Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (12 page)

That stopped her because, given the meeting at the opera, she could agree that, yes, in all actuality she was one of Duchess Cordelia’s projects. And she wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that except the kindness of those ladies and solidarity with them had been remarkably welcome.

“Ah.” Aston nodded to himself “I see the truth of it then. You are in reformation. Cordelia is assisting you to leave your profession and Charles and I have been called upon to help you extricate yourself from any entanglements.”

“Yes. That’s exactly it,” she declared with as much gratified enthusiasm as she could manage.

“Patience,” Charles began.

“Charles, do not try to convince his grace differently. He is too clever for us.”

“Damned true,” agreed Aston.

Charles opened and closed his mouth, a cod fish on dry land, before he humphed and turned to the window. “This is a tale you’ll not be able to keep up,” he said.

“Do not be so negative, Charles,” Aston said. “If the lady wishes to reform, we will aid her. After all, look at me. The perfect picture of reform.”

Patience bit back a laugh.
He
was the perfect picture of reform? Oh dear.

“I see your doubts, madam,” Aston said. “But I am proof that one can walk the straight and narrow and still have a devil of a good time.”

“The world is less kind to ladies, Your Grace,” she replied softly.

“Well, that’s deuced true,” Aston replied with a great deal of sympathy.

Just as it seemed that the Duke of Aston was about to pontificate about said subject, the cab rolled to a halt.

Aston narrowed his eyes. “Bit of a rough spot, old man.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Charles declared.

Aston let out a breath. “Dear lady, you did descend from the last time I saw you.”

“She didn’t—“

“Lord Charles, I’m not afraid of the duke knowing of my shame.” If she had to, she’d play this game. It might even prove amusing.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, dear girl. Nothing at all,” assured Aston. “We all do what we must.”

There was a wicked gleam in the duke’s eyes and suddenly she wondered if Aston was having her on. He couldn’t know the truth. Could he?

No.

The duke was a fascinating and bombastic fellow. That was all. There was no way he could know she was lying through her fortunately white teeth.

The sounds of a screeching fiddle and the shouts of drunken men penetrated the cab.

Aston jumped down and offered his gloved hand.

She took it.

“Mind your step,” he said. “All sorts on the ground.”

Luckily, she was familiar with the horrific states of the streets in lesser parts of London. . . And the smell.

Unwashed bodies, perfume, liquor, rot, stew, and even cake wafted about. The scent was London. London at its ugliest and most magnificent. For it was here that the back of the Empire was formed, not the drawing rooms of the West End.

These were the people that made England great with their never say die spirit.

It was as terrifying as it was awe inspiring.

As she stepped into the mud, she glanced about.

If she had to guess, they’d gone dockside.

Charles descended behind her and the men moved her between them, as if they could be her sentinels of defense.

“The Hangman?” Aston asked.

“The Hangman,” Charles agreed.

As they headed down the choked street, she spotted a man and a brightly dressed woman heading into an alley. This was the sort of descent that Aston was speaking of. Many women went from the gilded hall to the street. And then. . . Well, the grave.

A few ladies made it to the hallowed halls of wealth and stayed there. But most? Most ended up here.

Forgotten.

Well, she was going to make people remember. She was going to tell their story.

As they entered through the paint-chipped door and headed into the smoky room, her eyes widened.

This was a walk of life she was not entirely familiar with. While she had walked into certain parts of East London, she’d never had the ability to traverse into such rough parts, even with a guard. She was good at disguises, but even so, she still stood out in such places.

Now, she’d simply fit in with these slumming lords.

The room was densely packed, the plaster and paint a deep yellow hew with the years of smoke and perspiration that had stained its walls. A fire blazed in a large hearth at the opposite end of the room and the bar was manned by a large, ham-fisted fellow.

Girls with bosoms plumped up like pillows, wandered the room, their hands laden down with heavy trays decked with tankards of ale and bottles of gin.

A scraggly, silver-haired fiddler sat spryly atop a three legged stool in the corner. He played with surprising skill. He held his instrument to his chin and shoulder with more love than she’d seen most parents cradle their children.

The noise was a wild din as people drunkenly chatted and sang along to the fiddler’s tune.

She half expected angry glares at the wealthy toffs who’d dared to venture into their midst.

On the contrary, several men grinned dark-toothed, stained grins.

Aston threw out his arms and roared greeting to several of the rough fellows.

Charles was more reserved but still greeted many of the patrons as if they were brothers, clapping them on the back and ordering drinks all around.

No one assailed her to her surprise.

It was as if her companionship with these two massive men gave her free passage.

And she didn’t think it was strictly because they were lords.

There were tales told of toffs who’d had their faces beaten in heading down the wrong alley or entering the wrong ale house. She had a suspicion that these two could enter any establishment and be unchallenged.

They were several stones of hulking muscle after all and for all their joviality she sensed a deadly undertone.

How did they do that?

How did they go from one moment bantering like two characters in a Congreve play to putting off the kind of sense that put the fear of God into their fellow men?

However they did it, she’d be putting it into her book. Men like them. Men the world feared. Men who didn’t even have to
try
to be feared.

At long last after several pauses to greet more fellows, all of whom completely ignored her, they came to a rough-hewn, wood table.

Aston plunked himself down and sprawled in what appeared to be a careless manner.

There was nothing careless about him.

The room seemed to know it.

He waved a bejeweled hand towards one of the barmaids.

Charles waited for Patience to sit, but there was a sleek sort of feel to him as he eyed the room.

His waiting had nothing to do with manners or gentlemanly conduct. He was assuring that she was safe in this room before she committed to anything as risky as sitting.

When she finally did sit on the hard chair, observing all she could as she did so, Aston grinned at her. “You look like a spinster in a whorehouse. Now how is that? Is that your line? Do you like to play the governess with your customers?”

“Aston,” Charles warned.

“I do beg your pardon. Have I overstepped?”

There it was again, that feeling that the Duke of Aston was having her on. She cleared her throat. “Not at all, Your Grace. I value your candor.”

“Do you, by God?”

She nodded emphatically.

“Well, then you’ll be happy to tell me the name of your pimp,” Aston said.

Her pimp
.

In the nick of time, the barmaid swayed up to their table, breasts on display, hips swinging with confidence under her full, slightly stained skirt.

A mop cap sat atop her black curls and she smiled, her lips rouged to the shade of a pomegranate.

She was quite pretty really.

Prettier than Patience would ever be, but she had a feeling the barmaid was younger than she appeared. Life had a tendency to age one quickly in these parts.

“Gin,” Aston said.

“A beer for Lady Pa- for the lady,” Charles said.

“Beer,” Aston scoffed. “Surely not. Gin, for you, too, my dear?”

She wavered for a moment. Gin was not something she had tried, usually needing all her wits when she was in such a place but she wished the full experience and many of these people, at least the sort she was going to write about, drank gin.

Beaming at the barmaid, she nodded. “Gin.”

“I knew it,” boomed Aston as he banged his broad hand on the table. “Gin all around. And if you see her pimp about, do give us the whisper, eh lass? There’ll be a good head knocking tonight.”

The barmaid’s eyes bulged as she looked at Patience.

Patience widened her eyes, silently begging the barmaid to play along.

The girl gave a half-shrug as if to say
whatever suits your fancy, dearie
before sauntering to the bar to collect their drinks.

Charles sat in the chair beside her and relaxed back.

It was fascinating watching him. His dark beauty was perfectly suited to the shadows and in this place he looked like some sort of dangerous thief lord. A man who commanded the rabble and yet she knew he lived in isolation. She could see it in his eyes.

He was a man who did not allow people to be too close.

Aston, on the other hand, looked as if the world was his family and he was happy to simply be alive.

Was that an act?

Was he an actor just like she?

It was hard to be certain, but she felt it could be.

He did seem to be genuinely happy though and she had a strong suspicion his wife had something to do with that. Love. It seemed such an unlikely thing but The Duchesses had seemed to be genuinely fond of their husbands

She eyed Charles. Would he ever make a husband?

She doubted it.

He was too wild. Too suspicious of the world. And she wondered what the world looked like through his eyes. What did she look like through his eyes? Now that was something she inexplicably and dangerously wished to know.

Chapter 12

Lady Patience was being taken around the park.

Charles knew he should probably tell her but it was interesting to see her lie so passionately to Aston. This was her journey and he wasn’t going to interfere if she didn’t wish it.

Society seemed to believe that deception was a woman’s war. This was utter bollocks in his opinion. While women might have more necessity, after all men were always trying to curtail their freedom and good times, men were as equally skilled liars. Point in fact; the Duke of Aston was leading Patience in a merry dance.

Aston had not believed Patience was a whore for one moment. How did Charles know? If Aston truly thought they were there to beat a pimp to a pulp, he’d have said nothing to the barmaid. He’d have said little to Lady Patience. He’d simply have found out the man’s name, slipped into some dimly lit alley, waited for the scoundrel, and then beat the man to within an inch of his life before sending him off with a jolly warning to leave Lady P alone because she was under his protection now.

That was how Aston did things.

It was how Charles did things, too.

But for whatever reason, Aston was having a right good time watching Lady Patience dig herself deeper into her deception.

Charles was rather amused, too, though wary.

She was throwing herself into the role with gusto. Which told him that the subject of her next book would almost certainly be a fallen woman.

It was the only reason she’d wished to come to a place like this where fallen women sat at tables taking their break from walking the streets.

Gin flowed like winter rain.

And speaking of gin, Lady P was in for it.

The barmaid strolled back to their table, placed three dubiously clean glasses down and a bottle.

“Fresh is it?” Aston asked.

She winked at him and started to make as though she’d sit in his lap. “Made just three yards over, Your Grace.”

Aston shook his head. “None of that, m’dear. None of that. I’m a married man.”

“So are half the blokes in here,” the barmaid purred.

“Ah, but my wife could make the angels weep with envy.”

“Angel is she?” The barmaid pouted, thrusting out her lower, rouged lip. “Sounds a right bore. Now, I’m a proper sinner.”

“Sinner that we do not doubt you are. Rest assured, his wife is most certainly not a bore,” Charles drawled.

The barmaid gave a small sigh, emphasizing her plush breasts. “What about you then? Married are you?”

“He’s mine, love,” Lady Patience declared. “So, push off.”

Charles’ brows shot up as did Aston’s. They exchanged a look of shock.

Hers
was he?

The barmaid sniffed then pushed off as instructed.

The feeling inside felt suspiciously like a lovely glow. Glow. What the blazes? A glow was not how he expected to feel when a relatively strange female laid claim to him.

But she was a goddess. His goddess. And since he’d longed to kneel and worship before her, having her declare that he belonged to her suddenly made him feel like an acolyte being praised by his deity. . . In short, it was rare and absolutely glorious.

Aston started a low, slow laugh which ended in a bellow. “Oh, Charles. I do believe you’ve caught the plague.”

“I have not,” he denied quickly.

“The plague?” Lady Patience blinked. “It’s not in London is it?”

Aston grabbed the bottle and sloshed gin into the glasses. “No, love. No. Have a drink.”

Lady P took her glass lifted it in salute and raised it to her lips.

Charles and Aston, both unable to contain their anticipation, leaned forward ever so slightly.

The liquid passed her lips. Her eyes widened. Her face paled and she immediately coughed.

Aston clapped her on the back. “Better in than out.”

“Don’t waste good liquor,” Charles added.

“My God,” she wheezed as her face turned red and she gasped. “What’s in that?”

“Sulfuric acid, no doubt,” said Charles.

“That’s. . . That’s. . .” she eyed her glass.

“Poison, I believe is the word you’re looking for,” Charles said before downing his glass in a single go.