Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (4 page)

“Y-yes.” Frances ducked her head and reached for her brother’s cast-off boots. She felt a little chilled now that Lord Jack wasn’t standing so close. The sooner she got away from the man, the better.

She slipped the boots on and grimaced.

“What is it?”

Damn, he had sharp eyes. Thank heavens she’d be parting company with him in a few hours, sooner if Daisy was healthy. “I seem to have a blister from yesterday. I had to walk my horse for a mile or more.” She stood up and winced again.

“Do you want me to look at it?”

“No!” The thought of Lord Jack touching her feet was horrifying; at least she thought it was horror that crawled up her spine. “I’ll be fine.”

He frowned at her. “Blisters are nothing to ignore. At least you’ll be off your feet most of today, but promise me you’ll have your brother have a look when you get to London, if you aren’t better.”

“All right.” She had no intention of showing Frederick her feet. There was no point. Even if they were bloody stumps, her brother would expect her to go fetch the surgeon herself. “Did you say something about breakfast?”

 

 

Jack studied the tall, thin figure as he followed him down the stairs. His clothes were of good quality but old, and his boots obviously didn’t fit properly. Either his feet had grown and no one had thought to take him to have new boots made, or the boots belonged to someone else. And, frankly, it looked as if the lad had cut his hair himself and in a hurry. It was a good thing it was so curly.

What was the boy’s secret? At first he’d been sure the lad had been sodomized—that happened far too often when boys, especially boys that looked like Francis, went away to school. But when he’d hinted at it, as he’d done many times with the boys he’d dealt with in London, Francis had clearly had no notion what he meant.

Perhaps it was just that Francis was afraid of him, which wasn’t at all surprising. After all, he’d woken from a deep sleep to find a stranger, a man much larger and stronger than he, in his bed.

Yet that didn’t quite ring true, either. Oh yes, Francis was afraid, but he’d wager the boy was less afraid of him than of what he might discover. Which brought him back to the original question: What was the boy hiding?

Well, he’d learn the secret eventually. He’d spent years perfecting his ability to extract the truth from reluctant youngsters; poor Francis was no match for him. And then he’d see him handed over to his brother or he’d return him to his family.

Francis waited for him at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m not hungry, sir. I believe I’ll go see how my horse is.”

“Nonsense, young boys are always hungry.” What was amiss now? Francis looked even paler than he had upstairs.

“Well, I’m not.” The boy darted another look into the common room.

It was very, very crowded and very, very noisy. Jack scanned the room, hoping to find a quiet—

“Jack !” Damn, that was Pettigrew, waving from the table he’d been sitting at last night. Conversation paused while everyone turned to observe Jack and Francis. Why the hell did Pettigrew have to be so infernally loud? “We’ve got two free chairs.”

The only two free, it would appear. Jack repressed a sigh. “Come along, Master Haddon.”

“No, really, sir. I—”

He grasped the boy’s arm. “It’s still over an hour’s ride to London, and hungry boys, in my experience, are the very devil to travel with. They whine and complain until you want to stuff their cravat down their throat.”

Normally Jack wouldn’t force the boy, but he knew Francis hadn’t eaten since last night, and he was hungry himself. He wanted his breakfast, and he didn’t trust the lad not to sneak off while he was having it.

Fortuitously, Mrs. Findley came out of the kitchen just then. “Good morning, milord. I hope you slept well.”

“I did indeed, and as you can see, young Master Haddon did not murder me in my bed nor steal my purse.”

Young Master Haddon glared at him.

A slight frown appeared between Mrs. Findley’s brows. “I hope he didn’t disturb your sleep?”

“Oh no. He only snores a little.”

Francis tried to jerk his arm free. “I don’t snore.”

“How would you know? It’s
my
ears that were being assaulted.”

He could see the boy wanted to argue, but he kept his tongue between his teeth—though only just.

“Now you behave for Lord Jack, Master Haddon,” Mrs. Findley said. “He’s very kind to take you with him to London.”

The boy’s jaw hardened even more, but he managed a polite, if stiff, “Yes, madam.”

Mrs. Findley nodded and looked back at Jack. “But why are you standing here, milord? Can’t you find a seat?” She looked into the common room. “Oh dear. It
is
a bit full, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “Pettigrew has two seats at his table; I’m just having a bit of a time persuading Master Haddon to take one of them.”

“I’m not hungry,” Francis said, “and I need to check on my horse.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Findley said in a stern voice she’d obviously perfected over the years of raising her sons. “If you aren’t hungry now, you will be soon, young man. Go in and sit down. Your horse isn’t going anywhere without you.”

“But—”

“Go on.” Mrs. Findley looked as if she might grab the boy by his ear. “I’ll bring you a nice bowl of porridge and some ham and eggs and toast.”

The lad clearly wanted to argue further, but realized the effort would be futile. Mrs. Findley was not going to let him leave without his breakfast.

“All right,” he said, sounding more than a little surly, “but I’m not hungry.”

“However, I am,” Jack said. He smiled at Mrs. Findley. “Thank you for saving me from starvation, madam. Come along, Francis.”

Francis grudgingly came along.

“We wondered what the hell had happened to you,” Pettigrew said when Jack finally reached the table. “Guess being a duke’s son paid off again.” He looked at the boy and frowned. “Who’s the whelp?”

“May I introduce Master Francis Haddon? Master Haddon, this is Mr. Oliver Pettigrew and Mr. Ralph Dantley.”

Odd. Pettigrew’s eyes widened slightly and then narrowed.

“Pleased to meet you,” Francis mumbled and executed a jerky half bow before dropping rather gracelessly into his seat.

Pettigrew was definitely staring at Francis—and Francis was staring down at the table. “Do you two know each other?”

Francis and Pettigrew spoke at the same time.

“No.”

“Never met the . . . lad.”

Now why the hell had Pettigrew paused that way? It was almost imperceptible, but from the worried look Francis shot Pettigrew, the boy had noticed, too.

“Where’d you find him?” Dantley asked.

“He was already in the room Mrs. Findley gave me last night.”

“Ah, so you two shared a bed.” Now Pettigrew’s smile was almost a leer.

Bloody hell. Surely Pettigrew didn’t think he’d taken any liberties with the boy? Well, he’d plenty of practice dealing with men who were far more offensive than Ollie Pettigrew. He let a threatening note creep into his voice. “Yes. Do you have some objection to that?”

The man paled slightly, and his eyes slid away to study his hands. “No, of course not.”

“How did you rate a soft feather mattress while Pettigrew and I had to suffer the bloody night in these damned hard chairs, bantling?” Dantley asked. “Are you a duke’s son, too?”

“No.” The boy flushed. “I think Mrs. Findley felt sorry for me.”

“Well, I bloody well wish she’d felt sorry for me.” Dantley shifted in his seat. “I swear I’ll never get feeling back in my arse.”

Pettigrew snickered, regaining his swagger. “That’s because you’re such a damned spindle shanks.”

“Well, your arse is bigger than most beds, Ollie.”

“You mind your manners, Ralph Dantley,” Mrs. Findley said, coming up with food and coffee for Francis and Jack. “Don’t be giving Master Haddon a bad example. If you’ll remember, I know your mother.”

Dantley flushed. “Yes, Mrs. Findley.”

He turned to Francis once Mrs. Findley left. “I swear you look familiar, Master . . . Haddon did you say your name was?”

Francis blanched and nodded. What the hell was the matter now?

“Don’t you think he looks familiar, Ollie? I’d swear we’d met him someplace.”

“Where would we have met him, Ralph?” Pettigrew asked, though the oddly cunning expression was back in his eyes. The man was definitely hiding something. “Never say you’ve taken to spending time with”—he paused significantly—“schoolboys. How old are you, whelp?”

Francis stared at his plate. “N-not quite sixteen.”

Pettigrew sneered. “Now there’s a whisker if ever I heard one.”

Dantley held up his quizzing glass to examine Francis’s cheeks. “No, no whiskers, Ollie.”

The boy’s ears grew red; he looked an uncomfortable mixture of angry, embarrassed, and nervous. And he’d hardly touched his food.

“Finish your breakfast, Francis,” Jack said quietly, “and then we’ll be on our way.”

Francis picked up a slice of toast and nibbled on it.

“So you’re taking him with you?”

Damn it, Pettigrew was still hinting at something. Jack would like to call the fat toad on it, but Francis was almost vibrating with tension. “Yes. Mrs. Findley asked me to see that he reaches his brother safely in London.”

Dantley snapped his fingers. “That’s it! I must know the brother. What’s his name?”

A bit of toast must have gone down the wrong way—Francis started coughing rather violently. Jack slapped him on the back and earned a glare for his efforts.

The lad took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “F-Frederick.”

“Frederick,” Dantley said. “Frederick Haddon . . .” He shook his head. “No, I don’t know any Frederick Haddons, but I do know a Frederick Had
ley
.”

Francis grew even whiter. Jack put a steadying hand on his elbow; it was a measure of how upset the boy was that he didn’t try to shake him off.

“Right,” Pettigrew said, grinning slyly. “I know the fellow, too. Now that you mention it, there
is
a resemblance. The boy’s got the same ginger hair.”

“Lots of men have red hair,” Jack said. Damn, Francis was almost green now. Was he going to lose what little breakfast he’d ingested?

“Yes, you’re right. It must just be a coincidence.” Pettigrew smiled as he looked at Francis. “I’m sure Frederick Had
ley
had only a sister—a twin, if I recall correctly.”

Frances sat in Lord Jack’s curricle as it bowled along the road to London. The sun was out, the ice had melted, and she was warm under a heavy carriage fur.

Except for the chill gripping her heart.

She fisted her hands. So Pettigrew knew—or rather, he suspected. He could not be certain. Who would think Miss Frances Hadley of Landsford would dress as a man?

Everyone.

Blast it, she’d heard the damn whispers. She wasn’t deaf, though many people seemed to think she was. People had said for years she was mannish, that breeches would fit her better than skirts. But it was all jealousy. She was just smarter and more capable than the local men, and the fact that she didn’t bother to hide it put their noses out of joint.

And of course Aunt Viola had seen her set off in Frederick’s castoffs. Not that Viola would ever gossip with the villagers, but she’d been screaming so loudly, she’d caused Jeremy, their manservant, and Anna, their maid of all work, to come running, so they’d witnessed her departure as well.

Those two were very fond of gossip.

“Are you certain you’ve never met Mr. Pettigrew before, Francis?”

She jumped.

Zeus, had Lord Jack noticed? He had bloody sharp eyes.

She looked over at him. Of course he’d noticed. He was studying her as if she was a puzzle he was determined to solve. “You should keep your attention on the road, my lord.”

His eyes narrowed, and then he grinned. “Thank you for the driving advice, Master Haddon.”

Damn it, her stomach did an odd little flip. He had a dimple, for God’s sake.

“I just don’t want to end up in a ditch.” Not that there looked to be any great danger of that at the moment, but she’d heard Lord Jack had crashed his curricle while racing on ice just a month or two ago. The last thing she needed was to be in an accident. A doctor would immediately discover her bound breasts.

“I shall do my best to keep us on the road.”

“Thank you.” She returned her attention to the passing scenery.

All right, her eyes, not her attention. Her attention was still focused on the man beside her.

He wasn’t dressed as a rake. Not that she knew how a rake dressed, but his plain, serviceable greatcoat, well-worn driving gloves, warm muffler, and beaver hat didn’t seem terribly rakish. Of course he was so shockingly handsome, he could be dressed in rags or nothing at all and still be sinfully attractive.

Especially
dressed in nothing at all—or virtually nothing—as she’d learned in the Findleys’ best bedchamber.

She shifted on the curricle seat. What the hell was the matter with her? She’d never paid so much attention to a man’s looks before. Of
course
Lord Jack was attractive. He was a rake. He wouldn’t be very successful at seduction if he looked like a toad.

She was not going to fall under his spell like every other silly woman.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“W-what question?” Damn. She must keep her wits about her. One false step and the man would pounce on her.

And she should
not
feel a shiver of excitement at that thought.

She was losing her mind. The sooner she was free of the rake’s presence, the better.

“You are very cheeky, lad.” There was a bit more steel in Lord Jack’s voice. “Now out with it. Where did you meet Pettigrew?”

He wasn’t going to intimidate her. He was probably used to using his rakish personality or his father’s rank to cow people, but she was made of sterner stuff. “You heard Mr. Pettigrew. He said he’s never met me. And I’ve never met him.”

Which was perfectly true. She’d been completely concealed by the case of candles in Mr. Turner’s shop when Mr. Pettigrew had been present.

“Francis, you’ll find I don’t tolerate lying.” Jack’s voice was now sharp as a blade.

“I’m n-not lying!” Blast it, her voice wavered. But she
wasn’t
lying, at least not strictly speaking.

She clenched her hands and took a deep breath. She was letting him frighten her. Stupid! She wasn’t some timid, dependent, weak female. She’d run Landsford for the last ten years. She could stand up to one rakish lord.

“Perhaps. But you’re not telling the truth either. Come now, empty the bag. I want to know exactly what your connection is to Pettigrew.”

The gall of the man. He had no authority over her. “I have no connection. As I said, I’ve never met him. I wish you would—” She bit her tongue. She may have run Landsford, but she was pretending to be a young boy now. She should not sound so defiant.

There was a very uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the horses’ hooves moving steadily over the ground.

“I
will
find out, Francis,” Lord Jack said at last. “Don’t think I won’t. And when I do, it will not go well for you.”

He was one to talk about lying. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I didn’t say I’d let you ride roughshod over me. I suspect your aunt has spoiled you dreadfully.”

“She has not!” Aunt Viola spoil her? If he only knew. Viola had always been a hard taskmaster. She’d insisted Frances do everything perfectly. Frances had had to read and cipher as well as Frederick—better than Frederick, though that hadn’t been so difficult. Frederick had never applied himself to his studies. But even when the tutor had praised her, Aunt Viola had always found something she could improve.

Which had been a good thing. And at least Viola hadn’t forced her to waste time on useless feminine skills like sewing and dancing.

Lord Jack had apparently decided to leave the question of her connection to Pettigrew for the time being. “Will your brother send someone to fetch your horse?”

“Yes.” Now she
was
lying. Frederick wasn’t likely to bother himself about something he’d see as her problem. She’d get Daisy on her way back to Landsford.

Poor Daisy had indeed been lame; she’d had to leave her at the Crowing Cock. Not that Daisy had minded. She’d appeared quite content to stay snug in a warm stall rather than go haring over the rough roads again. And Mr. Watkins, the ostler, had seemed very competent. He said he’d have Daisy back in fine fettle in no time.

“How long are you staying in London?”

“Not long.” Only a day or two. Once she had it out with Puddington and got her money, she’d be on her way, but she wasn’t about to tell Lord Jack that. The less he knew about her and her plans, the better.

He finally returned his full attention to his cattle, thank God. With luck he’d be content to pass the rest of the journey in silence. Why would he want to talk to her anyway? He thought her a young boy, a lad he’d taken up as a favor to Mrs. Findley. She was no more than a package he was delivering.

She watched the snow-covered fields slip by. The creak of the carriage, the jingle of the harness, the steady beat of the horses’ hooves were soothing. They were getting closer and closer to Town.

“Does your brother know you’re coming?”

“Uh . . .” Her mind went blank. Damn it, he’d waited to strike until she’d been lulled into letting down her guard. “Not exactly.”

“Not at all.” He snorted. “You have no idea if your brother is at home, do you?”

Of course Frederick was home. Where else would he be?

Unease gnawed at her gut. Given her horrendous luck recently, he’d probably gone off to the South Seas like their father.

The curricle had slowed. Houses began to crowd the sides of the road; the snow piled here and there was black with soot. Even the air seemed thicker, or maybe it was guilt that was making it hard for her to draw a deep breath.

Lord Jack avoided a slow-moving vegetable cart with a deft pull on the reins. “Where does he live?”

If she told him, he’d probably insist on meeting Frederick, and then he’d learn her gender. But what was her alternative? Frederick’s was the only address she had besides that of Puddington’s office.

She would just have to be quick-witted, and perhaps fleet-footed, and get to Frederick before Lord Jack did. “He lives in a boardinghouse on Hart Street.”

He stared at her. “Hart Street? In Covent Garden?”

“Yes. Watch out for that dog!”

He cursed and pulled back on the reins, narrowly missing the mongrel.

“I don’t know how you got such a reputation as a noted whip,” she said as she watched the animal run off. Now she understood how Lord Jack had crashed his curricle; hopefully he wouldn’t do the same with her as a passenger.

He threw her a glare, but didn’t argue. Of course not. She was correct. But she would give him credit for not contesting the obvious. Most men would insist the sky was green if a woman said it was blue.

Though she shouldn’t give him too much credit. He didn’t know she was a female.

“I take it you’ve never visited your brother?” he said once he’d got his horses settled down. He sounded as if he was holding on to his temper as tightly as he’d gripped the reins a moment ago.

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

He shot her a pointed look. “Because Hart Street is narrow and dirty and full of taverns and brothels and all sorts of riffraff. If you’d come by yourself, you wouldn’t have lasted five minutes there.”

That didn’t sound at all like the sort of place her boring, staid brother would live. “You must be mistaken.”

“And you must be daft.” His jaw hardened. “You’ve never been to Town, and yet you think you know everything about the place.”

“I know my brother.”

“Not very well.”

She couldn’t really dispute that.

“London is nothing like the country, Master Haddon. There are men—and women—who live to prey on young bumpkins like you. They have absolutely no conscience. They’ll take your money or your life—or both—without a second thought.” He scowled at her. “You will stay close to my side as though you were glued there until I hand you off to your relative.”

Typical male, creating bugbears to try to frighten her into doing what he wanted. “I will not.”

“Then I will not take you to your brother’s rooms. I’ll bring you to Greycliffe House, and he can come fetch you there.”

“No!” That would be disastrous. At least if Lord Jack took her to Frederick’s, she had some hope of maintaining her masquerade. “I, er, ah . . . you’re right.” Flattery usually worked. Men liked to think they were superior. “Frederick will probably be annoyed at me for showing up unannounced, but he’ll be furious if he has to rearrange his schedule to come retrieve me.” She tried for a slight tremor of fear. “I hate it when he’s angry.”

Perhaps she had some nascent dramatic skills, because Lord Jack’s brows snapped down into a deep scowl.

“Does he beat you?” His words cut like steel.

“Oh no.” She didn’t want him greeting Frederick with his fists. “But he’ll give me a thundering scold.”

His scowl relaxed a bit. “And you’ll deserve every single word of it.”

He turned onto a narrow street which shortly opened into a large square. “Covent Garden,” he said as his horses picked their way past piles of snow, abandoned potatoes, and scattered cabbage leaves. “We’re here at just the right time. In the morning it’s a mass of people buying and selling fruits and vegetables and other wares; at night . . .” He looked at her. “You do not want to know what’s sold here at night.”

She looked at the fine portico around the edges of the square and the jumble of stalls in the middle. The place had the feel of an elegant lady who’d let the ravages of time and the insults of daily life wear her down.

She knew exactly what brought merchants coins at night: idiot men, like her rakish father and Lord Jack, looking for whores.

“I’ll leave the curricle at the Nag’s Head,” Jack said as they left the square. “Hart Street is far too narrow to turn the horses. What number is your brother’s boardinghouse?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Let’s hope that’s not a long walk.”

Jack pulled up in front of the public house and called to a boy standing outside. “Here, Henry. Watch my horses, will you?”

The boy grinned and hurried over. “Aye, milord.”

Jack swung down from the curricle in one fluid motion; Frances clambered down much less gracefully.

She looked around. Could she make a dash for Frederick’s place now? No. Hart Street went both left and right. She had no idea in which direction to run, and, after a moment of surprise, Lord Jack was certain to give chase and catch her, dragging her back by her ear. She flushed. That would be beyond embarrassing.

“Take good care of them,” Jack was telling Henry when Frances joined him, “and there’s a shilling in it for you.”

The boy’s grin widened. “Aye, milord. I’ll watch these beauties well, don’t ye worry.”

“Splendid. Come along, Francis.”

Jack grasped her arm firmly as they started down Hart Street. “Stay close. As I said, this isn’t the country.”

It certainly wasn’t. She would have fished her handkerchief out of her pocket and held it to her nose if it wouldn’t have looked too effeminate. Instead she took shallow breaths through her mouth. Thank God it was cold. She’d never have borne the stench in the heat of the summer. She picked her way around the rotting vegetables and horse droppings and a greenish-brown, gelatinous mound she didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Hooo, gents. Want some fun?” an old woman called from a doorway. The woman’s face was painted and her bodice was pulled so low everyone could see her drooping—

Good God, had she rouged her nipples? They were shriveled up into hard points. She must be freezing. Why wasn’t she wearing a coat?

Well, yes, it was obvious why she wasn’t wearing a coat, but she was very much fooling herself if she thought displaying her ancient charms would entice a man—