The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(7)

Harry had seen a lot at the navvy encampment; he’d never witnessed anything quite like this.

Men and women occupied mattresses strewn on the floor. Naked bodies tangled in eyebrow-raising permutations. Couples, trios, and more. Bodies formed an undulating chain, slapping flesh and moans and groans spilling into the hallway.

Heat crept up Harry’s neck as Tom came back to his side. He wondered how the “lad” would react to the depraved scene. Glancing at the carnality, Tom evinced no sign of discomfort and turned to face the whore.

“Cast your ha’penny lures elsewhere.” Scowling, Tom hitched a thumb at Harry. “The cove’s with me.”

“Like that, is it?” She smirked.

Before Harry could respond, Tom turned to him, saying imperiously, “Stop gawking at the cut-rate goods. O’Toole’s minions ain’t far behind.”

“I wasn’t gawking—” Harry found himself talking to his companion’s retreating back.

Exasperated, he strode after the other, who was no country bumpkin. He was certain that the minx ahead of him was none other than Miss Thérèse-Marie Todd, the only daughter of brothel owner Malcolm Todd and the only grandchild of the most infamous cutthroat of the age:

Bartholomew Black, King of London’s criminal underclass.

And cold-blooded murderer.

According to Inspector Davies, Harry’s supervisor, Black was responsible for numerous deaths. For years, the police had tried to hold him accountable for those and other crimes. All to no avail.

Mouths shut. Evidence disappeared.

The underworld protected its own.

We’ll get the bastard this time. Determination had hardened Inspector Davies’ time-worn features. Even Black cannot incinerate more than a dozen people and get away with it.

Davies had briefed the new constables, including Harry, on Black’s family members and known associates. He’d assigned a round-the-clock watch on the cutthroat’s fortress in St. Giles, his officers in civilian wear for the sake of discretion and their own safety. Harry had been on duty tonight when he’d spotted a diminutive figure making a furtive exit from the walled estate. Recalling that Black had a granddaughter who was known for mischief, he’d made the decision to abandon his post and follow. At the Hare and Hounds, he’d seen through Miss Todd’s disguise, observed her shenanigans, and gone to her aid.

The last part had been instinct. She might be a member of London’s most dangerous family, but she was still a female and a dainty one (at least in size). Neither his code nor his conscience would allow him to stand by and watch while she was beset by a gang of ruffians.

Even if her behavior was reckless, bold, and that of a lunatic.

One thing had led to another, and now he was caught up in a mad chase through the stews with the suspect’s granddaughter. A female who dressed like a lad, fleeced cutthroats at cards, and didn’t blink at the sight of an orgy.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, he thought darkly.

Yet there was no going back, only forward. He would worry about what to do once he got Miss Todd and himself out of the present predicament. They came to the end of the passage, a heavy door blocking their way.

She tried the knob. “Blast it, it’s locked. And I don’t have any hairp—”

At the slip, her first thus far, Harry felt his brows rise.

“—picks.” She caught herself. “Forgot my lock picks, I meant to say.”

“Allow me.” Removing a set of picks from his pocket, he set to work. The lock clicked in seconds.

“Zounds, that weren’t your first time, were it?” Beneath her short wig, her eyes were a light, mysterious color that the dimness refused to yield. But there was no hiding that they were wide and fringed with the thickest, curliest lashes he’d ever seen. Intelligence sparkled in that gaze, along with an exuberance that seemed oddly…innocent.

Yet appearances could be deceiving—especially when it came to women.

Harry’s jaw clenched. He was no longer the greenhorn he’d been back at Cambridge. He wouldn’t fall for feminine wiles, and especially not those of this chit who was, according to Inspector Davies’ report and Harry’s own observations this eve, about as harmless as a loaded pistol.

Footfalls thudded, and voices grew louder.

In the next heartbeat, Miss Todd was through the door. He went after her and found himself in a luxurious courtyard. It was as if he’d stepped into a different world.

Perplexed, he took in the majestic wall of trees that shut out the shabbiness of the bordering buildings. Here there were blooming flower beds and marble statuary, a white marble fountain that tinkled a merry tune. Mews occupied the far end of the courtyard. Miss Todd headed over, and he trailed her, his boots crunching on the graveled path, the sky a dark canopy of diamond-studded velvet.

Reaching the mews, Harry saw wooden steps leading to the groom’s quarters above the stalls. He scrutinized the upper floor for any sign of occupants: the panes remained dark, moonlight reflecting off their fathomless depths. Miss Todd opened the door to the stables with obvious care, the well-oiled hinges making no sound. She craned her head this way and that before entering, gesturing him to follow.

Inside, the space was softly lit by lanterns. The stalls were occupied by sleek horses which would fetch a pretty penny at Tattersall’s. Miss Todd continued down the window-lined row to the stall at the end. She opened the Dutch door and ushered him into an empty cubicle piled with sweet-smelling hay.