The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(17)
The inspector said no more. Harry knew the other was leaving the door open. It was up to him whether or not he would cross the threshold. The decision wasn’t difficult. Here was his chance to do what was right, and, hopefully, in the process, redeem his good name.
“How will I communicate with you, sir?” he said. “When I have news to report?”
Davies’ eyes lit with triumph. “Good man. We’ll use the mudlarks.”
The “mudlarks” were children of the stews who scavenged to survive. They’d earned their moniker because they were oft found along the banks of the Thames, knee-deep in muck, sifting out anything of value. Due to their ubiquitous presence, the mudlarks were uniquely positioned to be messengers. Their speediness and famed discretion were worth their weight in gold.
“Is there anything else, Kent?” Davies asked. “Do you anticipate any problems carrying out the assignment?”
An image flashed of green-grey eyes and riotous sable curls, a mouth shaped like temptation.
He dismissed it and said firmly, “Nothing I cannot handle, sir.”
6
Bloody hell, I can’t take another day of this.
Or, more precisely, I can—but I might end up throttling Tessa Todd.
These were Harry’s first thoughts upon awakening.
It had been a week since he’d started guarding the recalcitrant miss. A week of pure hell. When she’d claimed he would regret taking on the job as her bodyguard, she hadn’t been jesting.
Groaning, he slung an arm over his eyes. He’d experimented with explosive chemicals. Used incendiary devices to blast tunnels through mountains. How could he have guessed that guarding a mere slip of a female would be the most dangerous job he’d ever had?
She’d run him through the bloody gauntlet. It turned out that Miss Todd was not only clever and devious, both of which he’d gleaned from their first meeting, but she also had the sense of humor of an adolescent boy. He had two young nephews who would undoubtedly snicker at her pranks. Being on her List of Retribution, however, was no laughing matter.
It all began on his first day as her guard. He’d refused to allow her to visit some “chum” of hers named Alfred. Not only would it be improper for her to visit the blasted fellow unchaperoned, but this Alfred lived in one of the worst parts of Whitechapel. When Miss Todd insisted that she’d been visiting Alfred on her own for years, Harry had been appalled.
What had her family been thinking to allow her behavior to go unchecked for so long?
He’d put his foot down; she’d gone to sulk in her chamber.
Afterward, whether for her own amusement or to punish him, she’d started practicing violin. He’d heard cats copulating with more grace. Just as he suspected that his ears might be bleeding, one of the maids brought him a tea tray. Grateful for the respite, Harry had added generous spoonfuls from the sugar bowl before taking a gulp. He’d instantly spat the salty liquid out.
Miss Todd’s laughter had echoed from the other room.
The next day, he’d accompanied her to Potter’s, a Covent Garden tea shop that appeared to be the equivalent of Gunter’s for the wealthy denizens of the underworld. In the light-filled dining room, well-dressed patrons ate ices and cakes that arrived on tiered plates. He’d planned to wait outside, but Miss Todd had insisted that he stay. When he’d eyed the tea she’d poured for him, she’d flashed him a challenging grin.
“I solemnly vow that I’ve added nothing to your beverage…this time,” she’d said impishly.
Reluctantly, he’d taken a seat in the chair beside her, and the moment his arse hit the chintz seat cushion, an ignominious sound had trumpeted through the room. His face flamed as he recalled the shocked stares, gasps, and titters of the other patrons. All the while, Miss Todd had tried—unsuccessfully—to stifle her chuckles behind a napkin.
From beneath the cushion, he’d removed a device made from a pig’s bladder. One that made farting noises, for God’s sake. Then came her pièce de resistance.
Harry got up from the cot and lit a lamp, his living quarters flaring into view. He’d been assigned the room in the mews behind the house, and the space was comfortable and utilitarian. He splashed his face at the washstand, his reflection in the looking glass showing his dark mood. After Potter’s, he’d taken the high road and offered her a truce: he would take her on an outing of her choice, as long as it was suitable for a lady.
She’d decided to go shopping.
Arriving at the Pantheon Shopping Bazaar, she’d asked him quite prettily (that in itself ought to have tipped him off) to hold her reticule while she and her maid went inside a shop. After ascertaining that there was no secondary exit to said shop, he’d agreed and had been waiting for her to emerge when two guards suddenly descended upon him, truncheons in hand.
Apparently, a young miss had reported a man of his description stealing her purse. It had taken no little explaining to extricate himself out of that predicament. Passing patrons had looked at him as if he were horse shit clinging to their shoes.
Why are you surprised? His chest burned. Being humiliated by a woman is nothing new.
The memory of his desperate desire to please Celeste De Witt, how stupidly he’d fallen for her ethereal looks and seeming fragility, tore at his gut. For four years, he’d worshipped the ground she’d walked on. As a man uncomfortable with flirtation, he’d nonetheless conjured up awkward compliments and flowery sentiments in order to gratify her. If Celeste had requested that he fetch the moon, he’d have asked if she wanted the stars as well.