The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1

by Grace Callaway

  “You’re certain you saw De Witt go in there last night?” Harry said under his breath.

  “Certain as death.” Doolittle’s slurp from his tankard left a foam mustache, making him look like a drunken cherub. “For days, the bastard was giving me the slip. But I turned the tables on ’im yesterday.”

  Earlier, Doolittle had given a summary of his rather extraordinary surveillance. On the first night, he’d tailed De Witt to Crockford’s; De Witt hadn’t emerged from the gambling club until nearly dawn. On the second night, Doolittle had decided to take matters into his own hands, slipping into the club and disguising himself as a member of the staff. He’d followed De Witt and made a startling discovery: there was an old tunnel in the basement of Crockford’s that connected it to the building next door.

  Forced to follow De Witt at a distance, Doolittle had emerged in time to see De Witt exit the other building and hail a hackney. On the third evening, Doolittle had taken no chances. He’d borrowed a friend’s hackney and lain in wait by the building next to Crockford’s. Sure enough, De Witt had emerged, and Doolittle had picked him up, driving him to the present location.

  “The ol’ cheeseparer didn’t even tip me a bob for my trouble,” Doolittle said in disgust.

  “You were spying on him,” Harry pointed out.

  “’E didn’t know that.”

  Harry refocused on the warehouse. “What is our plan for getting inside?”

  “Patience, my four-eyed friend. We can’t just barge in. Been watching the place since last night, and five brutes are working there, the leader being twice my size. But, ne’er fear, Ol’ Alfred’s got a plan.” Doolittle tapped a finger to his temple. “We ’ave to wait until the moment is right.”

  “When will that be?”

  “When I give the say so. And while we cool our ’eels, we might as well ’ave a chat.”

  “About what?” Harry tried the ale, surprised to find it wasn’t half-bad.

  “Like I was saying, we’ve things in common. Both o’ us got a way wiv the ladies, for instance.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of comparing my skills in that arena with yours.”

  “What can I say? Morts like me.” Doolittle flashed a gap-toothed grin, wiping his ale mustache off with his sleeve. “But you’re playing yourself short, my friend. Don’t know a single cove who could’ve kept Tessa from coming ’ere tonight. ’Ow’d you manage that feat?”

  “With a great deal of trouble,” Harry muttered.

  Specifically, he’d spent the afternoon reasoning, arguing, and negotiating with her. When none of that had worked, he’d kissed her into submission. Or, rather, he’d kissed her until neither of them could breathe and then he’d told her he couldn’t focus if he was worried about her safety. Only then had she promised him in a sweet, love-drowsed voice that she would stay put until his return…as long as he filled her in on everything.

  Compromise was proving a winning strategy with her.

  “She ain’t an easy one, our Tessa. Now me, I’m a lazy chap who likes ’is ’ens biddable, but you’ve the look o’ a bastard who likes a challenge, eh?”

  Beneath Doolittle’s knowing look, Harry’s jaw heated. Bloody hell, was it that obvious?

  “I’m her bodyguard,” he said.

  “Don’t mean you ain’t something else, too.” Opening the paper twist of roasted chestnuts he’d bought from a street vendor, Doolittle shelled a nut, popped it into his mouth. “Seen the way you look at ’er, and seen the way she looks at you. Known ’er most of ’er life, I ’ave, and I ain’t e’er seen ’er look at a fellow that way.”

  “In what way?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

  “Like ’e’s a fellow, that’s wot. Not a pigeon to pluck or an ape to defy or a target for one o’ ’er pranks.”

  “I’ve been those, too,” he muttered.

  Still, he couldn’t help but feel proud that he was the first man Tessa had seen as, well, a man. That he would be her one and only. And he was beginning to question his belief that he couldn’t love again. What he felt for Tessa was different from what he’d felt for Celeste.

  It was deeper, stronger…real.

  “Aye, and you’re still standing, which is probably why she’s got ’er ’eart set on you. Question is, what are your intentions?”

  This from a fellow who had a different “wife” for each day of the week.

  Harry lifted his brows. “You are asking if my intentions are honorable?”

  “I’m a man who looks after ’is own. Just ask any o’ my women. Now Tessa ain’t my mort, but she’s the closest thing to a sister that I got. And while she’s feisty, she ’as ’er blind spots, one o’ ’em being blind loyalty.” Something menacing chased over Doolittle’s features, reminding Harry that this man had not only survived the stews, he’d thrived in them. “Any cove stupid enough to take advantage o’ Tessa answers to me.”

  Although Harry didn’t appreciate having his honor questioned, he was glad that Tessa had a steadfast friend in her corner. For that reason alone, he responded to Doolittle’s question.

  “My intentions are honorable,” he said evenly.

  “Black ain’t going to like it,” Doolittle warned. “’E wants ’er to marry a nob.”

  “Once the danger is over, I’ll find a way to convince him otherwise. Or I won’t. Either way, I’m marrying Tessa.”

  Shrewd eyes studied him. “You mean that?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say it,” he said impatiently.

  “Glad that’s sorted. We didn’t come ’ere to flap our gums all day. Got work to do.”

  Before Harry could point out that he wasn’t the one who’d instigated the tête-à-tête, Doolittle rose from his chair, his eyes on the window. Through the dirty pane, Harry saw a Goliath of a man leaving the warehouse, four others with him. The pack of five crossed the street toward the tavern.

  “Now,” Doolittle said, “we go.”

  * * *

  Harry and Doolittle headed to the alley behind the warehouse. The narrow lane smelled of rubbish and human waste. In this part of town, danger prowled in the dark, and Doolittle kept an alert watch while Harry picked open the locked gate. They crossed a tiny courtyard, tied-up horses nickering as they passed.

  Unlocking the back door, Harry entered first, Doolittle on his heels. Lamps on the walls revealed a single cavernous room filled with cargo. The scent of coffee, tobacco, and exotic spices permeated the air. Sacks and wooden crates stamped with the logos of various shipping companies were piled high, forming a maze.

  “Someone’s been skimming from the docks.” Doolittle poked his hand into an open crate, lifting out a swath of gold-shot Indian silk. “This would look fine on my Sal, wouldn’t it?”

  “Put it back.” Harry scanned the dimly lit room. “We’re not here to steal.”

  “Is it stealing to take what’s stolen?” Doolittle said in philosophical tones.

  At Harry’s warning look, the other sobered. “Last night, the coves took less than an ’our for supper, so we’d best ’urry.”

  “Let’s split up to look for the hellfire.”

  Harry wound his way clock-wise through the labyrinth of cargo, his partner going in the opposite direction. He did cursory searches of crates and sacks and found nothing resembling explosive cotton. When he met up with Doolittle on the other side of the warehouse, the other’s expression conveyed the same frustration.

  “It has to be here.” Thinking of De Witt’s townhouse, Harry said, “Let’s do another round. Look for a trapdoor or any entryway to a hidden room.”

  They started off again. This time, Harry kept his gaze on the floor. A thick layer of sawdust covered the rough boards, and he saw no telltale seams that would indicate a trapdoor. He stopped at a corner of the room where a crate stood some seven feet tall and half as wide. He noticed that sawdust was absent around the crate…as if it had been scattered by heavy foot traffic.

  He knocked on the side of the container. His puls
e thudded at the hollow echo that came back.

  “Find something?” Doolittle jogged over.

  “This crate is empty.” Harry ran his hands over the raised edges, feeling for a hidden mechanism. “I think it’s a—”

  His finger sank into an indentation in the wood. Click. The hairs on his neck rose as the panel of the crate swung open like a door, revealing a set of steps descending into darkness. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a candle and lit it.

  “Follow me.” He headed down, the stairs creaking beneath his boots.

  When he reached the ground floor, the astringent smell of chemicals churned his gut. He held up his light…and beheld a scene from his nightmares.

  “Bleeding ’ell,” Doolittle breathed.

  In the dimness, the laboratory had a sinister, otherworldly feel. It was outfitted with the latest apparatus, curves of glass and polished metal. Dread and anticipation unfurled in Harry; he suppressed both, forcing himself to observe with scientific detachment. Going to the long table, which stood against a wall, he found the process for producing hellfire, neatly laid out in stages.

  At one end stood large jars labelled Nitric acid and Sulphuric acid, a vessel for mixing the two next to them. Moving on, he opened a hamper: a clean stack of cotton toweling. Beside it was a glazed earthenware pan, likely used for soaking the cotton in the acid mixture.

  He examined the covered container next to it: beneath the glass, the length of soaked linen appeared innocuous. Hastily, he drew his candle back, knowing precisely how volatile that cotton was. A little farther down, a freestanding washstand occupied the corner. A bucket of water and jars labelled Carbonate of potash and Nitrate of potash rested on the shelves above its basin.

  And Harry understood.

  “Clever bastard,” he murmured. “He washes the cotton, gives it a dip in the potash solutions to further remove impurities. And then presses it dry with this.” He tapped the wooden press with rollers beside the washstand. “That’s how he achieves a stable product.”

  He came to a large cabinet like that of an apothecary. He pulled open one of the small drawers and found the familiar iron tube. For safety, he set his candle down at a distance before picking up the sealed metal canister. A long, slow-burning fuse trailed from one end. Carefully, he removed the cap from the other end: guts of shredded explosive cotton spilled out.

  Hellfire.

  At that instant, footsteps stampeded overhead. A voice boomed, “Who’s down there?”

  No place to run or hide. Doolittle cursed. Acting on instinct, Harry shoved the cap back in place, holding onto the device and reaching for his candle.

  Doolittle whipped out his neddy, a weapon that resembled a stocking stuffed with lead shot. He swung it above his head, gaining deadly momentum as five brutes pounded down the stairs, the Goliath in the lead.

  “Intruders?” the beefy man roared. “Get ’em, boys!”

  “Make a move,”—Harry held up the explosive, bringing the flame close to the dangling fuse— “and I’ll blow this place sky high.”

  “The mad bastard means to kill us all,” one of the brutes gasped.

  “Clear a path,” Harry said.

  All five obeyed. The leader snarled as Harry edged toward the stairs, jerking his head at Doolittle, who clambered up the steps first. Harry followed, going backward, the flame wavering too close to the fuse when he stumbled on one of the steps.

  He made it to the top, and Doolittle slammed the crate panel shut behind him, shoving a heavy sack in place, grunting, “It’s not going to hold ’em.”

  The ringleader’s voice boomed, “E’s bluffing. No cove’s stupid eno’ to play with this fire. After ’em!”

  Harry blew out the candle, shoved the explosive into his jacket. “Run!”

  He and Doolittle raced through the maze of cargo, the sound of splintering wood behind them. Footsteps thumped, and Harry knew they weren’t going to make it out without combat. Ducking behind a hill of coffee sacks, he grabbed one, threw it across the path to trip his closest pursuer, who flew headfirst into a crate.

  The next brute rounded the corner with fists flying. Harry dodged and returned with an upper cut, bone cracking against his fist. The man groaned, stumbling aside, but three more were on his heels. One man faced Harry, one tackling Doolittle, the third running past.

  “Take care of ’em, lads,” the leader shouted. “I’ll make the delivery!”

  Harry had an instant to glimpse the sack of explosives in the departing Goliath’s grip before his opponent attacked. Staying light on his feet, he dodged the wild swings. He feigned right, moved left, landing a series of swift blows to his foe’s gut, finishing with a left hook. The blighter groaned, toppling like a tree, but the first man Harry had fought came charging like a bull. He wrestled Harry’s arms behind his back.

  “Got a live one ’ere,” he shouted.

  The ruffian who’d crashed into the crate rose, a blade gleaming in his hand. “’Old the bugger still while I gut ’im like a fish.”

  Harry struggled, his captor yanking harder. Swiftly, he changed tactics. He pushed backward with all his might. Went with his captor’s momentum rather than against it. Caught off-balance, the blackguard shouted as he lost purchase, falling backward. His skull cracked loudly against the ground, Harry landing on top of him.

  In the next breath, Harry rolled onto his feet and dove at the blade-wielding ruffian.

  They hit the ground, the steel clattering out of reach. Both scrambled for the knife. Harry got to it first, his fingers closing around the hilt, and he twisted around just as he was tackled. He saw his opponent’s eyes widen, felt the sickening thrust of metal into flesh, the warm trickle over his knuckles.

  He rolled the man off of him and staggered to his feet. Chest surging, he saw that his foe was beyond saving. He surveyed the wreckage: two other men lay insensate, and Doolittle had the last one beneath his boot, his bloodstained neddy held at the ready.

  Harry sprinted over. “You all right?”

  Scowling, his button nose bleeding, Doolittle looked like an angry Cupid. “I’m fine,” he spat.

  “Where is your leader taking the explosives?” Harry demanded to the subdued villain.

  “Too late.” The ruffian’s battered face worked into a sneer. “You won’t reach ’im in time.”

  “I’ll repeat this once.” Harry took out his pistol, jerked the man up by the scruff. “Where. Is. He. Going?”

  “My friend’s got a temper,” Doolittle warned. “Look what ’appened to your associate.”

  Looking over at his dead comrade, the man visibly swallowed.

  Doolittle flicked him on the shoulder. “I’d spill the beans, if I was you.”

  Sweat trickled down the brute’s forehead. “If I say anything, he’ll kill me.”

  “Who is he?” For effect, Harry pressed the barrel of the gun to the ruffian’s temple.

  “If I tell you, you didn’t ’ear it from me.”

  Harry cocked the weapon.

  “O’Toole,” the brute blurted. “’E was the one wot ’ired us. ’E’s working wiv a nob named De Witt. De Witt is the brains behind the ’ellfire, showed us ’ow to make the bloody stuff.”

  “Where did your leader go?” Harry bit out. “Where’s he taking the hellfire?”

  The ruffian swallowed. “To the Seven Dials. A place called Nightingale’s.”

  31

  Harry arrived in hell.

  Smoke everywhere, fingers of flame reaching into the night sky. Shouts and screams as people dug through the rubble that had been Nightingale’s.

  “Holy Mother of God,” Doolittle breathed beside him.

  Could I have prevented this? If I had acted faster, caught De Witt sooner…

  No time to think now, only to act. Harry ran toward the building, intending to help when he heard his name being shouted. He turned, and relief pounded through him to see Tessa’s grandfather looking unharmed. Behind him, Malcolm Todd was barking out orders
to men hauling buckets of water toward the fire.

  Accompanied by Ming and a coterie of guards, Black approached Harry. The soldiers formed a protective rank around the two of them.

  “Sir—” Harry began.

  “Aven’t got time.” Black had lost his wig, his eyes glittering in his soot-streaked face. “You remember your promise to me?”

  To take Tessa away if necessary. To keep her safe.

  “Yes,” Harry said tersely.

  “Do it. Go now.”

  He couldn’t. Not without telling Black the truth. “Sir, O’Toole is behind this. The hellfire. He has a scientist working for him—”

  “De Witt. I know,” Black spat out to Harry’s surprise. “’Ave the bastard in my custody—or ’ad, rather. ’E’s buried ’neath that rubble, God rot ’is soul. Nabbed ’im today: ’e was going to be my surprise for O’Toole tonight, but that blighter didn’t show up, and now I know why. O’Toole set a goddamned trap for us.”

  “How did you know—”

  “I know everything…Harry Kent.”

  Harry froze, his insides turning to ice.

  “Known all along who you’ve been working for. But I also know your family. Know that honor, loyalty, and a need for justice run in the Kent blood.”

  Stunned, Harry couldn’t form a response.

  “That’s ’ow I know you’ll keep your promise to me,” Black said in a low growl. “Now if Tessie gives you any trouble, you give ’er this.” He removed his signet ring, shoved it at Harry. “She’ll know what it means. Take it.”

  The ring weighed heavily in Harry’s palm. And on his conscience. Despite his betrayal, Black was still trusting him to do what was right.

  Swallowing, he glanced around at the pandemonium. “I should help—”