Chapter 4
“Ask nicely for you to turn me into what, exactly?” Ellie asked cagily.
She watched as he drew the pot out and rested it on the table, then retrieved the platter of potatoes. The fragrant smell of rosemary and garlic made her mouth water.
“A wicked girl, meant for wicked things,” he said, shifted, and smirked. “What else could there be?”
“No—” she gasped. “God no.”
“You want to be a trollop then?” he asked casually. “I can teach that too, only you would need some rouge, gauzy clothes, and some oils.”
Ellie felt stung, unsteady, and disoriented. How could he talk so easily about such scandalous things, in the presence of a lady, no less? “Please stop talking.”
Trying to do something normal, she looked around for the place settings; her skin felt rubbed raw at being forced to be civil with a man she wanted to wallop over the head. She had the platters on the white tablecloth, and the Delftware charger and plates were in premium condition.
She didn’t know exactly what to feel at the moment.
Dorian carried the food to the table and sat across from her, then produced a bottle of wine and poured out two glasses. Setting one before her, he waved to the helpings. “Help yourself.”
Ellie visibly hesitated while she looked at the food. Swirling his wine, Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh. “It is not poisoned, you know. You saw me make it.”
“I know.” She shook her head. “I am just… flummoxed that you made all this—” her expressive eyes flicked up “—and I wonder if I should be dining with my enemy.”
He cocked a boot onto his other knee. “Am I truly your enemy? I did save you from an unpalatable marriage after all.”
“Only to use me later on,” she countered quickly. “You saving me was only a means to an end.”
“And that end must have you alive and well,” he finished. “So, eat.”
He watched as she cut into the succulent bird and pried a piece onto her plate, dressed it with the roasted potatoes, and began eating. He waited until she daintily ate a portion before reaching over and ripping a leg away to bite into it directly.
She choked. Grabbing a serviette in the moment, she covered her mouth before finishing eating. “You have a plate in front of you. Must you eat like an animal?”
He slid a finger into his mouth and sucked. “Who is to judge me?”
“Me.”
“Your judgment means nothing to me,” he finished the leg and dropped the bone onto the plate. “I fear I have offended your sensibilities.”
“Repulsed, more like,” she murmured, her eyes falling to her own plate.
Reaching for a fork and knife, he cut into the meat. “Believe me, Evelina, until you have spent some time in the stews, you do not know what repulsion is.”
Her utensils clattered to the table, shock resounding on her face. “Stews? How can you be a lord of the ton and live in the stews?”
Tempering his smirk, Dorian pressed his wine to his lips. “The very same way I am not in the underground, but I want to be the king.”
She stared at him, “You are a veritable enigma.”
“I hope so,” he replied. “If I had been as transparent as some wanted me to be, I’d be long dead by now.”
Finishing her meal, she pressed the pads of her fingers to her throbbing temple. “I have never felt so confused in my life. You are a gentleman who lived a commoner’s life—”
“Lower than commoner,” he corrected her. “Have you ever been to the stews? St. Giles Rookery? Devil’s Acre? Whitechapel?”
Her look was flat. “If you know who I am, you should know that I have never stepped a foot past Mayfair.”
“The Temple of the Muses at Finsbury Square is past Mayfair.” He laced his hands on his midsection, his tone still teasing. “That should count.”
Ellie felt tempted to throw something at him—so she did. She balled up the serviette and lobbed it at him. He didn’t flinch when it hit him square in the face. “I know the word I want to say. You are a scoundrel!”
Shrugging, he said, “I have been called worse.”
Pushing away from the table, she huffed, “Excuse me.”
While walking to rest her plates in a sink, she felt his heated gaze on the back of her neck. Her heart thudded as the polarizing sensations he’d elicited in her still made her feel unsteady.
She headed to her doorway when his words halted her. “You can call me Dorian Beaumont,” he paused. “Or, as you want to be formal, Duke Wolfthorne.”
For the umpteenth time that night, her jaw dropped.
By the time he arrived at the club, Dorian’s blood was thrumming with a vigor he had not felt in a long while. His lips twitched while recalling the shock on her face at knowing he was a Duke. Having a competitive nature himself, he had to admit he found their tête-à-tête devilishly entertaining.
He prided himself on pulling out a range of emotions from her that he suspected—no, that he knew—she had never allowed herself to feel before.
“I should probably apologize to her for the lie of using her against Sterling…” he muttered while perching himself on the upper-railing. “But not yet. She does not need to know that yet. What I need to do is keep her second-guessing herself.”
Tonight was masquerade night, and he gazed down at the floor below, at the dark, rich paneled woods, the deep purple drapes and gold ornaments, and the Aubusson runners under his guest’s feet.
Warm light from dozens of glittering chandeliers danced off the hundreds of men and women in their finery. The ladies wore exotic gowns that matched their masks—from goldfish to peacocks— while the men were in dark suits and simple demi-masks.
The ballroom part of his club was open, and couples swirled around in the fast-paced Viennese waltz. He could picture little Miss Evelina in his arms as they swirled to the slower version, how her body would feel against him.
He knew he would have a problem if they did dance—his hands tended to wander.
But what I’d pay to see her face.
Everyone looked so refined and glamorous. Away from the scrutiny of formal ton social engagements, couples embraced publicly on chaise-longues, and those who danced were certainly closer than what was appropriate.
I wonder what little Miss Evelina is doing tonight?
He pictured her with her head tilted and lips pursed; she looked like the token innocent bluestocking.
Thinking of her full lips and delicate bone structure, he had to shift his hips. She didn’t know it, but god, she was delectable. If she were any other woman, he would have had her in his bed already.
Perish the thought.
Despite his worldly attitude about sexual matters, his honor would never permit him to seduce a virgin.
Toying with her, however, was another matter.
“Sir,” Lloyd bowed, while holding out his coat. “It is time. Your party sent word to where he will be.”
Turning, Dorian nodded, “The hackney is ready then.”
“And waiting in the alley behind the club, sir,” Lloyd replied as Dorian took the coat.
At midnight, the moon’s spectral glow clashed with the sickly yellow fog that always slithered boot-high on the ground. He hopped into the vehicle bound for Whitechapel to a tavern where a snoop he had hired to find his uncle frequented.
Before he had found the snoop, he’d employed legitimate investigators who had bled him like a leech while giving Dorian the run-around, feeding him crumbs, telling Dorian they’d tracked Edgar to Manchester, then somewhere in Oxford, even to a village in Ireland.
Dorian knew he must be patient, but he was no fool. When the truth was that the investigators were no further from where they’d started, Dorian had cut them off. He’d then gone and done what he should have done in the first place: find someone who had their nose to the ground.
“I hope Crawley has something for me,” he murmured as the carriage sprinted through the streets.
Whitechapel was one of the slums he knew very well, having cleaned chimneys for years and playing a poor urchin begging for scraps while really spying on competing gangs for Sterling.
He winced while passing a corner, the memory of his sixteen-year-old head getting slammed on bricks during a fight. When the phantom pain hit, he reflexively touched two inches over his left ear to caress the scar under his hair.
When the hackney halted down the road from the tavern, Dorian stepped out and fixed the faded cloak over his shoulders. His workaday plain trousers, shirt, and worn boots would not draw attention from the people inside.
The tavern was packed with the usual crowd of working men and riff-raff, the air ripe with the unwashed bodies, blue ruin, cheap tobacco smoke, and sweat. Pushing his way through the rowdy main room, he went to the very back, where Crawley preferred to drink.
He spotted Crawley—moments before a drunkard planted a fist in his face.
Dorian wanted to leap in, but he stayed a safe distance behind, aware that there would be no place to hide should he be spotted. He kept his hand in his pocket, next to the solid handle of the pistol he carried.
It was a habit to enter the stews armed—he had lived in the stews long enough to know anyone who did not, hardly came out unharmed. Habit, again.
Crawley shoved back, flinging his punch out, and the two scrabbled into a drunken brawl. The crowd behind him got tight, and a body propelled from the side, slamming into him.
Dorian held onto his balance, stumbling backward as another body followed the first. He stepped out of harm’s way as a second set of fists began to fly. There was shouting and the crack of glass against stone.
Pressing his back to a wall, he watched in thick worry as Crawley and the other man held broken bottles in hand while a crowd of onlookers gathered around like sharks waiting for blood to flow.
When it became clear that Crawley was too drunk to defend himself, Dorian sprang in and yanked the attacker away from Crawley, delivering an elbow strike to his gut and an uppercut to the man’s head to send him to the floor.
A wave of dissatisfied boos and hisses met his ears, but Dorian ignored them; he needed Crawley alive. He turned to find his party in a headlock from another man—who, with a swift grin, slit Crawley’s throat.
Dorian lurched forward but knew it was too late.
The murderer darted through the door behind him, and Dorian followed at a dead run through the rookery’s twisted maze with agility, dashing through dark alleyways and twisting streets, pushing through the midnight crowds spilling out of other taverns.
He turned left and saw immediately that it was a dead end, and spun around before a blast tore through the night. The bullet hit the stone an inch from his head.
“He knew you would be chasing me,” the man muttered, coming from the gloom.
“He, who?” Dorian asked calmly.
“Don’t play dumb, Your Grace,” the man sneered. “The ghost from your past is telling you to stop chasing him, or the worst is yet to come. Stop searching for him, you will not like the results.”
“Tell my traitorous uncle I will find him,” Dorian snarled. “And he will pay.”
“Not in this lifetime, guv’.” The man fired another shot, and the bullet slammed into Dorian’s arm—the pain was ungodly. “That was a warning. Heed to it.”