Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (23 page)

“Yes, damn it, I think Ellie
is
enjoying herself.” Ned blew out a long, unhappy breath. “I suppose Mama is right. We should stay in London for a while. Ellie should have her chance to experience the parties and shops and to see the London sights before she becomes a m-mother.” He turned rather pale.

Ah, so Ned was worrying about that already, was he? Jack wasn’t surprised, but there was nothing he could do except remind Ned again that not all women died in childbirth—which would be a waste of his breath.

“Of course Mama’s right,” he said instead. “She’s always—or almost always—right.” He clapped Ned on the shoulder. “And you could stand to have some fun, too, before you ensconce yourself at Linden Hall again.”

Ned glared at him. “How can I enjoy myself when I know there’s a deranged killer on the loose?”

Poor Lord Worry. “So far the Slasher has limited himself to prostitutes and a few unwed women of the
ton
with sullied reputations. Ellie’s married now. She should be completely safe.”

But Frances . . . the damnable rumors made her sound like exactly the sort of woman the Slasher preyed on. He looked around the room to find Ruland—

Ruland must have left—or else he was keeping Pettigrew company in the refreshment room. And Botsley was far too dirty a dish to be invited to Mama’s ball.

“How can you predict what the lunatic will do?” Ned sounded both angry and frustrated.

“I can’t. And while I think it’s highly unlikely Ellie’s in danger, I have taken the precaution of having one of my boys shadow her whenever she goes out.”

Ned frowned. “What do you mean, one of your boys?”

His family knew nothing of his London charities, and he certainly did not want to explain it here in the noisy ballroom. “One of the boys I employ. His name is Robin. I’ll introduce you tomorrow.”

“You should have consulted me first.”

“Why? I knew you were worried—” Damn, Ned had stiffened. He was too sensitive—but then, Jack
had
teased him for years about his propensity to fret. “And you’re right to be concerned. I think Frances is most at risk, so I have a boy following her, but then I decided I might as well enlist another to keep an eye on Ellie. Didn’t you want me to take any steps I could to keep Ellie safe?”

“Yes, of course I want you to do what you can. I’m sorry. I’m just . . .” Ned shook his head and looked at the dancers. “I don’t much care for London. It’s too damn crowded.”

Jack tried not to smile. Ned was too damn anxious to have his wife to himself in a comfortable bed with a securely locked door. There was a reason for honeymoons.

He was surprised at how much he envied his brother.

Ah, but he must remember not all marriages were blissful. Look at Ash’s. If Ash’s marriage had failed when Ash and Jess knew each other so well, how could he hope a union with Frances would have any chance of success?

 

 

“I cannot believe all the lobster patties are gone,” Drew grumbled as he served himself some paper-thin slices of ham. The refreshment room was deserted at the moment.

Venus patted his arm. “You know many of our guests come for the food as much as the dancing.”

“More for the food,” Drew said, adding a couple of rolls to his plate.

“And Cook’s lobster patties are much admired.” She should be starving, but with the big wedding breakfast and all the excitement, her appetite had departed. She took a meat pasty.

Well, and perhaps she’d have one of the ratafia cakes—or two. They were very small.

They took their things over to a table largely hidden by a few exuberant potted plants. The servants knew to set the room up so that such a refuge was available. It was so pleasant to be able to take a few moments of solitude even when one was having a lovely time.

“The ball is a great success, isn’t it?” she asked as Drew held her chair for her.

“Of course. Your parties always are.” He sat across from her and raised his glass of champagne. “To your superlative hostessing—and matchmaking—skills.”

Venus held up her glass in response, but her heart didn’t lift as well. “I don’t feel like much of a matchmaker tonight.”

Drew’s brows shot up. “How can you say that? This should be your night of triumph. Your years of planning and plotting have come to fruition—Ned has married Ellie. One of our sons, at least, is happily wed.”

“Yes, but what about Jack?” Venus looked down at her plate and sighed. None of the food looked appealing.

“What about Jack?”

She picked up the pasty—and then put it back down. “I cannot decide about Miss Hadley.”

Drew was a man. Nothing affected his appetite. He chewed the large bit of ham in his mouth and swallowed before replying. “What do you need to know to decide about Miss Hadley?”

“Whether she’s right for Jack, of course.”

He snorted. “I think Jack will decide that.” And then he put
more
ham in his mouth.

How could the man eat at a time like this? “But she seems so angry and defensive.”

“It sounds as though she’s had an unfortunate upbringing with no parents and a very odd aunt.” He looked at her plate. “Are you going to eat both of those cakes?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Drew didn’t wait for her to change her mind; he snagged one immediately.

“I don’t think she’s the girl I would choose for Jack.”

Drew paused, the cake halfway to his mouth. He put it down and leaned forward to take her hands. “Venus, you are a wonderful matchmaker, but you are not infallible. Remember how we thought Jess was perfect for Ash?”

“Yes.” Her heart felt even heavier. She was ready to give up her other cake as well.

Drew’s face grew more serious, and he squeezed her fingers. “Don’t despair over Ash’s situation. Perhaps he and Jess will reconcile. At least he’s finally gone to see her. But whether they reconcile or not is
their
business. Our job is to keep silent, which I think we’ve largely managed to do.” He shifted in his chair. “Well, at least about Jess herself, if not completely about the need to address the problem. There is the succession to consider.”

Venus nodded. She had tried very hard not to blame Jess or disparage her in any way, but the whole situation made her angry. Why hadn’t Jess made the effort to solve whatever the problem was? She must know men were hopeless when it came to such things. They were wonderful in many ways, but addressing emotional issues was not one of them. They tended to bluster and growl—at least in her experience. She squeezed Drew’s hands. But once a problem was solved, it was as if it had never happened. They didn’t bear grudges.

“But getting back to Jack, you need to trust him to make his own decision in this. We can only be sure he knows he’s under no obligation to marry Miss Hadley—that her reputation will survive without a wedding ring. Then we must leave things up to him.” He released her hands and sat back, taking up his cake again. “You can trust Jack. He has a good head on his shoulders.”

“But what about his curricle-racing and other careless behavior? What about all the rumors of his raking?”

“Unimportant. Stop thinking about the stories you’ve heard and think about the man. You know he had a hand in getting Ellie and Ned together. Jack sees and understands a lot.” Drew grinned. “He’s your son—though I don’t believe he has any aspirations to matchmaking.”

She smiled, suddenly feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Perhaps you’re right.” She picked up her pasty and took a bite. It was delicious.

“Of course I’m right.” Drew eyed her plate again. “So what about that other cake?”

Venus shielded it with her hand. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go get one for yourself, my dear duke. This one is mine.”

Jack was in the library after Mama had banished him from the red drawing room. She’d accused him of glowering at her guests.

“Who wouldn’t glower?” he asked Shakespeare, who was resting in the sun by his feet. “The damn bucks and gossips gathered there are the largest collection of nod-cocks it has ever been my bad luck to encounter.”

Shakespeare cracked open an eye and wagged his tail somewhat halfheartedly in support.

“Did Billy wear you out?” Billy, the boot boy, had taken Shakespeare on a morning romp.

The dog yawned and rolled over, presenting his belly to be scratched. Jack obliged.

It had been a week since the wedding ball, a week of one interminable social event after another. Now Mama and Ellie and Frances were once again “at home” for whatever nincompoops wished to stroll through the front door. Ned and Father had fled to White’s; Jack had been seriously tempted, but he’d decided he’d better stay at Greycliffe House.

“You don’t think Frances will dump her teacup on one of those coxcombs in the drawing room, do you?”

Shakespeare barked twice, but whether he agreed that Frances would restrain herself or wished to encourage her to misbehave, Jack couldn’t tell.

He didn’t think Frances would do something so outrageous, but one never knew with Frances. She’d looked on the verge of explosion on more than one occasion this week. At least Ellie’s presence seemed to have a calming—or perhaps the better word was
restraining
—effect on her.

Someone scratched at the door, and Shakespeare jumped up, suddenly alert.

“Come.”

The butler entered bearing a small package wrapped in paper and twine. “This just came for you, milord.”

“Thank you, Braxton.” Jack took the bundle, keeping it out of Shakespeare’s reach. “Who delivered it?”

Braxton frowned and absentmindedly patted Shakespeare. “A boy, milord. He says his name is Jeb, and that he has a message for you. I left him by the back door.” Braxton sniffed. “He has an unfortunate odor.”

Jack grinned. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to deposit him in the red drawing room, could I?”

Braxton choked back a laugh. “No, milord, you could not.”

“Too bad. Well, show the boy in. I think I can survive the stench, though I’ll keep my handkerchief at the ready, just in case.”

“Very good, milord.” Braxton left to fetch Jeb.

Shakespeare seemed to comprehend that staying in the library was going to be more interesting than following Braxton. He sat and tilted his head, looking up at Jack.

“I’m quite sure it’s nothing to eat, Shakespeare.” Jack turned the package over in his hands. It was about the size of his palm and had some weight to it. Was it from Nan? Jeb was the boy he’d assigned to watch that area of Covent Garden.

He carefully cut the twine with a penknife and pulled back the paper, revealing . . . a gold watch. Why the hell would Jeb bring him a gold watch?

The door swung open and Jeb came in. Braxton was correct; Jeb stunk with that distinctive odor of young boys, some mix of sweat and dirt that was extremely pungent. Shakespeare yipped with delight and trotted over to sniff the interesting scent more thoroughly.

“It’s Shakespeare!” Jeb grinned. “Shake, Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare promptly sat and offered his paw.

“Jeb,” Jack said, once the greetings were completed, “where did you get the package you brought me?”

Jeb’s smile vanished. “It’s from Nan, milord. She told me to tell you the Slasher killed her girl Bessie early this morning.”

“Damn.” How many more girls would die before they caught the bloody devil? “But why a pocket watch?”

“That’s the good news, milord. Nan said Bessie must have fought like one possessed. She screamed so loud Albert heard her inside. Woke him from a sound sleep, she did.”

“Wait—why was she outside at all?” Nan was the most concerned of all the brothel madams. “I thought Nan had told all her girls not to go out after dark.”

“She did, milord, but she said there was never telling Bessie anything. The girl did as she pleased. Albert had locked all the doors after the last customer left—the lower windows, too—and went to bed. But Bessie must have worked a deal with some fellow to get paid directly—more money for her since Nan wouldn’t get her cut. She climbed out an upper window and down a drainpipe.”

“And the man was the Slasher.”

Jeb nodded. “Poor Bessie had her throat cut, but Albert got there quick. Didn’t even stop to put breeches on. He heard someone pounding down the alley, but it was too dark for him to see anything, and he stopped to help Bessie.” Jeb looked down at Shakespeare and patted him. “Wasn’t no helping Bessie, but he did find that watch clutched in her hand. Nan thinks it must be the Slasher’s, so she told me to bring it to you.”

Jack nodded, excitement surging through him. Finally, they had a clue. The answer to the Slasher’s identity might lie on the desk in front of him. “Well done, Jeb.” He tossed the boy a shilling. “Tell Nan you delivered the package, and I’ll let her know if I discover anything.”

“Yes, milord.” Jeb patted Shakespeare one last time on his way out.

Jack snatched the watch up before the door had closed and examined it. One side was smooth, but the other—

“Aha!” There on the front of the watch cover was a monogram, engraved in flowing script. “Initials, Shakespeare! H, E, and B. Now we’ve got the bounder!”

Shakespeare put his paws up on the desk and barked enthusiastically.

“It must be Botsley, but let me check his Christian and middle names.” He grabbed the
Debrett’s
off the bookshelf and brought it back to the desk, flipping to the index and then to the page with Botsley’s pedigree. “Yes, here it is—Hugh Edgar Botsley. I knew it.” He should have hit the bloody blackguard harder last year when he’d pulled Jenny away from him—hard enough to send him straight to hell. If he had, ten lives would have been saved. Why—

A vague memory—well, hardly a memory even—flitted just out of reach. What was Ruland’s surname?

He flipped back to the index to find Ruland’s page . . .

“Bloody hell! I can’t believe it.”

Shakespeare whined and covered his head with his paws. Jack would have laughed if he hadn’t been so frustrated. Ruland’s name was Henry Edward Benton. What were the odds that both his suspects would have the same initials?

“Maybe there’s something else here, Shakespeare.” The gods couldn’t be so cruel as to give him such a clue and no way to use it.

He popped the cover open to reveal the watch’s face. Nothing fell out—no little note or identifying memento. He looked on the inside of the cover. There
was
something engraved there, but he was not going to get his hopes up again. He took the watch over to the window to examine the engraving in the sunlight.

The inscription was in Latin, but easy to translate. “‘Death to all enemies.’” Jack looked down at Shakespeare. “Rather violent, but appropriate in this case. Do you suppose it’s the family motto? No, that would be too easy.”

And indeed, it was too easy. He checked both Ruland’s and Botsley’s pages in
Debrett’s
. Ruland’s family motto was rather arrogant: Always right; and Botsley’s, sanctimonious: Virtue before all; but neither was the least bit bloodthirsty.

“Damn it, Shakespeare, the answer
must
be here. If only—”

Someone scratched at the door again.

“Yes? What is it?”

Braxton looked in. “Mr. Frederick Hadley has called, milord, asking for you.” He sniffed; the butler clearly did not approve of Frances’s brother. “I put him in the yellow parlor.”

“Thank you, Braxton.” Braxton most definitely did not care for Hadley; the yellow parlor had the most uncomfortable furniture in the house and likely in all of London. “I’ll be there directly.”

Jack closed the watch as Braxton left, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he glanced at Shakespeare. “Care to meet Miss Hadley’s brother? I warn you, Braxton disapproves of him, and I confess I’m not anticipating I’ll like him much, either.” The man had treated his sister shamefully. Not telling Frances he was marrying was bad enough, but keeping from her the information that their father had been in England numerous times was unconscionable.

Hadley was pacing the parlor when they arrived. Not surprising—Jack wouldn’t sit on any of this furniture either. He’d long thought it more appropriate for a torture chamber.

“Mr. Hadley,” Jack said, allowing Shakespeare to precede him before closing the door.

Shakespeare trotted over to sniff Hadley’s breeches.

Hadley frowned as he patted the dog. “What is Shakespeare doing here?”

“Ah, so you know each other.” Frances’s brother had the same red hair as his sister and looked just as mulish. He also looked as if he found his surroundings extremely distasteful—and not just because of the uninviting furnishings. The man’s lip curled into a sneer as he surveyed Jack.

Jack’s fingers curled into fists, but he forced them to straighten out. He would be wise to take the advice he’d given Frances when that drunkard had stepped in front of the curricle on the way back from Bromley—don’t take umbrage at every little slight. Save your anger for important things.

It remained to be seen whether Hadley’s presence would be important enough to merit a thrashing.

“I take it you met Shakespeare when you both lived on Hart Street?”

“Yes. He’s Dick Dutton’s dog. Where’s Dutton?” Hadley’s tone suggested Jack had murdered the man to steal his dog.

Shakespeare objected to Hadley’s manner. He growled, hackles rising.

“Yes, the man is rude, Shakespeare,” Jack said, “but he is our guest at the moment. We must be at least moderately polite.”

Shakespeare looked at him as if to ask for an exception to the rules of courtesy. When none came, he obligingly stopped making threatening noises and came back to sit by Jack’s feet.

Hadley had the grace to blush faintly. “Pardon me. I just . . .” He shrugged. “Yes, I met the dog when my wife worked at the theater.” He shot Jack a dark look. “So where is Dutton?”

“I don’t know. The man apparently loped off and left Shakespeare behind.”

“That’s odd. Maria, my wife”—again the dark look that dared Jack to criticize—“never said anything about Dutton planning to leave.”

“So he was still at the theater when you married?”

“Yes. He was one of our witnesses.” Hadley rocked on his feet, clearly impatient to depart. “Look, I’m only here because my wife insisted. Can’t make enemies of a duke’s son, she said, even if he is a rake and procurer. But I don’t care if you’re Prinny himself. I don’t have time to waste, so why not get to the point. Why do you want to see me?”

“I don’t particularly, but I thought you’d want to see your sister.” Jack smiled unpleasantly. “Especially as I am a rake and procurer. You might wish to ascertain her safety.”

An odd look, a mix of anger and pain, flitted over Hadley’s features before they settled into a scowl.

“Well, I don’t. I don’t expect you’ll do anything dastardly under your father’s roof and your mother’s nose, and if you have seduced Frances, well, that’s her problem. I’m sure she’s more than capable of handling the situation. In truth, if the rumors are correct and she’s been attending all these society events, decked out in new finery, she’s quite fallen on her feet, hasn’t she?” He picked his hat off the table. “So if you’ll excuse me—”

The door opened behind Jack. Probably a good thing—a moment later and he would have been a terrible host and knocked Hadley to the floor. He turned to see who had so boldly interrupted them.

It was Frances, of course.

“Frederick!” Her jaw dropped. Shakespeare trotted over to greet her, and she patted him absently.

“Hallo, Frances.” The scowl deepened, turning slightly sulky. Hadley did not put his hat down.

“Did Braxton fetch you from the drawing room?” Jack asked.

Frances was still staring at her brother. “No. I got bored—I mean, tired—and left your mother and Ellie with the idiots—er, visitors. I asked Braxton where you were, and he said you were here with my brother.” Her brows snapped down into her own scowl; the resemblance between the siblings was quite striking. “Why didn’t you come get me when Frederick arrived?”

That was a good question. Had he wished to see what sort of danger her brother posed—danger to her peace of mind—so that he could protect her somehow?

He couldn’t protect her from this. He could just be here to pick up the pieces. “I was going to after I’d made Mr. Hadley’s acquaintance, but since you’re here now, I will leave you two alone.”

“No need for that,” Hadley said, starting toward the door. “I was just going.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” Frances moved to block his path. “You’re not going anywhere until you agree to get Mr. Puddington to give me my dowry and”—she took a deep breath—“you tell me what’s going on with our f-father.”

Hadley’s jaw flexed, his expression stony. For a moment, Jack wasn’t certain whether the fellow would go or stay—and which would be the better outcome. But finally he put his hat back on the table.

“Very well, we’ll talk. I suppose it’s time.”

This did not sound good. “Shall I stay, Miss Hadley?”

Frances kept her eyes on her brother. “No, of course not.”

“Very well. I shall be nearby if you need me.” Jack was relatively certain Hadley wouldn’t hurt Frances physically. Emotionally—well, that was another story. “If you’ll excuse me then?”

Neither of them looked at him as he and Shakespeare left the room.

 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were marrying?” Frances stayed where she was, a good ten feet from her brother. She recognized him, of course, but at the same time he looked like a stranger. She hadn’t seen him for, what? Six years? He was no longer a boy, all arms and legs and sharp angles. She wished—