“If you’d let me, I would shed blood for you,” she whispered. “I would stand by your side.”
“I know that. Always said, you might not be o’ my body, but you’re o’ my heart. And your job is to not strain the ol’ ticker, eh?” He chucked her under the chin with the old, familiar affection. “Now you know I can’t take you tomorrow. But know that you’re with me, ’ere,”—he thumped a fist over his heart—“where’er I go.”
She did know it. Knew the depth of his love for her, the love she returned with every fiber of her being. She might not be able to protect him, but she knew who could.
“Take Bennett with you tomorrow,” she said. “For added protection.”
She shifted her gaze to Bennett, who said, “I’d be glad to be of service, sir.”
“For my peace of mind, Grandpapa,” she pleaded, “please take Bennett.”
“Fine, if you’ll cork that gob o’ yours,” Grandpapa muttered.
Relief washed through her. “Consider me corked.”
“But there’s one condition.”
Isn’t there always? She suppressed a sigh and waited.
“Received an invitation from Ransom. ’E’s throwing a masquerade in three days, and ’e wants you there. You’ll go and without a fuss. And while you’re there, you’ll make a proper go o’ it with ’Is Grace. Understand?”
She bit her lip, sliding a look at Bennett. His face betrayed little emotion, but she was reassured by the tensing of his wide shoulders.
He did care about her, he had to. He wouldn’t make love to her the way he had if he didn’t feel some affection toward her. He wouldn’t say she was adorable and call her “sprite.”
Their relationship was far from settled, but she knew they were making progress. One day, he would fall in love with her, the way she’d fallen in love with him. She trusted Bennett with all her heart: he wouldn’t stand by and watch her be married off to the duke. No, he would sweep her off into the sunset, the same way Grandpapa had done with Grandmama. She and Bennett would have a love that would endure suffering and celebrate joy and never fail.
“We got a bargain, missy?” her grandfather demanded.
Beneath the table, her fingers crossed yet again.
“Yes, Grandpapa,” she said.
19
Harry entered the De Witt townhouse.
He’d waited until the last light had winked off in the servants’ quarters before picking the lock of the back entrance. His senses on high alert, he now traversed the dark cavern of the kitchen. At a rustling sound, he tensed…relaxing as vermin scurried past.
Taking the steps up to the ground floor, he followed the arterial corridor. As he passed the shadowy entertaining rooms, he took note of the furnishings, which looked expensive and new. A pianoforte dominated the music room, a chandelier dripping crystals above it.
His jaw clenched. It would be the perfect stage for Celeste: she would appear like an angel with her pale blonde hair aglow, her long, tapered fingers gliding across the keys. For an instant, he recalled watching her play, how besotted he’d been, how he’d have given anything for the favor of her smile, and humiliation twisted his gut.
Yet a more recent memory came to him. Tessa…wreaking havoc on the violin during her lesson this afternoon. How in God’s name she’d managed to make the instrument sound like a cat in its death throes was beyond him. And, apparently, her hapless violin master.
As far as Harry was concerned, however, she had far more important skills. She was, for instance, a prodigy when it came to the love arts. The memory of her sweet passion stirred his blood. A lusty sprite, his Tessa was.
In truth, no other woman had ever aroused such desire in him, nor made him feel so desired in return. No other had made him laugh the way she did. No other had given him such light and warmth and asked for so little in return.
It made him want to offer her more. If not his heart, then at least his name. To do that, he first needed to get to the bottom of the hellfire.
He found De Witt’s study at the end of the hall. Closing the door behind him, he lit a lamp, shadows flickering over the bookcases as he headed to the large desk. He scanned the leather blotter: a tray of writing implements, green glass paperweight, and stack of correspondence. Sifting through the mail, he paused at the cream and gilt card.
An invitation to the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville’s masquerade three days hence.
The De Witts were fixtures in Society, and it wouldn’t be unusual for them to be rubbing shoulders with the crème de la crème. Yet finding a connection between Ransom and the suspect was an odd coincidence, one that didn’t sit well in Harry’s gut. For now, he tucked the fact away.
With the help of his picks, he bypassed the locks on the drawers and sorted through papers and ledgers. Nothing there. Frustrated, Harry shut the last notebook. He’d found naught of use, nothing to tie De Witt to the hellfire.
There has to be more. I know that cunning bastard is behind this. If I were him, where would I keep the evidence of my nefarious activities?
He surveyed the room for possible hiding places. Moving along the bookcase-lined wall, he removed volumes at random, rapping his knuckles against the wood. On his third try, a hollow resonance made his ears perk, his pulse accelerating. There was an empty space behind that bookcase—an antechamber, perhaps? But how to get in?
He pushed the bookshelf; it didn’t budge. Some mechanism must be locking it in place. He examined it, inch by inch, and didn’t find any hidden levers. From another room, a clock chimed midnight; he couldn’t afford to dally. As he weighed the pros and cons of removing the barrier with a mild explosive (not subtle but effective), the door opened.
He pivoted, his hand plunging into his greatcoat pocket. He whipped out his pistol, aimed it at the figure emerging through the door.
“Don’t shoot, Bennett,” came the familiar, feminine voice. “It’s me.”
“Tessa?” He stared at her trouser-clad figure in disbelief. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Shh, or you’ll wake the house.” Beneath her cap, her eyes were huge. “I’m here to help you.”
“Goddamnit.” His shock turned into pure rage. “You gave me your word that you’d stay put.”
“I know I did, but I got so worried that I couldn’t just sit there and wait. And I only intended to keep watch for you,” she rushed on. “Then I saw suspicious characters lurking outside. Three of them, I counted, and they have the shifty look of Peel’s Bloody Gang.” Her mouth curled in disgust. “They’re not in uniform, but you know how those spying bastards work. De Witt probably greased their palms to watch his lair.”
If Harry wasn’t so infuriated, he might have been impressed with her surveillance skills. She’d only missed on one point: it wasn’t De Witt who was responsible for the watch, but Harry. Ambrose and his partners, Lugo and McLeod, were keeping a lookout for him. The three men had whistles that made a distinctive sound like a gull’s call, and they were to sound a warning if the De Witts returned unexpectedly.
Harry hadn’t heard any whistles going off, which meant that Tessa had somehow got by the seasoned investigators. And he couldn’t tell her about Ambrose without revealing his own identity.
Leashing his anger, he bit out, “How did you get past them?”
“Child’s play.” She made no effort to appear modest. “I gave a crossing sweep a guinea to create a distraction. You know, the pretend-to-get-hit-by-a-carriage trick? Works every time. The Peelers were so busy helping the lad that I snuck right by them and into the house.”
Bloody hell. Looking at her beaming face, he didn’t know whether to shout at her for risking her neck or congratulate her for duping three experienced investigators. Since they were in the middle of breaking into a house, he could do neither, and his fury mounted to a dangerous degree.
There was a wriggling in her jacket. Swift Nick poked his head out to hiss at Harry.
She quickly pushed the ferret back into her
pocket. “Hush, Swift Nick. We’re in the middle of a break-in.”
Harry breathed through his nose, his hands bracing his hips as he strove to control his temper.
She peered up at him through her lashes. “Are you, um, angry?”
With Herculean effort, he wrestled his emotions into place. Forced himself to focus on what he needed to do. He would deal with the lying chit in due course.
“We’ll discuss that later,” he said coldly. “Time is of essence. There’s an antechamber behind that bookcase, and I’m trying to find the mechanism to open it.”
Even in the dimness, he could see her eyes light up. “Let me have a look.”
She dashed to the bookcase, repeating his earlier actions. “Hmm, there’s no obvious switch.”
“I know that.” Impatiently, he surveyed the room. “It’s likely hidden in the study somewhere.”
“If it was me, I’d want it in a convenient place. The desk, perhaps?” She trotted over, started rifling through the stack of papers. Brows lifted, she held up the invitation he’d seen earlier. “The De Witts move in Ransom’s circles?”
“Apparently,” he said. “Leave everything as you found it. We don’t want to raise suspicions.”
“That’s a pretty paperweight. Is that a real flower in it?” Blithely ignoring his instructions, she reached for the green glass.
“I said don’t…” He paused, seeing the line between her brows. “What’s the matter?”
“The paperweight. It won’t move.” She frowned, tugging at the object. “Maybe if I…”
She twisted, and an audible click came from the direction of the bookcase.
“Crikey,” she breathed.
Harry was already striding to the bookcase. Placing his hands on its side, he pushed, and this time it moved easily. It slid along the wall, revealing an entryway into gaping darkness.
Tessa was by his side in a heartbeat, lamp in hand.
He took it from her. “Stay behind me.”
She gave an avid nod.
He led the way, and, as the circle of light fell, the hairs on his nape rose. The small chamber was a replica of his laboratory at Cambridge. The lamp’s flame gleamed off glass vessels, burners, and metal implements, each step he took bringing him closer to the past. As a numbing chill spread through him, his mind turned as clear as ice.
“Is this where the rotter is making the hellfire?” Tessa whispered.
“I doubt it. Even De Witt wouldn’t be so foolish as to risk blowing up his own house. At most, he’s conducting preliminary experiments here.” Harry stopped at a table lined with stoppered flasks. As a precaution, he handed Tessa the lamp. “Keep the flame at a distance.”
Eyes huge, she took a step back. He lifted the first flask. It was filled with a clear, colorless liquid. He uncorked it and wafted the scent toward his nose. He knew the acrid, suffocating scent: the smell of destruction and failure.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nitric acid.”
She peered at it warily. “Is it explosive?”
“Not on its own.” When she looked relieved, he said, “It is highly corrosive, however, and, more to the point, an agent that can cause other flammable substances to combust. It plays a similar role to that of saltpeter in gunpowder.”
She chewed on her lip. “So if the nitric acid were combined with a flammable substance, it could make the hellfire?”
He nodded, setting down the flask and picking up another. This one was also filled with a clear liquid, one with an oily viscosity. He knew what it was; he confirmed it anyway.
Tessa wrinkled her nose at the released odor, like that of rotted eggs. “Is that oil of vitriol?”
He gave a tight nod. “Also known as sulphuric acid. It acts as a catalyst, enhances the effect of the nitric acid. All you need is a source of fuel…” He pulled open a drawer. “And here it is.”
She stared at the folded linens. “Towels are the principle ingredient of hellfire?”
“Soaked in a solution of nitric and sulphuric acids, the cotton becomes highly combustible. All you would need is a spark and—boom.”
And he would know, he thought grimly. One fateful night back at Cambridge, he’d been heating a mixture of the two acids when the flask shattered. He’d grabbed the nearest cloth, a cotton apron, using it to wipe up the mess. He’d hung the apron up to dry by the fire, and a minute later, whoosh. Before his startled eyes, it had gone up in flames.
His accidental discovery had opened a new door of experimentation. That door had been shut when De Witt stole his invention and discredited him. Disgraced him so that he was no longer welcome in the scientific community.
“Didn’t you say the compound was unstable? If so, how is De Witt producing and storing it?”
A good question. One that Harry still didn’t have the answer to.
“He’s making the hellfire somewhere,” he said darkly, “and I have to find that factory, see it with my own eyes. As of now, we have no proof of anything. De Witt could claim he’s just running a few experiments—”
He cut short as a shrill, bird-like call sounded in the distance. Ambrose’s warning signal.
“Damn it, they’re back.”
She frowned. “I don’t hear anyone.”
“We have to go. Now.” Closing the drawer, he pulled her out of the laboratory and back into the study. He pushed the bookcase back as the whistle sounded again. Tessa hurriedly twisted the paperweight back into its original position, locking the door in place.
Together, they dashed out of the study. In the hallway, Harry heard someone coming up the front steps. At the same time, the wood-soled tread of a servant’s shoes sounded inside the house, heading towards the entrance hall. Hinges squeaked as the front door opened. Harry pressed against the wall, concealing himself in the shadows, motioning for Tessa to do the same behind him.
“How was your evening, Miss De Witt?” a man’s voice said.
“A bore. Have some warmed milk sent up to my chamber.” Celeste De Witt’s voice hadn’t changed, was still as musical as silver bells, but now the sound stirred not delight in Harry but seething anger. “I need it after all that palavering.”
The servant murmured a reply. Footsteps sounded again, Celeste’s light ones up the staircase, the other’s down toward the kitchen.
“We’ll have to make a run for it out the front door.”
Tessa’s urgent whisper snapped Harry back to reality. He took her hand, and they crept stealthily to the entrance hall. Seeing no one, they exited the main door and were halfway down the street when a sleek carriage rolled up.
The door opened, revealing Ambrose’s urgent expression. Without a word, he grabbed Tessa by the arm, Harry boosting her into the carriage from behind. Harry had an instant to glimpse her shocked expression before he jumped in after her.
20
Tessa landed with a thump, plush seat cushions breaking the impact. In the next instant, she reached into her boot, her fingers closing around the cloisonné handle of her dagger. She whipped it out, taking aim at the grim-faced policeman on the opposite bench.
She let it fly, nailing his hat to the carriage wall.
“Next one is through the heart, Peeler,” she spat. “Let us go.”
In reply, the Peeler’s dark brows inched up. “A ‘nice young lady,’ you said?”
The odd words were made even odder by the fact that they were directed at Bennett.
“She has her moments,” Bennett said shortly.
Another look was exchanged between the men.
“You two know one another?” she burst out.
“Put away the damned daggers,” Bennett said. “This is my brother.”
“Your brother?”
She’d had no idea that he had siblings. She realized she knew little about him other than the fact that he had worked as a navvy, was good at just about everything, and could make her feel swoony just by smiling (or even scowling, which was what he presently was doing).<
br />
With a yank, Bennett’s brother freed her dagger and his hat. He passed the former back to her, and, a bit abashed, she took it and stowed it back into her boot. When Bennett made no move to introduce her, she did it herself.
“Pardon the misunderstanding, sir. I’m Tessa Todd,” she said politely. “Bennett never mentioned you to me before.”
“I don’t imagine he has.” Strangely, Bennett’s brother didn’t elaborate.
“This is my brother Ambrose,” Bennett said in curt tones. “He was keeping a lookout for me.”
Drat. She’d unknowingly pulled the wool…over Bennett’s brother’s eyes.
Determined to make a good first impression, or at least improve the bad one she’d made, she said penitently, “I’m very sorry about the mix up, Mr. Bennett. I hope you’ll forgive the, um, decoy involving the crossing sweep. I thought you were a Peeler, you see, and I was worried about Bennett. I used the ruse to get past you so that I could warn him.”
“Did you now?” The carriage lamp revealed that Ambrose Bennett’s eyes were a golden color and that they were regarding her acutely. “How singular.”
She was relieved to hear curiosity, rather than disdain, in the man’s deep voice. Now that she had a chance to examine him, she could see a likeness between the brothers.
Both were tall, lean, and starkly handsome (her Bennett was, of course, the handsomer of the two). Both also had an aura of trustworthiness: big men who made one feel protected rather than intimidated. She guessed that Ambrose had some two decades on his brother, the veins of silver in his dark hair adding to his distinguished aspect.
“Singular, that’s me.” Belatedly, she realized that her cap had fallen to the carriage seat, and her hair was tumbling pell-mell down her shoulders. “On top of tricking you and ruining your hat, I hope you’ll also pardon my appearance.”
“There’s naught to pardon.” A hint of a smile was in Ambrose Bennett’s eyes, making him almost as handsome as his brother. “But may I ask…what is that moving in your pocket?”
The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1 Page 17
