The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(21)
“That ferret may be clever, but it ain’t no guard.” Brow pleating, Francie said, “Belinda ’as a point, luvie. Maybe you shouldn’t be comin’ ’ere alone.”
Frost spread over Tessa’s insides. Her grandfather had tried to curtail her visits, and her father went along (not because he cared, but because he wanted to curry his father-in-law’s favor). She ignored their orders, continuing to come in secret: no one was taking away her friends, her home.
“The lunatic who shot at my grandfather is dead,” she said firmly. “There’s no threat.”
“Are you certain o’ that?”
At the seriousness in the other’s gaze, Tessa sat up straighter. “What have you heard, Francie?”
Francie hesitated, confirming Tessa’s suspicion that her friend did know something. Too often, people underestimated prostitutes, believing that because they made their livings on their backs, they didn’t have anything between their ears. Tessa, however, knew the truth.
Her friends had minds as keen as her daggers. Not only were the women observant and shrewd, they were also privy to all manner of secrets. Men in their cups, and in the throes, were less likely to be discreet. Most of them didn’t think they had to be with an “empty-headed” wench.
Which meant Francie and the others had access to prime information. Others might believe that money was the currency of the stews; Tessa knew better.
Nothing, but nothing, made a man (or woman) more powerful than information.
“It might be nuffin’,” Francie said.
“Tell me,” Tessa insisted. “You know I’d never tell anyone where I heard it.”
Francie licked her lips. “There’s been talk. Rumors that your grandfather…” Her voice lowered. “That ’e ain’t as powerful as ’e once was. Some are takin’ The Gilded Pearl as proof o’ that.”
The Gilded Pearl had been a bawdy house in Covent Garden. A fortnight ago, an explosive fire had killed all those trapped inside. Tessa had witnessed her grandfather’s fury over the disaster for, like any good king, he held himself responsible for those under his protection.
Her blood chilling, she said, “That was an accident. Grandpapa said so.”
“What with John Randolph’s death, there’s been a few too many accidents in Covent Garden,” Francie said darkly. “Rumors are flyin’ that Black’s rule is nearing an end.”
Codger’s old now, weak. Barton’s last words echoed in Tessa’s head. Mark my words, a new King is coming…
She balled her hands in her lap. “Who said that?”
“Ain’t loose lips you need to worry about.” Francie slid a look at Belinda. “To make matters worse, after what Dewey O’Toole did ’ere, in your father’s establishment, and your father not retaliating… It makes your entire family look weak. And bastards like O’Toole more powerful.”
Frustration bound Tessa like a tight-laced corset. Although she didn’t agree with her father’s stance, loyalty made her stand up for him. “My father is not afraid of a blackguard like O’Toole. I’m sure if I were to ask him why he didn’t—”
“No!” This came from Belinda, her bruises pronounced against her paling face. “You promised you wouldn’t say anything to Mr. Todd. I can’t lose this job. I got nowhere to go!”
Seeing the fear in her friend’s eyes, Tessa bottled her frustration. No matter how much she wanted to confront her father, she would never betray her promise to her friend.
She crossed over to the other, put a hand on the blonde’s trembling shoulder. “I’m a woman of my word, Belinda. I said I wouldn’t tell, and I won’t.”
“Thank you,” Belinda said tremulously.
Tessa had planned to return Belinda’s money in private, but she realized she couldn’t wait. It was imperative to demonstrate, even to friends, that her family was a force to be reckoned with. That Blacks and Todds had the power to uphold the stew’s most sanctified tenet of reciprocity.
She whistled at Swift Nick, nodding at her jacket which she’d earlier slung onto a chair. The ferret hopped over to the garment, disappearing into the folds. He emerged with the coin bag between his teeth.
“Give it to Belinda,” Tessa said.
The ferret dragged the heavy bag over, depositing it at Belinda’s feet.
“Wot’s this, then?” Belinda picked up the bag, untied it, and let out a squeak. “Gor, there’s a bleedin’ fortune in ’ere!”
“It’s what O’Toole owes you,” Tessa said.
“But this is more than a ’undred quid—”
“He owes you every cent and more,” she stated. “Consider it payment with interest.”
Belinda clutched the purse. “’Ow—’ow did you get the blunt from O’Toole?”
“Never mind that. Just know that a Black will always see justice done.”
“We’ll go see a goldsmith straightaway,” Francie put in. “’E’ll turn that blunt into silver and keep it safe for you, too.”
Belinda’s throat worked. “Oh, Tessa, I don’t know how I’ll repay—”
“Your friendship is payment enough.” She went over, squeezed the other’s shoulder. “You’ve seen me through thick and thin, and I’m merely returning the favor.”