The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(44)

Exhaling, Harry had told Davies about his suspicions concerning Sir Aloysius De Witt. That, of course, had necessitated giving an abridged version of his disgrace at Cambridge. He’d waited, uncertain how his superior would react.

“We all make mistakes, Kent. Yours was merely trusting the wrong people.”

Relieved, Harry gave a curt nod.

“The question is, how do we structure our investigation? Our resources are already stretched to the limit.” Davies’ face lined with frustration. “Now we have three additional cutthroats to monitor as well as this bastard De Witt.”

“Let me take on De Witt,” Harry said. “If I find his laboratory, I can identify any substance he may be making and verify that it is, indeed, the hellfire.”

Davies scrutinized him. “You’d be willing to take this on, Kent? Much will rest upon your shoulders. I cannot afford to provide reinforcements, nor would it be wise. Black hates the police, knows we’re watching him. If he suspects any connection between you and the force, you’ll be in grave danger.”

It wasn’t the peril that made Harry hesitate but the thought of Tessa. He hated that he would have to continue lying to her. Yet how else could he prevent the hellfire from threatening her world and his? How else could he stay by her side and protect her?

“I created this hellfire,” he said. “I will extinguish it.”

“You’re a good man, Kent. An honorable one.” Davies shook his hand. “When we win this battle, I’ll see to it that you receive the recognition you deserve.”

Before parting, the police inspector had suggested a way for Harry to get some assistance with the mission. This led Harry to his present destination: a small confectionery between St. Mary le Bow and Old Change. It was half-past eight in the evening, and the curtain was pulled over the shop window, an outline of light shining through. Harry found the door unlocked and entered the small shop, the scents of caramelized sugar, toasted nuts, and fruit surrounding him like a cozy blanket.

Mrs. Parbury, a rosy-cheeked matron, was bustling behind the large wooden counter. She looked up from organizing the jars and pans of boiled sweets, jellied fruits, and other sugary delicacies.

Harry doffed his hat. “Good evening, ma’am.”

“And to ye, sir.” Beneath her cap, her eyes twinkled, and she lowered her voice to a hush, even though no one else was in the room. “Go on back, lad. He’s waiting for ye.”

Harry went on, passing through the door that led to the kitchen. He exchanged greetings with Mr. Parbury, a stout man whose belly was barely contained by his splattered apron.

“Harry Kent, as I live an’ breathe.” The confectioner possessed the same good cheer as his wife, making Harry wonder if the line of work sweetened a person’s disposition.

“It’s been a while, sir,” Harry said. “Good evening.”

“It is at that.” The confectioner stirred a pot. “Now can ye guess what I’m cooking up?”

Harry sniffed the air. “Something with citrus?”

“Lemon drops, sir. A favorite o’ the ladies. I add a splash o’ rosewater to sweeten the breath. ’Tis a good gift for sisters or, better yet,”—the confectioner winked broadly—“for a sweetheart.”

The mention of a sweetheart reignited Harry’s turmoil.

I don’t want him. I want you. Tessa’s bright honesty tautened his insides with desire…and guilt. He was lying to her about who he was. He’d infiltrated her family on a pretense and was spying on them for the police, an institution that all Blacks clearly despised.

Even without those looming problems, he wasn’t sure that he was capable of giving her what she wanted. What most women, in his experience, wanted. He had no skill for sentiment or flattery; after the pain of Celeste, he’d vowed not to expose his heart again.

And, to be honest, he didn’t know if he and Tessa were suited. She was...unusual. Did he really want a future that included ferrets and cutthroats and untold mayhem?

Ambivalence gripped him. Because the folly of it was he did want her.

God, he did.

“I’ll take a tin,” he heard himself say.

“I’ll ’ave the missus wrap it up specially.” Mr. Parbury beamed. “It’ll be ready after your visit.”

Thanking the confectioner, Harry exited the cooking area, going down a short hallway to an unpainted door. He knocked before entering the cramped but cozy sitting room.

“Harry.” Ambrose unfolded his long frame from the chair where he’d been sitting, his lean face creasing in a smile. “It’s good to see you, lad.”

Shutting the door, Harry returned his older brother’s firm handshake. “You as well.”

“Come, sit.” Ambrose waved to the table, which was laden with an assortment of pastries and sweets. “I told the Parburys it wasn’t necessary, but they insisted on the hospitality.”

He took the chair opposite his brother. “They’ve never forgotten what you did for them.”

“It was a trifle.” Ambrose poured tea into two chipped cups.

It was typical of Ambrose to call hunting down a burglar with no more than a set of muddy footprints a trifle. The eldest Kent was as modest as he was capable.

“You look well.” Harry helped himself to a slice of iced gingerbread. “How are Marianne and the children?”