Chapter Two
As the turning into St. James’s Street came into view, and with it White’s, the front door opened.
A man stumbled out and landed in a heap on the pavement.
Dressed in a bright-blue jacket that bore a tear in the right shoulder and a cravat loose about his neck, he carried the air of a gamester whose luck, and cash, had just been exhausted.
He lifted his head, his red-rimmed eyes focusing on the two figures approaching, then, with a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head again and soft snores filled the air.
Raucous laughter came from within the building—profligate males seeking refuge from overbearing fathers or discontented wives. No doubt they’d been spending the night, and either their allowance or their wives’ dowries, on liquor, gaming, and other, less acceptable forms of pleasure.
The Farthing and Gerard approached the fallen gentleman at the foot of the steps.
“Do you think we should help him, La—”
“Hush! You mustn’t use my name while we’re abroad, lest we’re overheard. People are wont to poke their noses in when one least expects—Gerard.”
“Forgive me—Mr. Farthing, sir. But the gentleman looks unwell.”
“I daresay that if we were to enter the building we’d find twenty such men in the clubroom with an equally green pallor and bearing the same stench of sour brandy. And I’d question the label of gentleman, given his identity. Unless I’m mistaken, the man at our feet is the Duke of Dunton.”
“I wonder who stood his drinks account this time?”
“Someone wishing to ingratiate himself with a duke—who’s also willing to hold his nose to bear the company of this particular duke.”
Dunton stirred and opened a single, liquor-glazed eye, before letting out a groan and closing it again.
“Bless me!” a voice said. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s the infamous Farthing!”
A man stood in the doorway—handsome enough, with blond hair and startlingly pale blue eyes. But the appearance of an angel belied the blackened heart within.
“Sir Heath Moss.”
The man bowed and descended the stairs toward the prone figure of the duke.
“At your service, Mr. Farthing,” he said.
“Or perhaps I should say at my service, given the fortune you’ve made out of me.
What are you up to at this hour? Or perhaps there’s no cause to ask.
Given that you’re walking away from Hyde Park shortly after dawn, even those most lacking in wit could deduce what you’re about. ”
“That’s fortunate for you, Sir Heath,” the Farthing said.
Sir Heath frowned and tilted his head to one side. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Exactly.” The Farthing gestured toward Dunton. “I take it this…creature is with you?”
“His Grace and I are friends, yes.”
“Friends! I’d question your idea of friendship, Sir Heath.”
“It’s a mutually convenient relationship with an acquaintance.”
“Where your ready cash settles his gaming debts, which, in turn, makes him indebted to you.”
“You also have a fondness for my ready cash, Mr. Farthing. Four hundred pounds is your tally to date, unless I’m mistaken. Does that make us friends?”
“Payment for services rendered, Sir Heath,” the Farthing said. “Where cash is exchanged, the relationship is one of business or coercion. But never friendship.”
“Tut-tut, Mr. Farthing, sir. If we were all to take that attitude, it would paint a rather sorry portrait of London Society, would it not?”
“Which is rather my point.”
Sir Heath narrowed his eyes. “You speak as if you’re well acquainted with Society. Do you live hereabouts—on St. James’s Street, perhaps?”
Sweet Lord.
“Ah!” Sir Heath continued. “I see a glint of fear behind that mask of yours.”
“I fear no man, Sir Heath.”
“Then you’re a fool.” Sir Heath cocked his head to one side.
“A young buck fresh from Oxford, perhaps, desperate to show his prowess with a pistol to make up for his deficiencies in the bedroom—or perhaps a younger brother overlooked in favor of the elder and suffering from not being the heir.” He gestured through the open door.
“Perhaps you frequent this establishment, or aspire to if only your older brother would permit it?”
Older brother—heavens! Did the man possess an instinct like a pig sniffing for truffles?
“I have no desire to set foot in White’s.”
“Spoken with such vehemence, Mr. Farthing,” Sir Heath said. “And the contempt you have for Dunton here makes me think that you’re acquainted with dukes. The Duke of Foxton’s residence is nearby—Number Eight St. James’s Square. Perhaps you’re familiar with the address?”
Sweet Lord! Sir Heath may not be the most intelligent man in Society, but he possessed a degree of acuity that came hand in hand with a vicious character.
“Are you attempting to ascertain my identity, Sir Heath?”
“Now who’s lacking in wits?” Sir Heath grinned, revealing perfectly even white teeth. “Perhaps not a younger brother, then.”
Oh Lord—I’m done for.
“A footman, mayhap—dissatisfied with his lot and resentful enough of his master, and his master’s social station, to take pleasure in shooting at his betters.”
“You take equal pleasure, Sir Heath, in paying another to risk their life in a duel as a result of your dishonorable behavior. Of all my clientele, you are the one who, without exception, finds himself facing a protective husband, father, or older brother as a result of the women they love falling prey to your—ahem—charms.”
Sir Heath stepped forward. “I ought to rip that mask off you right now.”
“And where would that leave you, Sir Heath?”
“Very satisfied.”
“And exposed to the risk of a bullet in your heart. You’d have to fight your own duels from now on each time you compromised an innocent.
And let’s be honest, sir—given that the chances of you being called out within the next month, or even the next week, are virtually guaranteed, it’s a risk that a coward such as yourself is unwilling to take. ”
“Why, you…”
Fear flared as Sir Heath approached, hands outstretched, ready to rip off the Farthing’s mask.
Then, with a cry, he pitched forward and fell onto the pavement.
“Bugger!”
He’d tripped over Dunton’s prone form.
“Come on my…I mean, sir,” Gerard whispered. “It’s time we left. The house will be awake soon, and we don’t want to be caught.”
“Very good…Gerard. I’d be at a loss without you.”
They resumed walking along St. James’s Street, quickening the pace as Sir Heath yelled after them. “I’ll have you yet, Mr. Farthing!”
“Aye—only next time I’ll charge one hundred guineas.”
“You bounder!”
“What will you do, Sir Heath?” the Farthing cried. “Call me out? I’ll gladly accept the challenge.”
Sir Heath let out another curse. At the turning into King Street, the Farthing glanced back to see him struggling to his feet, the Duke of Dunton clinging to his leg.
“You shouldn’t rile Sir Heath,” Gerard said.
“He’s harmless enough, Gerard. He lacks the intelligence to pose any great danger.”
“All men are dangerous. By taunting him, you risk discovery. He’ll not rest until he’s identified you.”
“Then he’ll not rest—and neither will any other man who engages in duels.”
“Perhaps, but I would not have their unrest at the cost of yours.”
King Street led onto St. James’s Square and the familiar facade of the Foxton townhouse. A couple emerged from a side street and scurried across the road.
“I told you we shouldn’t tarry, sir—half of London will be awake by now.”
“That’s Lady Stainton and her footman. She’ll be more concerned with being discovered herself to bother with us. I daresay they didn’t even notice us.”
As they approached Number Eight, the front doors opened and a woman appeared, dressed in the eye-watering shade of orange that was currently adorning the ladies who frequented Madame Deliet’s establishment.
She issued a sharp word to the footman, flicked at her cuff as if to remove an invisible fleck of dust, then descended the steps with an air of self-confidence that metamorphosed into arrogance.
The door closed behind her and, after a cursory glance in the Farthing’s direction, she opened her parasol—the same shade of orange as her gown—and set off, her loose-hipped gait the only evidence that she had not been born into the lifestyle she aspired toward.
“Is that…”
“Mrs. Scarlet,” Gerard whispered. “Mrs. Cerise Scarlet.”
“Cherry red,” the Farthing said, approaching the steps that descended to the basement of Number Eight. “Hardly the most imaginative of names.”
“I doubt the master has any interest in her imagination.”
“His Grace would need to be in possession of an imagination himself to appreciate that quality in others.”
“Hush! Do you want him to overhear you? If Mrs. Scarlet has left, he’ll be on his way to the breakfast room. He may even be there right now.”
“He’ll still be dressing. He takes at least an hour to get ready in the morning, whereas Mrs. Scarlet will have perfected the art of putting on her garments in a heartbeat so she can move on as quickly as possible to her next protector.”
“Is not the master paying her for exclusivity?”
“If His Grace expected exclusivity from all the women he took to his bed, there would be no courtesans left over for his friends.”
As they entered the scullery, a bell rang nearby.
“That’ll be the master,” Gerard whispered. “Be quick, now, or he’ll wonder where you’ve got to—and you don’t want the rest of the servants seeing you, especially dressed like that.”
They slipped through the scullery toward the back stairs. Footsteps echoed in the distance, followed by the familiar voice of the duke’s valet issuing orders to the cook.
The Farthing’s stomach growled at the aroma of bacon and deviled kidneys.
“Hurry!”
They ascended the staircase, wincing at the creak of the boards underfoot, then padded along the corridor toward the familiar bedchamber, slipping inside and closing the door behind them.
“Bollocks, eh?” Gerard said. “The master would whip you raw if he heard you using language like that in the house.”
“The Farthing uses such language. I do not—at least not in His Grace’s presence. One of the drawbacks of indentured servitude is that my master can curtail my freedom if I displease him.”
“But you are free.”
“Not in any way that matters.”
At that moment, a clock struck seven notes in the distance—the call to resume duties. A volley of chimes rang out in response, including the mantel clock in the bedchamber. With a sigh, the Farthing untied the mask and tossed it toward the bed. The brief bout of freedom was over.
Ten minutes later, the two of them stepped out of the bedchamber transformed, all evidence of the Farthing and Gerard safely folded away and tucked into a crate, ready to emerge when next required—which happened to be next Tuesday, on Hampstead Heath at dusk, when Sir Henshingly Crawford intended to give Mr. Simon Tewkberry a lesson in manners for having likened Lady Crawford’s face to that of a pug in the process of emptying its bowels.
The duke’s sharp voice could be heard from behind the breakfast room door—admonishing a footman, no doubt. The footman at the door glanced up and straightened his stance before opening the door.
Four more footmen occupied the breakfast room—two guarding the door inside, a third carrying a pot of tea, and the fourth spooning a portion of deviled kidneys onto a plate.
The sole occupant at the breakfast table glanced up, deep-set sapphire eyes gleaming with displeasure. His chiseled features, framed by thick, dark hair the color of a raven’s wing, shifted in an almost imperceptible gesture that still managed to convey admonishment.
“You’re late,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch. “Breakfast is served at seven. You know that.”
“It’s barely five past.”
“If a lady does not arrive on time then she is late,” came the reply, carrying its familiar note of arrogance. “It matters not whether she is five minutes or five hours late—the tardiness is still a manifestation of the utter lack of propriety.”
Manifestation of the utter lack of propriety? Lord save me from arrogant dukes!
His eyes flashed with anger. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said nothing.”
He let out a huff, and nodded toward the place set opposite.
“Sit, then, sister,” he said, then he gestured to one of the footmen.
“Charles, serve Lady Portia her breakfast.”