Chapter 2 #3
“How may I help you?” he asked, barely looking up from the paperwork.
“Good evening.” Lady Kerrington’s voice was soft.
She moved to the desk, her smile already in place.
It wasn’t the winning smile that most ladies knew how to flash to get what they wanted. No, this was something quieter. This was a smile that was not used for manipulation, but understanding.
“I want to ask for a favor,” she continued. “I’m searching for an address.”
The apprentice’s head shot up, his tired eyes turning wide. “No. Oh no, Mr. Farley won’t be having that. Nobody will be receiving any information about his clients.”
“It is for—”
“I’m sorry,” the apprentice cut in. “I don’t care who it’s for.
I can’t help you. My boss will have me tossed out of this office with scarcely a penny to my name.
” He paused, glancing at her almost apologetically.
“Goodnight.” His voice trembled slightly, and it was clear he was scared of the consequences.
Lady Kerrington looked up at Gabriel, who had to fight back his irritation at the boy’s refusal. Still, he nodded.
He stepped closer to the desk, noting the apprentice’s pale face and frantic script, as if he was already drained but had work to finish that night.
“You are scared of Mr. Farley,” he noted, his voice softening a little, just like Lady Kerrington’s.
“That is understandable, but an easy thing to tackle. With me, you will have nothing to fear. I have heard he can be a cruel employer, but no harm will come to you. If it comes back to you, then it is simple: you are a young, tired man, and the nights are long. Perhaps a man and woman did slip by you. Perhaps you thought you imagined them. Many excuses to escape the consequences.”
However, the apprentice still looked worried.
Gabriel took out another coin purse. London worked off the back of bribery, and he had long since found out that there were very few tongues he couldn’t loosen with a heavy enough purse.
“You will be doing a distressed lady a huge favor,” Lady Kerrington added, drawing the apprentice’s attention back to her. She gave a smile, not pushy, but certainly an argument in its own way. “And I will be indebted to your kindness.”
Gabriel fought the urge to roll his eyes at her exaggeration, but he could see the apprentice’s resolve cracking.
“Fine,” the apprentice croaked. “Fine, who is it you are looking for?”
Gabriel smirked. “Lord Kerrington is a frequent gambler at the Spindle, and we’ve been told that all his bills are sent to a boarding house. I need the address of this boarding house.”
“Lord Kerrington?” the apprentice echoed. With an even paler face than before, he nodded, and his shaking hands gathered up the paperwork. He turned to a filing cabinet behind him, rooting through ledgers and files. “Here. They are sent to the Finchwood.”
“The Finchwood?” Lady Kerrington asked.
“A boarding house not far from here,” Gabriel supplied.
“The bills are addressed to Miss Catherine Tremaine,” the apprentice added, quickly returning to his desk. “That is all I can and will tell you.” Almost desperately, he eyed the coin purse before stuffing it into the top drawer. “Good luck, Madam.”
Gabriel and Lady Kerrington both nodded and walked out, leaving the harried man to his work.
Gabriel gave the Finchwood’s address to his driver, clambered inside after Lady Kerrington, and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Through the dark streets they rode, and he couldn’t help but speak about their destination.
“The Finchwood is one of London’s most popular boarding houses near the docks,” he revealed.
“It’s known for the stream of women who frequent it.
It’s one of the safest places for lone female travelers and boarders, but enough seedy dealings take place in its halls.
Be prepared; if your husband is involved with a woman from this boarding house, it won’t be… pleasant.”
“I do not care,” Lady Kerrington answered tightly.
“I do not care where my husband rests his head at night, whether it is Kerrington House or otherwise. I only care about the fact that he promised to provide for my daughter and me, and now he has broken that promise. I deserve to drag him back to the townhouse to have the security he promised me.”
Gabriel only stared at her, his eyes tracing every line of her face, wondering what sort of man would leave his wife behind evening after evening.
No woman deserved to be left wondering if she was truly safe, but Lady Kerrington looked so young against the dark carriage window, her face illuminated by the lamp above the door.
Gabriel thought about how much she had faced; he understood why the risks mattered to her.
When he said nothing, she spoke again, her tone haughty. “Does bribery come to you naturally, Your Grace?”
She turned her head towards him, looking insulted.
He narrowed his eyes at her, his jaw working. “You have a funny way of showing gratitude, Lady Kerrington.”
At that, she sighed, and her shoulders slumped against the bench. “Thank you.”
“It is only fair,” he said mildly. “After all, this woman we are about to meet is likely your husband’s mistress.”
He was aware of how detached he sounded, how callous, but Lady Kerrington only clenched her jaw and said nothing. There was no outburst, no protest, yet a fire still burned in her eyes.
He thought of her anger over her lack of security. But did she really not care if her husband took a mistress?
Gabriel shifted, drawing her attention again. His eyes dropped to her mouth, a place he could not quite pry his focus from ever since he had first let himself look in the parlor.
Her lips were soft, pink, and he found himself wondering how they would taste.
“If you were mine, My Lady,” he murmured, his tone as intimate as the light in the carriage, “I would never need another woman in my bed.”
Lady Kerrington’s face flushed, and her mouth moved as though she could not quite find her voice. Gabriel could have sworn she shuddered, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
He opened his mouth to continue when the carriage drew to a halt, and the driver knocked on the door.
“We have arrived.”
“If you were mine…”
Despite her best efforts to focus on the pretty boarding house in front of her, lights flickering in many windows on the several stories that rose into the night, Sibyl could not quite push the Duke’s voice out of her mind.
How velvety it had sounded, like the most expensive material draping over her skin indulgently. It had wrapped around her with the promise—or perhaps it could not be called that, for she was a married woman, and the Duke was a stranger.
She had to keep her wits about her, even if his voice and intense gaze made her feel so deliciously warm.
She finally understood why the Duke of Branmere had painted Hermia so scandalously, and why Isabella and her husband snuck off during many parties, returning flushed and unable to stop touching one another.
But those feelings were dangerous. Sibyl had far greater things to think about, so she glanced towards the window where pink curtains fluttered.
A figure vanished from view, and she thought once more about the Finchwood being a safe place for women.
Was it truly, or was that safety hard-fought? Did someone keep vigil over the women who boarded there?
Stepping inside, they found a spacious lounge with four armchairs in a semi-circle that faced an empty fireplace.
A reception area stood at the far side of the wall, the desk circular and piled with ledgers and presumably booking sheets.
The colors of the wallpaper were muted—cheerful without being overly bright.
Behind the desk, a buxom woman leaned against the back of a chair, her eyes already fixed on Sibyl and the Duke. Notably, she sized up the Duke more.
“Well, hello there,” she greeted, her voice dropping to a sultry tone. “Welcome to the Finchwood. Tell me, what can I get you both?” Her eyes flicked to Sibyl. “A couple’s room, perhaps? The Finchwood hosts many discreet meetings, rooms that will let you indulge—”
“We are here for information,” Sibyl cut her off. She had no time for the spiel. “I am Lady Kerrington, and I am looking for my husband.”
There. She had dropped her disguise. She only hoped it would finally give her answers.
But the woman only looked at the Duke, her smile growing.
“Then that means the gentleman is available,” she murmured, tilting her head in a way that let her hair fall into her cleavage, as if she was trying to direct his attention there. “I recognize you. You are the Duke of Stonehelm. What are you doing in my establishment?”
Her tone was teasing, and she leaned forward, pushing out her chest as if trying to give him the answer.
Sibyl gritted her teeth and looked away. To her surprise, the Duke did not play along.
“I am looking for a patron of yours,” he said, all business-like, cutting to the chase and ignoring the receptionist’s advances. “Are you Miss Catherine Tremaine?”
“I am.” The woman pushed her chest out further, and Sibyl resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Who are you looking for?”
“Like I said earlier, Lord Kerrington,” Sibyl interjected, growing more impatient. “I am his wife, and I demand to know whatever you do about his stay here. I believe he receives certain bills here.”
Miss Tremaine finally looked at her. Her flirtatious smile dropped, twisting into a sneer. “So you’re the neglected wife. He doesn’t use the word, but he laughs about the feeble Countess he won’t go home to. And truly, who can blame him? You’re very young… and I doubt you have much experience.”
Pointedly, her eyes flicked to Sibyl’s cloaked chest.
Sibyl fought the urge to pull her cloak tighter around her. Instead, she steeled herself.
If Isabella could suffer mockery in the ballrooms throughout her Seasons, then Sibyl could endure an insufferable woman for a few moments.
Think of Rosie.
“I care very little about who my husband chooses to bed, or how he speaks of me, Miss Tremaine,” she said, her voice steady.
“What concerns me are his debts and my release from them.” She slapped her palm against the reception desk, the sound sharp in the small room.
“So you will assist us, and cease wasting both my time and His Grace’s.
Unless, of course, you would prefer the newspapers to learn that your boarding house regularly hosts illicit meetings.
I imagine such a report would empty your rooms by the week’s end. ”
That did the trick.
Miss Tremaine drew back and began shuffling papers, not meeting Sibyl’s eyes.
At that moment, Sibyl glanced at the Duke, her breath catching when she found him already looking at her. There was an unreadable look in his eyes, but his mouth had turned up at one corner ever so slightly.
She looked away quickly.
“Follow me,” Miss Tremaine said, stepping out from behind the desk through a swinging door.
She led them through double doors to a single staircase. Up they went, stopping on the second floor. Then she led them to a room several doors down and paused to gather her keys.
“Lord Kerrington has not come out in several days,” she told them, not even glancing back. “It is not usual for him to remain upstairs, but he always frequents the tavern across the street at least once a night. Then again, when he has accumulated a few bottles, he rarely even does that.”
“A few bottles?” Sibyl asked sharply.
Miss Tremaine looked over her shoulder at her. “Of laudanum. Did you not know that either about your husband?”
Clenching her jaw, Sibyl ignored her and gestured to the door.
Miss Tremaine knocked once. “Lord Kerrington?” Her voice turned too sweet. “Oh, Lord Kerrington?”
No answer came from inside, so she unlocked the door and pushed it open before stepping back.
The door had barely creaked open when the most horrendous stench drifted out of the room. Sibyl clapped a hand over her mouth and nose, trying not to retch.
At once, the Duke stepped into the doorway, his face tight.
“Wait—” Miss Tremaine called, but he was already striding in, covering his mouth with the collar of his coat.
He disappeared inside, while Sibyl fought to keep down the contents of her stomach. She swayed against the wall, her eyes watering at the smell.
Heavens, it was like something had died in there.
Was that how laudanum usually smelled?
She had never smelled it before. But Heavens, if it was that bad, then she did not want to.
The Duke was inside for not even a full minute—Sibyl counted to distract herself from whatever state her husband would stumble out in—before he walked back out. His expression was severe, a hard look in his eyes. It was both haunted and vacant, angry and defeated.
“What? What is it?” Sibyl panted.
“Lord Kerrington… He is dead,” the Duke said, his voice pitched low.
Sibyl stilled.
No. No.
“No, that’s not true.”
“It is.”
She started, staring at the Duke, not realizing she had said that out loud. He stared right back at her.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it, already shoving her way towards him.
“I want to see him,” she demanded.
It could not be true. She could not be left alone without the security of a husband, without a home. For if Edmund was dead…
If he were dead…
“Let me,” she ground out when hands clasped her wrists.
“It is him,” the Duke told her a little more gently.
But she did not care for gentleness. She cared for the anguish and rage burning through her. How could the bastard do this to her?
“Undoubtedly, it is Lord Kerrington on that bed.”
But Sibyl had had plenty of practice with fighting her sisters for chairs, access to a room first…
playful grapples where they all wanted the same dish, so they fought their way to it.
While the Duke was physically bigger than her by at least two and a half of her own size, he wasn’t expecting her grunt of effort as she finally tore past him and stumbled into the reeking room.
Her knees almost gave out.
The first thing her eyes fell on was the mop of blonde hair that covered Edmund’s forehead. It was so messy, so unlike him yet so like him when he would come home from a night of drinking.
Her heart rate slowed. She tracked his arm that dangled off the side of the bed, as it often did in normal slumber, finding a torn, rolled-up sleeve adorned with cufflinks—a gift from her parents on their honeymoon.
They were of a kestrel, mid-flight, for her mother had spotted a kestrel on the grounds of the Kerrington country estate.
She sensed someone behind her, strong and warm, and that was the only thing that stopped her from falling to the floor. She couldn’t sense anything else.
Anything beyond that kestrel and the bottles scattered on the floor, and—
Heavens.
Edmund Lynden was dead. Her husband was dead.
The world began to spin.