This Duchess of Mine (3 page)

But of course most men did set up their mistresses in houses in the suburbs. They didn't make appointments for them in their offices, appointments that every man working in Elijah's parliamentary chambers must have known about.

Brigitte entered with a silver tray and Champagne glasses.

“Thank goodness,” Corbin sighed, accepting his glass. “All this deep thought is making me quite thirsty.”

“I've decided on the green,” Jemma told Brigitte, standing up so her maid could tie on her panniers.

“Two patches,” Corbin said decisively. “A kissing patch near your mouth, and another below your eye.”

The watered silk fell over her panniers with the gentle swish. The bodice plumped her breasts and pushed them forward. She raised an eyebrow to Corbin.

“Perfect,” he said. “Delectable yet legal. And since you do not clash with my coat, I shall allow myself to stand next to you on occasion.”

Jemma smiled at the glass. There was a small tendril of joy in her heart. “Crimson lip color tonight, Brigitte,” she said.

“Naughty,” Corbin observed.

An hour or so later, that is precisely how she looked. Her curls were powdered and adorned with green roses that glinted mysteriously from their emerald depths. Her eyes laughed above a small patch that drew attention to her crimson mouth. She looked naughty—not overtly available, not scandalous, but mischievous.

“You're perfect,” Corbin said, rising to his feet.

“And you're a miracle!” Jemma cried, giving him a kiss.

Corbin's smile was smug. “I have always found it best to create my own entertainments,” he remarked. “This evening should be truly interesting, Duchess.”

The Right Hon. William Pitt's country home
Cambridge
March 26, 1784

T
he Duke of Beaumont had been trying to extricate himself from the Prime Minister's house for the better part of an hour. A group of men, among the most powerful in the kingdom, had spent the last fortnight discussing strategies and laws, ways to thwart Fox's schemes and defeat his proposals, the case for and against every conceivable argument that a man could voice.

Elijah had spent the weeks fighting long hours for the causes he believed just, such as the ongoing effort to halt England's slave trade. He'd won some battles and lost others; it was the nature of politics to weigh inevitable failure against possible gains.

“I will convey your concern to His Majesty,” he
said now, bowing before the Prime Minister, the Right Honorable William Pitt. “Tactfully, of course. I agree that it is perilous to hold a royal fete in such proximity to the hulks.”

“Tell him that those floating monstrosities were never meant to be prisons,” Lord Stibblestich put in. He was a florid man with eyes that glinted from the little caves shaped by his plump cheeks. His body was no more than brawny; his face was bloated in comparison. Even his nose appeared engorged in contrast to his shoulders.

Elijah bit his tongue rather than indulge the impulse to snap at Stibblestich. His Majesty was fully aware that the decommissioned warships anchored in the Thames were never meant to be used as prisons. The hulks were aging warships, as tired and broken down as the English navy.

But the presence of hundreds of criminals housed on those ships was a problem that His Majesty was not yet pleased to face. And in truth, Elijah knew it was the Parliament that should be finding a solution.

“There was an attempted prison break just last week,” Stibblestich added shrilly, apparently under the illusion that he was saying something original.

“My butler informs me that your valet is recovering from his stomach ailment,” Pitt said to Elijah, ignoring Stibblestich. “I will send him to London as soon as he is able to travel.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Elijah said. “I know that Vickery is also grateful for your forbearance.” He bowed again and turned to go. His carriage would go straight to the king's yacht, the
Peregrine.
Where…

Where he was due to meet his wife. Jemma.

Tired though he was, exhausted by a fortnight of late nights spent arguing, trying to get his own party to understand the unethical side of their deliberations, he couldn't wait to be aboard. Tucked into the corner of the carriage, he fell asleep, waking only when the wheels started jolting over London's cobblestones.

He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it. He had forty minutes to board or the
Peregrine
would launch without him. The king had a mind to take his revels into the middle of the Thames and then float downstream, the yacht blazing with light and music pouring through the open windows.

At that very moment the carriage lurched and came to a halt. Elijah summoned his patience. London streets were crowded, and obstructions were common.

He waited two minutes before he banged on the roof. “What the devil is going on, Muffet?” he shouted.

“We're through Aldgate, but the street is blocked ahead, Your Grace!” came the shout back from his coachman.

Elijah groaned and pushed open the carriage door. The grooms were off the vehicle and standing at the horses' heads. A crowd was milling about the street, making it hard to see the source of the disturbance. “What's going on?” he demanded, pushing his way to the front.

“We're not entirely sure,” Muffet said. “See, Your Grace, they've barricaded Sator Street. And they're still working on the blockade.”

Sure enough, entry to the street was barred by a growing wall of furniture, beer barrels, and debris. People milled about cheerfully, handing up a stuffed armchair, ducking out of the way as a barrel came free and bounced around the street. There were a couple of
small fires burning to the side, and what looked like a lively trade in baked potatoes.

“Anyone in charge?” Elijah asked.

“Not that I can see,” Muffet said. “And Your Grace, it's going to be a proper mess getting ourselves out of here.” He jerked his thumb, and Elijah realized that their carriage was merely the first of a tangled mess of carriages streaming in from outside London, now caught inside the city gate. Some people appeared to be backing their carriages, or trying to, but they were hampered by others who had apparently decided to scold their way to the front of the line.

Elijah glanced down at himself. He was dressed in full court attire, as befitted an event held on the king's yacht. His coat was a deep yellow-gold, embroidered with mustard flowers. His buttons were gilded. He would stand out in the crowd like a damned marigold.

He strode toward the flickering but bright light cast from the fires at the foot of the barricade.

The moment he came into the light, the cheerful calls and shouts died. A young man with lank black hair and a mouth like a trout's froze in the very act of hoisting a wardrobe to the top of the barricade. The sturdy fellow hauling it up recovered faster. “Evening!” he shouted down.

“Good evening!” Elijah shouted back. “May I ask for the reason for the barricade?”

“Riots in the city tonight,” the man shouted back. He jerked a thumb behind him. “Limehouse ain't never been rioted in, and it ain't going to happen tonight either. We're not letting any of those hellhounds into our houses, nor yet into the square neither.”

Elijah eyed the barricade. “It looks remarkably sturdy.”

The man beamed. “Like I said, we've never been rioted in yet. I learned me barricading from me pa. We can put it up in under twenty minutes and we does it whenever we thinks it needful. The Watch knows,” he added a bit defensively. “They're all back there behind the barricades.”

“Is the rioting sure to happen tonight?” Elijah shouted.

“We've never been wrong yet. You'd best get your carriage out of sight. There's many a bastard in these parts would love to snatch those matched grays of yers, yer lordship.” He started to haul on the wardrobe again.

“You put that up in twenty minutes?” Elijah bellowed.

“That's right,” the man shouted back. He had the wardrobe now, precariously balanced on top of the armchair.

It was going to fall. Elijah moved back. It fell, with a great, splintering crash. Luckily the fish-lipped boy scrambled out of the way.

Elijah cast a glance behind them. The narrow street was entirely blocked by vehicles. Aldgate would be jammed for hours, if not all night.

If there was a riot, he would lose his horses. Unless…he eyed the blockade. Minus the wardrobe, it wasn't as high as it might have been. Six feet perhaps. He could smell the riot coming, smell it in the excitement of the men, in the frenzy with which they were piling up furniture, and in the utter absence of children.

“You!” he shouted up at the stout man, who was staring down at the wardrobe and cursing in an extremely creative manner.

“Got no time for chatter matter!” the man bellowed back.

“Get off the blockade. I'm bringing my horses over and my men as well. Clear space on the other side!”

Muffet appeared at his shoulder. “Your Grace, a carriage tried to back through Aldgate and the fool hit the wall and shattered his undercarriage. The way out is entirely blocked. You'll have to climb the barricade. You'll be safe on the other side, and the grooms and I will defend the coach and horses.”

“Absolutely not,” Elijah said. “I won't leave my men or horses behind. Given the situation on the street behind us, there's likely to be a riot started by this very blockade, if for no other reason. There'll be blood at some point.”

“They'll never take down that blockade to let us in,” Muffet said.

“They won't—and they can't,” Elijah said, examining the complicated maze. It held everything from chairs to dining room tables, all bound together with rope in a haphazard way that looked as if it would take days to untangle.

“Take the horses out of the leads. I'll be damned if I allow them to be lost in whatever riot is about to happen. Pull the carriage over against that building. It'll probably burn, but I don't mind that so much. How many grooms do we have? Two? Send them together. Tell them to climb over that barricade and wait for the horses.”

“We can't get the horses through,” Muffet protested.

“I can defend them, Your Grace. I have my pistols.”

“I won't leave you,” Elijah said. “And I must be on the king's yacht within the half hour. Take the horses from the coach and we'll get them to the other side.”

“You can't mean to jump them!”

“Galileo will have no problem with the barrier, so you'll take him over. I'll go first with Ptolemy.”

“It's too dangerous, Your Grace! Neither horse is trained for jumping. What if Ptolemy stumbles?”

“Nonsense,” Elijah said. “I don't have time to quibble about it, Muffet. I have to ensure that these horses and yourself are safe, and then get to the yacht before she launches. If Ptolemy makes it over, you should have no problem; Galileo is the stronger horse.”

A moment later the coachman returned with both horses. “James grew up in Limehouse,” he said, “and he can talk his way through. I've sent him over.”

“Good man.”

“Your Grace—” Muffet began desperately.

But Elijah was already slicing the leads, cutting them to the length of reins. Then he was swinging up on Ptolemy. “I've an appointment with the duchess,” he shouted down at Muffet. “Follow me.”

He began backing Ptolemy, to give them enough space to gain speed. He felt like a boy again, riding bareback with Villiers through the meadows behind his estate, leaping anything they could find, turning around, and leaping it again.

Ptolemy was trained to draw a carriage, not be ridden, let alone bareback. He pranced madly, trying to pull his head free. Elijah wound the leads around his right hand and calmed the horse with his left. Once he'd backed as far as he could, he turned the horse's head back toward the barricade. It rose, a tangled maze against the houses, lit by leaping flames.

Ptolemy tried to buck again, but Elijah brought him down. Both horses were beloved and expensive, and he'd be damned if he would sacrifice them to a riot, let alone expose his men to the danger of trying to protect them.

“Steady,” he whispered. “Steady.”

Then he loosed the reins and Ptolemy leapt forward, obediently dashing straight for the barricade. Elijah judged the distance, accounting for possible defects in his abilities due to the shifting light, reached the exact spot, signaled—

Ptolemy leapt up, powerful rear legs throwing them into the night air. For a moment it seemed as if the snarled furniture was rushing toward them instead of the other way around; Elijah caught sight of a brass pole sticking out at an angle that could impale a horse's stomach. And then they were clearing the furniture, coming down with a hard jolt, a rush of wind, and a sharp snap of his teeth.

James was there, reaching up for the leads. Elijah tossed him the reins. “Keep them safe,” he told the footman, who was quickly pulling Ptolemy out of the way so Muffet and Galileo could join them.

“It'll be no problem, Your Grace,” he said, tugging his hat. “There's a mews just two streets over.”

“I thought they were blocking a
square
?”

“Oh no, sir. They'll be barricading all of Limehouse, with a good eight thousand souls inside. Limehouse doesn't welcome strangers. It's known for that. Everyone who lives here knows that it's safe. See, there's the Watch.”

Sure enough, London's finest were warming their hands over a fire. “I need to get to the Thames,” Elijah told James, just as Muffet landed behind him, Galileo having sailed over the barricade with no problem at all. “I don't have the faintest idea where we are.”

James chewed on his lower lip. “You'll have to go out by the barricade at Bramble Street,” he said. “I'll give the horses to Muffet, Your Grace.”

“You needn't—”

“You'll never make it without me,” James said.

“These streets aren't like the ones you're used to, Your Grace. They're scrambled up and people like it better that way. It's not far, but it's messy.”

Elijah followed the footman from one knotty little street to another. There was a holiday spirit inside the barricades. The windows were all open, and people spilled out of the narrow tip-tilting houses, singing songs in a cant dialect that Elijah couldn't follow, shouting things to each other. They fell silent when they saw him, but not in a unfriendly way.

For the night, their enemies were not the rich, like himself, but the violent. The riot held everyone's attention, from the old men sitting outside boasting of foregone days and foregone barricades, to the young women frying up sausages in a lively trade.

Elijah had a strange, sudden wish that Jemma was with him. His expensive, delicious duchess would enjoy this strange evening. She would love to be following him through these streets.

The barricade at Bramble Street was a better one than the first. It was intricate but ordered. Men were handing up long pointed objects.

“What the devil are those?” Elijah asked.

“Spears,” James said, weaving his way through the excited crowd toward the looming barricade.

“Spears?
Spears?
”

“They'll have a few guns, but in the dark, spears are a better deterrent. Though no one has attacked a Limehouse barricade in some twenty years. You'd have to be mad to do so,” James said. “Stark mad, so most rioters hove off in other directions. It makes the men around here quite disappointed, really. They keep ex
tending the barricade, in the hope that someone will prove foolish.”