Chapter 2
That night found Lucien Philippe de Vaux, Marquess of Arden, riding a stolen horse hell-for-leather through the dark and rain-washed streets of London.
Only superb skill and strength controlled the excited beast on the slippery cobbles.
When the drivers of startled teams cursed, he laughed, white teeth gleaming in the gaslights.
When a costermonger yelled, “Bloody nobs!” and pelted him with some of the less choice of his wares, he caught one of the apples and shied it back to accurately knock off the man’s felt hat.
He reined the horse in at the Drury Lane Theater and summoned a hovering urchin. “Guard the horse and there’s a guinea for you,” he called as he sprinted off towards the side door. The main doors were already locked for the night.
The barefoot street Arab clutched onto the reins of the tired horse as if they were his hope of heaven, as perhaps they were.
The marquess’s banging on the theater door, executed as it was with a brick he had picked up in the side alley, soon brought the grumbling caretaker.
“Wot the ’ell ye want?” he snarled through a chink in the door.
The marquess held up a glittering guinea and the door opened wide.
The man grabbed the coin. “Everyone’s gorn,” he said. “If it’s Madam Blanche you’re looking for she’s off with the Mad Marquess.”
At the visitor’s laugh he blinked and held his lantern a little higher. It illuminated clear-cut features and brilliant blue eyes. The-fact that the marquess’s distinctive gold hair was a sodden brown did not disguise him. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milord. No offense.”
“None taken,” said the marquess blithely as he pushed past. “The White Dove of Drury Lane has left her favorite handkerchief in her room. I come as her humble servant to retrieve it.” With that he sped off down the dingy corridor.
The caretaker shook his head. “Mad. Mad, the lot of ’em.” He bit the guinea as a matter of habit, though he knew Arden wouldn’t offer false coin.
In a few moments the young man ran nimbly back down the corridor and out into the rain, which was surely ruining a small fortune in elegant tailoring. He took the reins of the horse and pulled out another guinea. Then he hesitated, glancing down at the urchin.
“I’d be surprised if you’re more than twelve,” he said thoughtfully. “You’ll have trouble splitting this.”
It was not a problem bothering the boy, whose wide eyes were fixed on the gold.
The marquess grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to chouse you. How would you like to ride back with me, and I’ll fix you up right and tight?”
The boy took a step back. “On the ’orse, guv?”
“Of course on the ’orse,” said the marquess, leaping onto the back of the big bay. “Well?”
The boy hesitated, and the marquess impatiently said, “Make up your mind.”
The boy held up his arms, and the marquess hoisted his scrawny weight behind him. “Hold tight!” he called and kicked the horse into a gallop again.
The streets were a little quieter as the theater crowd and the hawkers who catered to them had gone home. There were enough people abroad, however, to keep the ride lively and to call up comments from the marquess’s nervous passenger. “Gawd’s struth.”
“Watch it, Guv!” and—when the driver of a gig was so startled he steered his horse onto the pavement—“Wha’ a slowtop.”
The steaming, frothing horse was reined up at a grand mansion in a square in Mayfair far from the urchin’s usual beat.
The nob slipped off the horse and called back, “Watch the nag a minute!” as he raced up the wide steps.
As a bell in a nearby church began to chime the hour, huge double doors at the top were flung open to greet him, spilling glittering light down the wet stone steps.
A delicate vision in white—white from her loose silver hair to a flowing lace gown to white slippers—flung out her arms and cried, “You did it! You did it! I knew you could.” The marquess gathered her up and swung her around as she squealed at how wet he was.
As his debtor went into the house, the street Arab heard him laugh and say, “To the devil with your gown. I prefer you without one anyway. Where’s Dare?” The big doors closed on the light.
The boy, who went by the name of Sparrow, or Sparra more like, shivered in the chilly damp. “Scummered for sure,” he muttered. “Left perched on the back of a soddin’ horse. Thank Gawd the beast’s too shagged to move.” It was a long way down to the ground.
After a while, though, when the horse showed signs of coming back to life, the boy chose the lesser of the evils. Grasping the pommel, he slid down, falling flat in a puddle when he landed. The horse looked around in mild affront.
“’S’alright fer yous,” Sparra muttered as he rubbed at the slimy mud on his already wet and dirty rags. “Sooner nor later summen’ll rub yer darn, give yer a feed. They cares for their ’orses, does this lot. I should’ve grabbed the bloody goldfinch.”
He looked the horse over to see if there was anything worth nicking.
Just at that moment thick fingers yanked at his grubby collar, and he was hauled around to face a burly giant of a man. “What are you doing with my horse, you devil’s spawn?”
“I—I—” Sparra was half-throttled and scared out of his wits. He kicked and wriggled, but the man’s hand was like a vice.
“I’ll teach you to take a gentleman’s mount, you wretched cur,” snarled the man, and swung his riding crop down on Sparra’s body.
“Ow! Please, guv … Aah!” The crop whistled and cut again and again.
A cool voice broke in. “I hardly think this is the place to correct an erring servant, sir.”
The man stopped the beating but held on tight to his captive. “And who the devil are you, sir? And what business is it of yours what I do?”
The newcomer had obviously just arrived in a handsome traveling chariot.
Everything about him spoke of top quality, Sparra decided with a beggar’s unerring eye.
Not just his perfectly cut caped greatcoat and his gleaming boots, his elegant beaver and tan gloves, but the way he stood and the softness of his voice.
A powdered footman stood behind him shielding him from the elements with a large black umbrella.
“I am the Duke of Belcraven, sir,” the newcomer said, “and this is my house which you are disturbing with your brawl.”
Sparra wished he could see the bully’s face at that. He also wished the man would loosen his grip, instead of making it tighter. Then he could get out of here—fast. He wanted nothing to do with dukes, and horse-stealing got you knocked down for a crop.
“I beg pardon, Your Grace,” said the man in a strained voice. “I was taking retribution on this wretch for having ridden off on my horse, which I left quietly hereabouts.”
The duke raised an eyeglass and studied the horse, a large beast as would be necessary for such a large rider. Then he looked at the culprit.
“If he truly rode that horse into such a state,” he said coolly, “I suggest you spare him the beating and promptly hire him as a jockey.”
Sparra imagined a lifetime of being forced to ride enormous horses and tried to choke out an objection. The hand on his collar jerked him into silence.
At that moment, the doors of the great house opened again and a clear voice said, “What the hell—? Release the boy!”
Then, in a different tone, drained of all emotion. “Your Grace. I did not expect you.”
The duke turned his eyeglass to look up the stairs, carpeted again in slick golden light.
There Sparra’s debtor stood against a backdrop of servants and gentlemen, with one petite lady in white beside him.
The lady swiftly melted back out of sight.
After a breathless moment, the duke let his quizzing glass fall and mounted the steps towards his heir, meticulously followed by his umbrella bearer.
“Evidently,” he said icily. “If that is your fracas, Arden, kindly remove it from the doorstep.”
He then entered his mansion and accepted the ministrations of his servants, forced to switch abruptly from the lighthearted demeanor suitable for the marquess and his friends, to the proper decorum demanded by the duke.
The guests discreetly absented themselves from the hall but within minutes singing could be heard from the music room.
It was not a particularly respectable song.
As the duke was divested of his damp outer clothing he merely said, “I will retire to my suite with a light supper. Arden, I wish to see you tomorrow after breakfast.”
“Yes, sir,” said the marquess impassively.
Followed by his valet, the duke ascended the great curving staircase.
The marquess watched his father for a moment, then looked out at the frozen, rain-soaked tableau, where the urchin was still clutched by the dumbfounded horse owner.
With a shrug, he accepted the need to ruin another set of clothes and walked out into the rain as easily as if it were perfect weather.
“You will release this boy immediately,” he said coldly.
“Oh will I?” sneered the man, misled perhaps by the marquess’s dampened finery and the way he had been given orders by the duke. “Well, cockerel, this boy deserves a whipping and he’ll get it, and no duke’s lackey says otherwise.”
“Lay a stroke on the boy and I’ll take you apart,” said the marquess calmly. “I stole your horse.”
The man released Sparra, but before the boy could flee he was caught in a grasp just as strong.
“Don’t run away,” was all the young nob said, but Sparra obeyed. He wasn’t sure if it was fear, exhaustion, or just a trust engendered by that voice, but he did as he was told. He witnessed a grand mill.
The “young guv” was tall and strong and probably sparred with Jackson, but the “big guv” was a lot heavier and had some science, too. Once he landed a sweeping right which sent the younger man sprawling, but he was up on his feet in a moment and retaliated with a hard fist to the fat stomach.