The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(2)
He got on with his fellow workers well enough. At first, some had been suspicious of his “gentlemanly ways,” but since he did the job that made theirs easier, one that no one else was keen to take on, they’d come around. The vein of his discontent ran deeper, his awareness of it triggered by the scene with Roxanne.
The last navvy emerged from the tunnel, calling, “She’s all yours, Bennett.”
Hefting the sack of blasting devices he’d made, Harry took a lamp and entered the dark mouth of the tunnel. The dank air was suffocating. As the path split, he took the smaller tunnel he and the others had cut away, broodingly aware of the cause of his restlessness.
He was bored. With the mindless grind of his days, the casual depravity of his nights. He wasn’t steering his life in the proper direction—in any direction. He’d once had a vision of happiness that included being a scientist, a respected member of the Royal Society…and a husband and father.
At two-and-thirty, however, he was none of those things.
He was…adrift.
He arrived at the section of rock he was to clear away. Relieved to have a distraction from his rumination, he embedded the shells of gunpowder into the craggy wall and attached the fuse.
Lighting it, he sprinted out. Sunlight struck him at the same time a panicked voice did.
“Larkin ne’er came out. ’E’s still in the tunnel!”
Devil take it. Heart hammering, Harry turned around, running back into the darkness. Not enough time to get back to the fuse, to disable it. He had to find the missing navvy.
“Larkin,” he shouted as he charged deeper into the main section of the tunnel. “Get out!”
Larkin staggered into sight, obviously drunk.
Harry grabbed the man’s arm. “Run, goddamn you—the rock is going to blow!”
He shoved Larkin toward the exit, and the other finally stumbled into motion, Harry right behind him. As the light neared, Harry heard the terrifying whoosh of air being consumed, felt the ground rumbling beneath his feet, rocks pelting from all directions.
An instant later, the earth roared, and darkness buried him.
1
Three months later, St. Giles, London
* * *
Despite the smoky dimness of the Hare and Hounds, Miss Tessa Black-Todd spotted Dewey O’Toole straightaway. The ginger-haired bastard occupied the best table at the center of the rowdy public house. He was swilling ale with two comrades, a tankard in one hand, a joint of mutton in the other. As Tessa watched, he dropped the meat to grab at a passing barmaid, marking her skirts with his greasy paw-print.
Tessa curled her hands at her sides, fighting the impulse to go over.
Better to let the blighter come to me.
And O’Toole would come to her, she knew, because she’d transformed herself into irresistible bait. At present, her long, dark tresses were tucked beneath a short brown wig and cap. A moustache and side whiskers further obscured her feminine features. She’d bound her chest—for once, she was grateful that there wasn’t much to hide there—and donned the bulky garb of a country lad. A roughly knotted neckerchief completed her outfit.
She hadn’t much time to snag her prey; the latest bodyguard her grandfather had hired to watch over her was bound to discover her missing sooner or later. She headed over to the bar that lined one side of the room, hoisting herself onto a stool.
“O’er ’ere, my good barkeep!” she said in the deepest tones she could muster. “Name’s Tom Brown, and I’m new to Town.”
The pub’s proprietor was a heavyset man known throughout St. Giles as Stunning Joe Banks on account of his flamboyant cravats. The puce and magenta checkered cloth surrounding his thick neck did indeed assault the eyeballs. He didn’t spare her a look.
She tried again. “I ’ave a mighty thirst. What do you recommend, my good sir?”
Stunning Joe continued filling tankards from a cask. “Ale.”
“What kind o’ ale?”
“The kind I put in front o’ ye.”
“Some o’ your finest ale, then—”
A tankard was slammed in front of her, foam splattering onto the bar’s scarred surface.
She picked up the sticky vessel and sipped, her nose wrinkling at the watered-down libation. Surreptitiously, she surveyed the clientele using the cracked looking glass behind the bar. At the center of the room, Dewey O’Toole and his cronies were still drinking, laughing without a care in the world.
Fury smoldered beneath Tessa’s breastbone at she thought of her friend Belinda’s battered face. The tears that had trickled over bruises, mingling with blood as Belinda had wept over her stolen savings.
You’re not getting away with it, O’Toole, Tessa fumed. Not while I’m breathing.
She felt a wriggle of agreement from the inner pocket of her jacket.
“Patience, Swift Nick,” she said under her breath, and the wriggling obediently ceased. “The rotter will pay the piper soon enough.”
Louder, she said, “Barkeep.”
“Wot now?” Stunning Joe grunted.
“Seeing as I’m celebrating, I’d like to buy a round for all the fine patrons ’ere.”
Fine patrons, her arse…or derrière, as her French tutor would say. (Apparently, the lessons at Mrs. Southbridge’s Finishing School For Young Ladies, or The Old Dragon’s Dungeon of Doom, as Tessa dubbed it, had not gone entirely wasted.) The Hare and Hounds catered to cutthroats, thieves, and fences; while Tessa held no prejudice against those occupations, for she knew how her bread was buttered, she did judge a man by his moral character.