The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1

by Grace Callaway

  When she spoke, people listened. They believed because she believed.

  Harry could not be prouder to stand by her side.

  After securing the Prince of Lark’s pledge to help with the siege on O’Toole, Harry and Tessa traveled on without Polly and Sinjin. Earlier, Tessa had sent notes, stamped with her grandfather’s seal, to the other two dukes, Christian Croft and Severin Knight. Apparently, Croft was travelling and would not be back for a fortnight. Knight, however, had sent a prompt reply inviting them to meet at his office.

  Their carriage navigated through the crowded, narrow streets of Spitalfields to arrive at a street of terraced houses not far from the Petticoat Lane Market. In the falling dusk, all the buildings looked the same, with plain brick fronts, the most distinguishing thing about them being the massive windows that graced all three storeys.

  At Knight’s address, Harry and Tessa were escorted in by a guard, who led them past lower floors that appeared to be dwelling spaces to the uppermost level. There, a vast room was filled with wooden looms presently unattended. The light of sconces flickered over the spindles of silk and unfinished swathes, giving the place a ghostly feel.

  Severin Knight approached them, his large shadow sweeping over the abandoned looms.

  “Ah, you must be Miss Todd.” He took her hand and kissed it, the gesture unexpectedly suave for a man of his size. When he raised his dark head, there was a gleam of interest in his eyes that Harry did not like. “’Tis a pity we were not brought together by better circumstances.”

  “Mr. Knight.” Pulling free of his grasp, Tessa acknowledged his greeting with a regal nod. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you must know the situation is urgent.”

  “Come.” Knight’s casual wave included Harry. “We shall have the discussion in my office.”

  As they headed to the back of the room, Tessa said curiously, “I noticed the living quarters are below the workshop. Isn’t that a bit topsy-turvy?”

  “Depends on one’s perspective,” Knight said. “A weaver’s work depends on light, so he must follow it where it goes.”

  “Hence the upper floor. And the large windows,” Tessa surmised.

  “Precisely.” Knight ushered them through a door into an opulent chamber. Huge, intricate tapestries covered three of the walls. The remaining wall was nearly all glass, the clear panes refracting the last fingers of sunset clinging to the sky.

  “How beautiful,” Tessa exclaimed.

  Smiling faintly, Knight waved them to chairs by his desk, settling behind it. “Now to business.”

  “The House of Black is calling all its loyal men to arms,” Tessa began.

  “Its leader has been captured.” Knight steepled his hands. “I’d say the battle has been decided.”

  “It is far from decided. That coward O’Toole launched a dastardly attack on my grandfather, using the most underhanded of means. He is not fit to be the king.”

  “Nonetheless, he holds the current king hostage. And two of the dukes have joined him.” Knight fiddled with the ornate silver wax jack on his blotter. “I do not enjoy conflict, Miss Todd, but I enjoy being on the losing side less. To be frank, what do I care which king I pay my tribute to? O’Toole will take no more of a cut than your grandfather does. In the end, it is all the same to me.”

  Seeing Tessa’s face redden with anger, Harry said quietly, “Have you seen the effects of hellfire, sir?”

  Knight’s hand dropped from the wax jack. “I have seen Nightingale’s, yes.”

  “And do not forget The Gilded Pearl. It’s not just the destruction of property at issue,” Harry said with emphasis, “but the loss of life. Bartholomew Black might not have been a perfect ruler, but in the time that I have worked for him, I’ve seen him grieve for his subjects, care for them, work to make the underworld a safer place. Do you honestly believe a man like O’Toole will do the same? Do you trust O’Toole to rule, with the power of hellfire in his hands?”

  A pause.

  Knight leaned back in his chair. “Your bodyguard is a convincing fellow, Miss Todd.”

  “He’s not just my bodyguard.” The glowing love on her face made Harry’s chest burgeon with pride.

  “Ah. Pity.” Knight sighed. “Still, I cannot lead my men into a war they will not win.”

  “We will win, Mr. Knight.” Tessa’s voice had the ring of conviction. “Mr. Garrity and the Prince of Larks are on our side.”

  The duke sat up straighter. “This is true?”

  “Yes,” Harry said, “and Miss Todd will also have the backing of my family.”

  Knight’s dark brows lifted. “And who is your family?”

  “My brother is Ambrose Kent.”

  “I’ve heard of him.” A hint of respect was in the other’s voice. “An investigator, no?”

  Harry nodded. “And my sisters have married powerful men with connections and resources to help in this fight.”

  “As you see, Mr. Knight,” Tessa said, “there is only one right side to be on. When the House of Black is victorious, we will reward our friends—and woe to all who have crossed us.”

  Harry thought she might have gone too far with the threat, but Knight gave a bark of laughter.

  “I see why the two of you work well together,” the cutthroat said. “One woos with logic, the other brandishes a big stick. Very well, you have convinced me. You may count the House of Knight amongst your supporters.”

  38

  Holding Tessa’s shoulders in a firm grip, Harry said, “Promise me you’ll stay here on the boat with Mavis and Alfred.”

  Tessa’s smile was tremulous, entirely untrustworthy. “I promise.”

  Frustration knotted Harry’s insides. He wanted her anywhere but here, yet she’d insisted on being a part of the rescue. And Mavis, of all people, had supported her.

  “This is House of Black business,” Mavis had said, and that was that.

  Now both women were on this boat moored just downstream from O’Toole’s flash house. It was after dark, and they would be keeping watch here while the men launched the attack. Yesterday, all players had met to plan the siege, which was to be four-pronged.

  Knight’s group would storm the front entrance, Garrity’s men the back. The Prince of Larks, Harry’s family, and the police would take the tavern. Lastly, Harry, Ming, and guards from the House of Black would row lighters into the water passage beneath O’Toole’s fortress.

  Even so, O’Toole had the advantage in numbers. Determined to help his side win, Harry had worked through yesterday and today preparing special weapons for their attack.

  As if reading his mind, Tessa said, “Are your devices and masks packed in the lighters?”

  “Everything is ready,” he assured her. “We’re just waiting for Knight and Garrity’s signal.”

  Knight and Garrity were to go in first, creating a distraction, drawing O’Toole’s men up into the fight…and leaving the water way less guarded. Harry had given them a firework to set off once their attack was underway.

  As if on cue, Ming poked his head into the cabin. “Time to go.”

  Harry took a moment to kiss Tessa, and she whispered, “Be careful, my love.”

  “You, too. Stay put,” he repeated.

  He boarded one of the lighters. As the small barge glided through the dark water, he looked back at the boat. In spite of the perils ahead, he felt his lips twitch.

  Tessa stood on the prow of the boat, her ferret on her shoulder, her trousered legs firmly planted. The wind whipped the stray curls that had escaped her thick plait. She was waving at him, blowing him kisses.

  He sobered as Ming distributed the weapons. In addition to the satchel of devices he’d made, Harry would be carrying pistols and ammunition.

  “Once in, go to prisoners’ cell.” Ming reviewed their plan. “Get Mr. Black and others.”

  Yesterday, the mudlarks had done some additional scouting amongst the watering holes of O’Toole’s men. Their keen, plentiful ears had caught wind of two
crucial pieces of information. First, the prisoners were being kept behind bars in the basement of the flash house. Second, there was a secret password for entry via the underground water passage.

  Harry nodded, silence falling as they approached the cliffs of O’Toole’s keep.

  He held his pistol in readiness as they passed into the dank cave beneath the flash house. The low ceiling of rock seemed to press down upon him, the memory of being entombed cinching his lungs. Clammy fingers gripped his nape. He started at the sound of movement, of ruffling air—ducking as a black veil swooshed over his head.

  Bats, he recognized, heart hammering.

  They reached a small, rickety dock, and Harry gladly alighted first. He motioned for the men to stay behind as he approached the huge door that guarded the entrance into the flash house. Pulling down the brim of his hat, he knocked.

  A slit opened at eye level, suspicious eyes peering through it. “’Oo are you?”

  “Name’s Jones, one o’ Mr. Lavery’s men.” Harry figured that the guard wouldn’t know the names and faces of all his new allies. “Wiv the bloody bastards attacking above, Mr. Lavery wanted to send in reinforcements below.”

  “Wot’s the password?” the guard demanded.

  “O’Toole the Conqueror,” Harry managed to say with a straight face.

  The peep hole slammed shut. The sound of a metal bolt sliding sounded from the other side, the door opening. “Well, ’bout time I ’ad ’elp down ’ere—buggering hell.”

  Harry had shoved the door the rest of the way, holding the wide-eyed guard at gunpoint.

  “Tie and gag him,” he said to one of Black’s men.

  He led the way through the corridor, which snaked through the bowels of the flash house. Shouts and gunfire could be heard from the floors above, and he prayed their side was winning. He saw a corner up ahead, a falling of light. Heard voices and the rattle of steel.

  He motioned to his men to halt. Carefully, he peered around the corner. A dozen guards in the antechamber, brutes armed to the teeth. They were clustered around a massive door.

  “Guard the cell,” the leader barked. “And take no prisoners. Master’s orders.”

  The bloodthirsty cheer that went up had Harry leaning back, reaching into his satchel. He readied three devices, donned his mask and gestured to his team to do the same. As soon as the protective gear was donned, he lit the fuses and tossed them into the room.

  “What the devil?” Bewildered cries sounded.

  Harry had designed the contraptions to smolder rather than explode. As smoke billowed through the room, choking and blinding the unsuspecting enemy, he led the charge.

  He headed through the thick grey fog, straight to the leader, attacking with a right hook. His enemy coughed out a curse, weapon clattering to the ground, and they traded blows. A wild punch caught Harry in the gut, but he dodged the next swing, going in low. He tackled the other, plowing his fists until his opponent lay unconscious on the ground.

  A hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, and he spun, ready to attack.

  “Free Mr. Black.” Ming’s words were muffled by his mask. “Men and I finish here.”

  Harry nodded, grabbing the ring of keys from the fallen foe. He sprinted through the smoke to the door, Ming and the others forming ranks to get him through. Ripping off his mask, he unlocked the barrier, ran through a corridor into another antechamber and—

  He threw himself to the ground, a bullet whizzing by his ear. He skidded on his back, had an instant to register Black and Todd, shouting, trapped behind bars, before O’Toole took aim again. Harry whipped out his pistol. Shots fired simultaneously.

  O’Toole stared at him, then at the red stain on the front of his own shirt.

  The cutthroat toppled with a thud.

  Chest heaving, Harry surged to his feet, staggered over the fallen body to the cell. He took out the key ring, fumbling slightly as he slid in the first key. It didn’t turn…

  “I’ll take that, if you please,” a cultured voice said from behind him.

  Harry spun around. Found himself at gunpoint.

  The grey-haired man holding the pistol looked familiar. Where have I seen him before? Something about his noble face and piercing green eyes…

  Those eyes regarded him with deadly calm. “Throw your weapons down, or I shall be forced to put a bullet through you.”

  When Harry didn’t obey, the stranger said, “Do you notice the quiet?”

  With a sudden chill, Harry did.

  “Your men outside have been surrounded by mine. Rounded up and brought upstairs. If you don’t want them to die, you’ll do as I say.”

  Bloody hell. With no other choice, Harry complied.

  The man took the keys, kicking away the weapons.

  “Who are you?” Black growled from the cage. “Why have you done this?”

  The stranger laughed, a sound like steel etching glass.

  “Look me in the eyes, Bartholomew Black,” he said softly. “Look at me and tell me you do not recognize me. Tell me you do not know what you have stolen from me.”

  Moments passed as Black stared at the stranger. The color slowly drained from his face.

  “Your eyes,” the cutthroat king said hoarsely. “You…you’re Althea’s kin.”

  39

  Crouching outside the room, Tessa jerked in surprise.

  On the other side of the doorway, Alfred shook his head: a warning not to expose their position. She managed a nod, even as her mind spun.

  The Earl of Ruthven…is Grandmama’s relation?

  She’d gotten tired of waiting on the boat; something had told her that her men needed help. Alfred wouldn’t let her go alone, so she and he had taken one of the remaining lighters into the fortress, leaving Mavis with a guard for protection. They’d arrived to see Ming and their men being marched upstairs by O’Toole’s gang. Two of O’Toole’s men had been left behind to flank the prison entryway; Alfred’s flying neddy had taken care of them.

  Now it was up to her and Alfred to save Harry and her family.

  Flattened against the wall, she risked peering into the room to get a quick lay of the land. Grandpapa and Papa locked in a cell. Harry standing in front…a dead body lying on the ground.

  Ruthven was holding everyone at gunpoint.

  “Yes, I am Anthony Bourdelain,” Ruthven said. “Althea’s younger brother.”

  “Why did you do this?” Grandpapa’s voice was hoarse.

  “You know why. I’m exacting my vengeance for what you did to my sister.” Ruthven’s cold tones turned Tessa’s spine to ice.

  “I loved Althea. And she loved me,” Grandpapa said. “I never hurt her.”

  “You destroyed her. She was a debutante, poised to become a great lady. She could have had any title she wanted, but you tricked her, seduced her. You ruined Althea—and our family.” Ruthven’s words were choppy with fury, edged with a passion that burned with madness. “Do you know how many years my parents scrimped and saved for her launch into Society? We were gentry but destitute, and Althea was our sole hope for improving our fortunes. Then you came along like a bloody thief and stole everything!”

  “I told Althea I would look after ’er kin. But your parents, they refused to see ’er. Disowned ’er. Broke ’er ’eart, it did,” Grandpapa said raggedly.

  “Althea was dead to us the moment she disgraced herself. The pride of the Bourdelains is not for sale. Did you know my father killed himself a year later? I, a twelve-year-old-boy, found him at his desk, his brains blown out, his blood soaking into the piles of his debts. My mother died of shock soon thereafter, and I was sent to an orphanage.” Savagery frayed Ruthven’s voice. “Everything I suffered was because of you.”

  “Althea tried to find you. But the orphanage where you were last seen had burned down,” Grandpapa said. “She was told that you were dead. For years, she wept at the thought of you.”

  “I escaped that hellhole, have made my own way in the world since I was fourteen, a
nd I have done things that would make you, a murderous cutthroat, quake in your boots.” Ruthven’s laugh had Tessa reaching for one of her daggers. “All the while, the thing that drove me to survive was the thought that one day I would avenge my family. Then Fate finally smiled upon me. Handed me a title and fortune and the means to destroy everything you hold dear.”

  “You didn’t do this alone.” Harry’s voice was calm, reasonable, and Tessa knew he was trying to keep Ruthven talking, to buy time. “How did you recruit De Witt and O’Toole?”

  “In order to have my vengeance, I had to take everything from Black. Not just his life, a pittance compared to what he owes me, but his empire too. I chose O’Toole because he is Black’s strongest enemy. Or was, rather.” Ruthven’s voice dripped with contempt as he glanced at his dead partner. “No matter. He served his purpose. As for De Witt, I encountered him at a gaming hell. He was drunk, desperate, told me his sad tale of how he had the most powerful substance known to mankind, and no one wanted a thing to do with it. And I knew I’d found the missing piece.”

  “Why did you use the hellfire on The Gilded Pearl?” Harry asked.

  “The Pearl was a test. And a way to shake the foundations of Black’s power. To show that those under his protection were not safe, that his strength and rule were coming to an end.”

  “I ain’t done a thing to you. I demand to be set free,” Father declared.

  “In the name o’ revenge, you’ve shed the blood o’ innocents,” came Grandpapa’s gravelly voice. “This must stop. Kill me if you must, but let the others go.”

  “You will not get off so easily.” Ruthven laughed again. “Why do you think I convinced O’Toole not to kill you at once and keep you alive? My men will soon have your precious daughter and granddaughter, and you will watch as they die by my hand. As I take away everything from you as you have done from me.”

  Has the bastard captured Mama? Trembling, Tessa knew she had to stay focused.