Chapter 17
Rising from behind his desk, Dorian pinned the curtains of his office so the afternoon light could stream in, then leaned on the sill to look out. St James Street was sluggish this time of day; carriages slowly trailed up the road while pedestrians meandered up and down the sidewalks.
Such ordinary lives…
“Sir,” Weston knocked on the door. “Investigator Teller is here to see you.”
As unexpected as the man’s presence was, Dorian did not turn him away. “Send in some coffee for us.”
“Yes, Sir,” Weston bowed as the investigator stepped in.
“Please,” Dorian gestured to a chair as he rounded his desk. “What can I do for you, inspector?”
Teller pulled a satchel to his side and drew out a folio. “Thank you for receiving me on such short notice. I’ve been looking into this Ash of yours—”
“My wife’s, actually,” he intoned.
“Yes, my apologies,” Teller said while flicking the folio open.
“I have combed through St John's Wood, asking the older population about this young lad.
A Mr. Marcus Herring told me that the boy used to garden for him, and an older woman, Tabitha Clark, mentioned he patched her roof from time to time.
“Both were convinced the boy was mute as he never said a word, but was dutiful and careful in his work. But then, he vanished, and no one knew where he’d gone.”
Leaning in his chair, Dorian hummed. “The case is closed, then?”
“Not quite…” Teller hastily put in. “It is quite common for young lads to fall prey to the underworld, becoming pickpockets and mudlarks, and one gang in particular remembered the boy—”
Dorian tensed.
“Does the name Jacobson sound familiar to you?” Teller asked.
“No,” he replied as Weston entered with a tray filled with a coffee carafe, cup, and the condiments that went with the drink. After setting them on the table, he bowed out of the room. Dorian waved to the tray, “Feel free.”
“In a moment, but thank you,” Teller said impatiently. “Anyway, Jacobson now owns a workhouse in Covent Garden, but was once a leader of some pocket thieves. He described this Ash as you told me, but they all knew him as Jeremy.”
Dorian made a cup and dropped a square of sugar and a splash of cream in. “Did you get a surname or an address for this Jeremy?”
“Neither,” Teller replied. “But I will.”
Dorian set his cup down and rubbed his eyes. “Do you think this is worthwhile… to track this man down? By my math, he should be about my age by now, if he survived that is.”
Teller made his cup. “In my experience, Your Grace, the wily ones do—” He straightened and gave Dorian a look he did not appreciate. It was too knowing. “—And from Jacobson’s description, this lad was wily.”
Not willing to play this game, Dorian grumbled, “Out with it, Teller. What do you know about me?”
“Respectfully, sir, I know that you, a lifetime ago, used to be in the streets, in the rookeries, just as much as this Ash or Jeremy was,” Teller answered. “It is quite possible you might have already run into the lad.”
“I have never crossed paths with the boy,” Dorian said firmly.
“It’s not an accusation, Your Grace,” Teller replied calmly. “Only a supposition.”
Pinning the investigator with a look Dorian reserved for men he trusted—a very rare occasion—he said, “If your intuition tells you to keep searching for him, do so, but with the things I have seen, the things I have lived through, even the wily ones die off.”
Finishing his cup, Teller stood and extended his hand. “I respect you, Your Grace.”
Getting to his feet, too, Dorian took his hand and shook it. “So do I, Teller.”
When the man left, Dorian refreshed his cup and raked his hand through his hair.
This ruse had gone on for a little too long.
It is only a matter of time before he finds out about… him.
Maybe I should have cut this at the quick instead.
Silence spun like an invisible rope, tightening the air of the drawing room. Ellie felt her skin prickle as she contemplated her next words.
“Have you ever been in love, Victoria?” she blurted, and almost immediately, she wanted to snatch those words from the air and swallow them.
“D-don’t answer that,” she quickly cut in, her eyes falling to the amber depths of her cooling tea. “That was intrusive and insensitive of me. I am sorry I asked.”
“No,” Victoria said after a long moment, as she pulled a soft blanket from over the back of a chair. “You have nothing to be sorry about, and to answer your question, yes. I have been in love. The only thing is, it brought more pain to me than I thought it would.”
Shifting closer, Ellie asked, “Whatever do you mean?”
“Do you recall that summer Papa took us to the coast?” Victoria asked. At Ellie’s nod, she continued, “I met a boy, a preacher's son, who was sweet on me. Papa banned me from seeing him, told me I would disgrace his house if I married a commoner.
“Papa said he had no interest in meeting a boy who seduced me from my good senses because he wished to elevate himself and his family,” Victoria continued, deep in thought.
“I would go to sleep with him on my mind and wake up yearning to see his face. To this day, I wonder if that had been love or simply youthful infatuation.” Victoria lifted a shoulder. “It was intoxicating nonetheless, as heady as Spanish wine.”
Ellie nibbled on her bottom lip. She could not admit that was the very same thing happening to her at times.
“Dare I ask if you’re falling for him?” Victoria inquired.
“I—I do not know,” Ellie admitted.
She knew she was a virgin, but she was no fool. In the times they’d been together, Dorian’s masterful touch had stirred something inside her. His touch was deliciously dominant, but even under his fierce eye, she felt safe.
Her insides grew hot at the memory of his lips coasting over her skin, at her most intimate places.
She’d always known he’d wanted her surrender, but she hadn’t yielded, not completely, because a part of her wondered if she did give in, would he simply slash another notch on his bedpost and walk away.
“Ellie?” Victoria prodded.
“I know he is the only man I have ever known, and the way we met—”
“How did you meet?” Victoria asked, her eyes narrowing. “How did you truly meet?”
She did not want to tell her friend—well, not yet anyhow—of how Dorian had abducted her from the church’s vestibule. Something deep inside her told her it was not time yet. “Please, Victoria,” she said calmly, “I do not want to recite such a dull subject.”
Sighing, Victoria replied, “Well, back to the previous conversation. Are you falling in love with this Duke of yours? The one no one truly knows.”
Am I in love with Dorian?
Dorian had his issues, his chronic distrust of everything and anyone made her heart ache, but she knew it all stemmed from the difficulties of his childhood.
When he stepped into the role of the Duke of Wolfthorne, he was proud and powerful.
When he was Dorian, he was so… separated.
She’d sensed his loneliness and wondered if he would ever allow someone to burrow—or break through—those walls of his, and allow himself to feel.
Would he ever allow himself to trust someone, to love someone, to not have to look over his shoulder at every moment of every day?
She knew it made her insides happy to see him smile. But could she be developing feelings for Dorian?
“Yes, imagine that… Falling in love with a man from the rookery,” she admitted. “His life may have taken an unfortunate turn, but he is still a gentleman. With me, anyhow.”
“Evelina,” Victoria murmured as she leaned in, her gaze questioning. “Have you ever asked yourself if there is more to this marriage than what he told you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think a man who has lived his whole life on the fringes of society suddenly rescues you from the kindness of his heart?” her friend pressed.
“Men like those rarely act out of pure benevolence. And please do not think I am trying to ruin your connection with him, I just feel there is more to what he told you.”
Ellie frowned. “Isn’t saving me from being married and being subservient to a crooked brute not enough?”
“It is,” Victoria agreed as she sagged back into her chair. “Now it's time for me to apologize. I—I suppose I have feared such horrible things happening to you that I have overwrought myself thinking about them all.”
The lingering irritation from Victoria’s pushing and prodding faded as Ellie knew those words were coming from a place of love and concern.
“Dorian is proud, demanding, and cunning at times, but as far as I can tell, he has never lied to me. There is no reason to do so,” Ellie said. “There is nothing for him to lose or gain by lying to little old me.”
Victoria rubbed her arms through the blanket. “I suppose the semantics of this marriage are more minimal to the real question.”
“And what is that?”
“Are you happy?”
The time was trailing beyond ten in the night while Dorian worked on his plan to get into Carrington’s study. With numerous strategies swirling around his head, he’d taken to writing them down, simply to sort out the morass.
“No,” he grunted at the last set of writings. Crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it into the fire. “He’ll see through that in seconds.”
By an abundance of caution—or compelling distrust—gained from a lifetime of being in the stews, it made him sure not to leave any speck of evidence.
“Sir?” Weston knocked. “There is a Sir Harcourt here for you.”
Dorian felt his gut tighten with a rush of anticipation. He stopped writing and nodded to Weston to show the gentleman in. Harcourt plucked his hat off as he entered.
He was a portly fellow with a pleasant smile and spectacles that made him appear antiquated. He was certainly not how others would imagine the owner of a prosperous horse breeding business to look. Nonetheless, Harcourt was the man Dorian had longed to see.
Shaking hands, he greeted, “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” the man responded. “I have received numerous requests, at home and at White’s, to see you. I must say, Your Grace, I did not expect such elegance in a gaming hall.”
“Then I shan’t show you the fighting pits in the basement,” Dorian replied flatly. “Would you like port, whisky, or brandy?”
“I’ll take a coffee if you have it,” Harcourt lifted a finger.
“Wonderful.” Dorian called for the tray. “I will keep this short, Sir Harcourt, as I appreciate you are a man who wants to be by his wife before midnight. Frankly, I am surprised you’re here at this time. I want to buy your business.”
“I know,” Harcourt said. “As do your two other business partners.”
Dorian had expected that. “Whatever they bid, I will double, no, triple it.”
“I assumed you would say such a thing,” Sir Harcourt paused as Weston came in with a coffee tray in hand. After it was set down and Weston made both cups, the portly man nodded his thanks and reached for the steaming drink.
“As you must know, I am more than ready to hand over the reins of that business, as it is about time for me to settle in my bed and plan trips to the coast,” Harcourt began. “But I shall only hand it over to the person I know will care for it.”
Perching on the edge of his table, Dorian said, “And I will.”
“Seeing as to how you are with this current venture of yours, I do agree you will,” Harcourt expressed, making a point to look around the vast office space. “But is it worth it to make a rift between your friends and colleagues?”
“We are all adults here,” Dorian replied. “We all know the risks of doing business. I am sure they will move on to other prospects.”
“Marquess Salem and Viscount Portsmouth have bid, a hundred thousand and three hundred separately,” Harcourt said.
“I will give you five hundred,” Dorian put in easily.
The cup in Harcourt’s hand rattled in the saucer as he set it down. “Half a million...”
“I can go to six hundred if needs be,” Dorian added as he took his seat. He dropped a splash of bourbon in his cup.
Leaning forward, Harcourt clasped his hands on the table. “Your Grace, if I may ask, why is this business so important to you? You are offering me a fortune that I would take three lifetimes to use. Why such a proposal?”
Dorian hesitated for a moment as he was cautious in admitting secrets close to his heart. “For the last decade or so, I have been rebuilding my Dukedom brick by brick. It has been tedious. But this business is one that I am sure will bolster my ducal reputation to its height.
“If there is one thing I know, my partners will neglect the business, sell their shares, and eventually gut it,” he said.
“I want it to flourish, to make sure the horses are at the Royal Ascot and Newmarket. I’ll ensure the horses are replenished with superior stock as the years go by. I will not let it die, Harcourt.”
“I… see,” Harcourt nodded soberly and finished his coffee. “Well, I cannot give you a definitive answer presently, Your Grace. There are a few details I must sort out, and only then can I say ye or nay.”
Standing, Dorian extended his hand. “Nevertheless, thank you for seeing me.”
Nodding, Harcourt accepted the gesture. “The pleasure is mine.”
As Harcourt left, Dorian abandoned his coffee and took a congratulatory mouthful of brandy. Finally, something good was coming his way.
“Sir,” Weston came in soon after, adjusting his spectacles while holding a book in hand. “According to your schedule, you are overdue to have dinner with your wife. It is almost eleven.”
Dorian muttered a curse while pressing the cold glass to his temple. “Send for my carriage, old boy.”