to punch something. It explained her prejudice against the upper class, why she wanted no part in the charade of being Miss Theresa Smith.

  “Our Tessa’s blood might not run blue, but she’s a real lady.” Francie’s tone was as stern as that of any schoolmistress. “See that you treat ’er like she deserves.”

  He’d earned the admonishment. For not recognizing what had been plainly in front of his face. For being a blind fool.

  Harry thanked the madam and took his leave. He stepped into the night air, his head spinning like a man who’d just received a blow to the head. Or one who was finally waking up.

  16

  Tessa stealthily crossed the courtyard toward the mews, her arms wrapped around a large box. She’d forgone a lamp and timed her journey to minimize the chance of being detected. The night air brushed against her cheeks, cool and invigorating after the hour she’d spent tossing in her bed. She hadn’t been able to sleep. The moment her eyes closed, she’d seen the faces of Ned and Josiah and those of their weeping families whom she’d visited today, and helpless anguish had filled her.

  She could do nothing for those two brave soldiers, and the menace was still at large. Her hope lay in Bennett: before supper, he’d told her he would be out this evening pursuing a lead. As glad as she was that he was making progress, she was also worried about his safety.

  To distract herself, she’d decided to plant his surprise while he was out.

  Hence the box in her arms and her climb up the steps to Bennett’s room above the stables. At his door, she saw the darkened window and knew he was still out. Her timing was perfect. When he returned, he would be surprised and, hopefully, pleased by her gift.

  It was part of her campaign to win him over. She was reasonably certain that he desired her physically. She might be a virgin, but she couldn’t miss his obvious arousal the two times they’d kissed. Thus, she reasoned his ambivalence toward her must have to do with her other shortcomings.