My Dangerous Duke (37 page)

He nodded. “They’ll send for O’Banyon to come and meet us.”

“I can hardly wait.” She shivered, pulling the ugly shawl closer around her shoulders. Another minute ticked past. “I don’t think I’ve ever been inside a rat-catcher’s shop before.”

“Nor I,” he murmured. “But I’ll wager there’s more to the fellow’s business than trapping vermin.”

“How so?”

He stared out the window, watching as the door at the top of the stairs opened. A hunched figure holding up a lantern inspected Pete, who, in turn, spoke his piece, gesturing toward the carriage.

“The old fellow rows out to the arriving cargo ships to see if there’s any need aboard for his services,” he explained in a low tone. “The merchant captains hire him to clear out a few rats, so he heads straight for the cargo holds, where most of the vermin lurk. There, he’s able to assess what sort of goods the vessel’s carrying. Makes a show of snaring some rats, then goes back ashore and tells the river thieves which ships are worth raiding. How many men are guarding it and so forth.”

“Diabolical,” she breathed.

“Welcome to the world, Miss Madsen. Let’s go,” he ordered, ignoring her frown at his cynical remark.

Rohan got out of the coach as Pete came back down the stairs. The old rat-catcher remained on the landing above, holding up a lantern for a wiry young boy, perhaps his apprentice, who darted down the steps, then dashed off into the night, presumably to tell O’Banyon they were there.

“He says to come and wait inside,” Pete informed them as he neared the carriage.

Rohan turned to help Kate out of the coach. She faltered, suddenly worried that no one was going to believe her disguise. He bolstered her flagging courage with a forceful stare into her eyes, as if he could read her mind.

She steadied herself, stepping down from the shabby coach. At once, he grasped her arm none too gently, reminding her of her role as prisoner.

The evil-looking child eyed them both as he slipped past, but he did not seem to question the veracity of either one’s appearance.

Then they went up while Parker drove away, moving off to take up his next position. He and Wilkins were to give cover from the crowded rooftops if it was needed, but Rohan had been adamant that they stay out of sight.

The stairs creaked as they mounted to the rat-catcher’s dank hovel above. Kate moved gingerly, her scratchy gown stuffed with the padding of her costume.

Pete went ahead of her, and Rohan walked behind, but the old, bearded rat-catcher avoided eye contact with all of them as he let them in the front door and led them through his dingy office, grumbling at them to wait in the tiny back room.

Rohan glanced around; Kate read in his face his instant dislike of the cramped claustrophobic room, little more than a broom closet.

“He told me O’Banyon’s at an inn a few blocks away,” Pete murmured after the door had shut. “It’s called the Fox and Goose.”

Rohan nodded. “I saw the place when I came by earlier. Considering we’re expected, I doubt we’ll have long to wait.” He glanced at Kate. “How are you holding up?”

She nodded tautly. “I’m all right. Except for the stench in here.” She gathered that the pisspot in the corner had not been emptied in some time. “Revolting.”

“You remember where you’re to go if I give the order?”

She nodded. He had drawn her a little map to the safe house in case she panicked and forgot his verbal directions. It was tucked in her bodice.

“Now, remember, when O’Banyon gets here,” he said very quietly, “you’ve been locked down in that cellar in Cornwall all this time.”

“I remember.” She looked around. “What is all this junk?”

“Rat traps. Pitch,” said Pete, also looking around at the piled cages and the large, lidded barrels of tar. “You burn a torch with pitch to smoke the rats out o’ the cargo holds, y’see. Then you herd ’em into traps and club the little bleeders that slip past.”

“How do you know all this?” she asked, grimacing at the rat-catcher’s tools of the trade.

“I’ve been around boats all me life, miss, and most of ’em have rats. You can’t shoot the vermin, o’ course. Don’t want to fire a gun into the wooden hull of a ship. Risk springing a leak.”

Pete fell silent.

The air throbbed with nervousness, but Rohan was a rock. Kate padded to the back of the room and stood on her tip-toes, peering through the high, filthy window. Through the film of soil and soot, she saw a forest of masts along the river. Countless ships rode at anchor. To think that right now, Papa could be on one of those vessels …

Excruciating tension was building in her, but Rohan remained perfectly calm, cool, and collected. Murderous light glowed in his eyes as he waited in predatory patience.

She paced a bit in the small back room.

He took out a flask and offered it to her. “Draught for your nerves?”

“Lord, no,” she whispered. “I’ll want my wits about me.”

“It’s going to be fine, Kate.”

She looked over as he glanced at his fob watch and put it away again. “What if O’Banyon wasn’t there when the boy went to fetch him—”

Just then, they heard footsteps pounding up the shaky wooden stairs outside.

“It’s him,” Rohan murmured.

Pete nodded. “Those footsteps are too heavy for the boy.”

Indeed, lighter footsteps followed the heavy ones. A moment later, they heard the rat-catcher’s front door open.

“Where are they?”

Kate froze, riveted with unexpected terror at the rough sound of her main kidnapper’s voice.

Rohan stood up slowly from where he had been sitting on a crate. He and Pete both moved closer to her, resuming their façade as her guards.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself, standing between them. His nearness reassured her. Rohan gave Pete a bolstering nod, and in the next instant, the back room’s door banged open.

“Took you long enough.” O’Banyon swaggered in, a compact, greasy-haired ex-convict. Upon entering the back room, he took one look at Rohan and instantly drew the pistol from his belt, aiming it at him.

Kate gasped.

Rohan stood stone-cold, but Pete let out a startled yelp. “Ho, now! There’s no need—”

“What the hell are you up to, Pete?” O’Banyon demanded. “Who’s she? And who the hell is this?”

“Sir, this is Kate Fox! We put her in disguise!”

“Disguise?” Still pointing his gun at Rohan, O’Banyon glanced briefly at her. “Why?”

“There’s people lookin’ for her, man—Bow Street types!”

Pete cried. “Her neighbors reported her missing. We didn’t want her to be seen. But it’s still her under there.”

O’Banyon slid Pete a wary glance, then nodded at Rohan. “What about ’im?”

“He’s a different cousin of mine, sir. He’s fillin’ in for Denny.”

“I didn’t authorize that.”

“Denny got stabbed in a tavern brawl—in the leg—he can hardly walk. He’s useless at the moment. This is my other cousin, Curtis Doyle. He’s a good man in a fight, sir. You can tell by the size of ’im.”

O’Banyon’s posture eased a bit. He looked Rohan up and down suspiciously. “Curtis Doyle, eh?”

“That’s right,” Rohan growled back. “And I expect to be paid in gold.”

“Do you, now?”

“Put your gun away, please!” Kate implored O’Banyon.

He eyed her mistrustfully, but after a moment, he did so with a nod. “Very well, then. If you say he can be trusted, Pete, I’ll take your word for it. After all, you know better than to cross me. Still, you should’a told me o’ this change and not sprung it on me, like.”

“There wasn’t time, and I had no way to reach you.”

O’Banyon snorted, then he leaned close to Kate, scrutinizing her in amusement. “As for you, poppet—is that still you under there?”

“It is,” she answered coldly. If he doubted her changed appearance, Kate’s withering tone assured him she was still the same unruly prisoner he remembered.

“It’s just as well your pretty body’s hidden for now.” His grin was full of lechery as he straightened up again, letting his crude stare travel over her disguise. “Not a bad idea, dressing her up to hide her face. But I’ll tell you, boys. I’m going to enjoy unwrappin’ this plump little package later tonight. Nothing like a spell in Newgate to make a man enjoy the finer pleasures.”

Kate glared at him in disgust. O’Banyon laughed derisively. Pete followed suit with a show of nervous humor, but Rohan’s soft laugh, joining theirs, held a distinctly sinister undertone.

“Come on,” O’Banyon ordered. “Time to go.”

“Where are you taking me?” Kate demanded, as they grasped her arms again, not as roughly as their hold on her appeared.

“You’ll see. Keep your mouth shut, wench.” He walked ahead, and Rohan slanted Kate a look that said it all. O’Banyon’s fate was sealed.

They left the back room, crossed the dingy office, and returned outside, where she spotted the rat-catcher up on the driver’s box of an old, battered coach.

“Get in,” O’Banyon ordered.

They all piled into the carriage.

O’Banyon stared at her the whole time.

They traveled a short distance through the docklands’ maze of lightless streets, weaving their way down toward the river. Rohan remained stoic, but Kate was terrified, and Pete looked scared, as well. The carriage halted when they were in sight of the River Thames. They all got out.

“Good. They’re here.” O’Banyon glanced into the darkness in the direction of the river. “Come on, girly. You’re the guest of honor.”

“Let me go!”

“Quit your fussin’!” Pete retorted, keeping up his role as one of her heavy-handed guards.

“Don’t you lot say nothin’ in front o’ the old nob. He’s a deep one,” O’Banyon warned with a meaningful nod toward the quay. “When we’re done here, take her back to the rat-man’s shop. I’ll meet you there. See that you ain’t followed.”

“Aye, sir,” Pete murmured.

“Bring her,” he ordered her captors.

They obeyed. With Pete on her right and Rohan on her left, each of them holding one of her arms, they all followed O’Banyon toward the quay.

There were inky figures moving in the darkness at the river’s edge, a cluster of men standing around casually with rifles on their shoulders. She glanced at Rohan and saw him counting them with his narrowed stare.

The frigid wind blew stronger as they walked toward the Thames, leaving the shelter of the drab brick buildings that lined the narrow street. The long, sweeping line of the quay stretched out empty in both directions.

Kate noticed that as they advanced toward it, Rohan pulled up the neckerchief that hung around his throat, using it to conceal the lower half of his face. He nodded at Pete to do the same, then tugged the brim of his hat a bit lower over his eyes.

O’Banyon scowled at his helpers. “What are you doing that for?”

“There’s no point in lettin’ ’em see our faces,” Rohan answered, his pale eyes blazing above his makeshift mask.

As distant church bells began to toll the hour, three silhouettes emerged from between the nearby buildings.

“Right on time,” O’Banyon murmured under his breath. “Remember, keep quiet, like I told you.”

Ten loud, slow bongs reverberated over London as the three new arrivals approached.

Kate was acutely aware of Rohan’s taut vigilance. Her heart pounded as she wondered if she was about to meet some real Prometheans. It must be so, she thought, sensing the predatory tension that thrummed through his muscled frame as he stood beside her, holding on to her arm in his role as her guard.

“Mr. O’Banyon,” a wry, patrician voice greeted the ex-convict. “Always a pleasure.” The owner of the voice emerged out of the shadows, an elegant older gentleman with a slim build and a shock of pewter hair.

He had two others with him, each about age thirty. The first man, husky of build, with dirty blond hair and rugged features, wore an eye patch. His good eye regarded O’Banyon with utter contempt, but he kept watching everything, scrutinizing Kate and her two guards, gesturing some unspoken order to the armed men prowling back and forth down by the water and waiting by the river stairs.

She gathered these were under his control, apparently a contingent of Promethean foot soldiers.

The second man accompanying the older fellow had a wounded air and an introverted posture, though he was strikingly good-looking; his black hair was cropped short, revealing a beautiful, chiseled face. His hands were thrust down into the pockets of his greatcoat, shoulders hunched against the cold. He kept his eyes down but stayed close to the older fellow, perhaps specifically assigned to protect him.

Kate sensed Rohan staring at this brooding, silent man as though he recognized him, and it suddenly dawned on her that this might be their missing agent he had mentioned.

Drake.

“You have the daughter?” the distinguished older gentleman inquired as they approached.

If this was the Promethean magnate, James Falkirk, the “Old Man” that O’Banyon had mentioned to Pete, contrary to the nickname, he could not be described as elderly. He was elegantly fit and appeared to be in his early sixties.

“She’s right here,” O’Banyon answered, nodding at Kate.

“Hm,” Falkirk mused, looking her over with a degree of pity at her unfortunate appearance of this night.

“Who are you?” Kate demanded.

“Be quiet!” O’Banyon ordered, but Falkirk lifted an eyebrow in amusement at her show of spirit.

“I knew your grandfather, Miss Fox. Such a shame, what a wrong path he took in life. I regret to say the last Count DuMarin brought great dishonor to his otherwise-distinguished line.”

“You have the wrong person, as I’ve told these cretins a hundred times. My name is not Fox, it’s Madsen,” she retorted, just to see what he’d say.

“No, my dear. Your mongrel of a father merely dubbed you with an alias to protect you.” He smiled. “I daresay, in the hopes we’d never find you—but, alas.”