Chapter Seventeen
T he knock on the door came a short, distraught thirty minutes after Maggie returned home. She’d only just finished telling Alice everything that had occurred and finally been able to talk without crying.
The butler led a tall, gangly man into the drawing room. His clothes were shoddy but respectable, and when he took off his hat, the light from sconces reflected off his greasy, dark hair.
“Mr. Taylor for you, my lady,” the butler said, barely hiding the contempt when he sneered the tall man’s name. “He said it’s urgent.”
Maggie stood alongside her aunt, lost and exhausted. When they approached him as one unit, he didn’t seem to find their frenzied demeanor disturbing or unusual. He held his ground with aplomb, as if this were all a part of the play that he’d helped write.
“I hear you’re missing a dog,” he said, not bothering with formalities. As distraught as she was, Maggie appreciated his forward nature.
“How do you know that?” Alice asked. “My niece has only just told me.”
Taylor smiled, showcasing a gold front tooth. “I make it my business to know these things.”
“What do you want?” Maggie asked. She’d intended more force behind her words, but she felt uncommonly weak, like an entire piece of her body was missing.
Taylor directed a smile at her. “I want to help you make a deal. Come now, ladies such as yourself know how this works.”
They couldn’t argue with him. Dognapping was big business in the city. You couldn’t throw a stone without hitting someone who’d had it happen to them or knew someone who had. That Maggie was still a novice to this occurrence made her unusually lucky.
Alice placed her hand on Maggie’s shoulder, nudging her to step back. “How much do they want?”
“Six pounds.”
Alice gasped. “Six pounds? For a dog?”
“Well, it’s not just any dog, is it?” He nodded to Maggie. “It’s her dog, which makes it invaluable.”
The tears threatened to fall again. Maggie didn’t have six pounds, and she couldn’t ask Alice to pay the ransom for her. She placed her hands over her cheeks, trying to keep her head from spinning. “I don’t have it. But I can get it. I can get a banknote in the morning.”
Taylor shook his head. “No banknotes. Only pounds.”
Alice pushed forward. “I have jewelry. Will the thieves take that?”
“You’re not giving up your jewelry!” Maggie cried.
“Well, we have to do something!” her aunt insisted. She turned back to Taylor. “How much time do we have?”
He reached inside his jacket and took out a card, handing it to Alice. “You have until tomorrow morning. I’ll come back at eight. If you find the money and want to get in touch with me earlier, I can be found in Whitechapel.” He tapped the card. “You can’t bargain with these people, so don’t think about trying. Rest assured, they will kill your dog like that”—he snapped his fingers —“if you go to the police or try any funny business. It’s best to just pay them and get it over with.”
“Just for them to steal him again?” Maggie blurted. “Fanny Albright’s dog was stolen three times last year by the same people, and they asked for a higher ransom each time.” She regarded her aunt helplessly. “And I knew something was wrong. Remember? I told you it felt like people were following me. I kept getting that weird sensation when I would take George out for walks. Wait a minute. Mr. Burnham! Was he a part of this?”
Taylor shrugged. “You’ve got yourself a different kind of dog there, miss. I hear the queen has one just like it. People would go out of their way to snatch a dog like that.”
Maggie felt dirty and disgusting thinking about the letters she’d written. It had all been a lie, just a ruse to get her and George in the right place at the right time for them to steal him. How could she have been so dumb? So myopic? Why had she agreed to meet him away from her house? What had she been thinking ?
Taylor sensed Maggie’s anger in herself. He gave her a patronizing pat on the shoulder. Maggie was too dulled by the situation to flinch. “This is how the world works, miss. There are swindlers everywhere just waiting to take advantage of lonely women. Don’t be too upset at yourself. Besides, what can a girl like you do about it anyway? Just pay them.”
“I’m not lonely,” she whispered.
“Oh, sorry about that.” He chuckled. “I didn’t mean lonely, I meant alone—a woman who was alone. The swindlers keep a close watch on them. Easy pickings, they are, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“So, what do we do now?” Alice asked.
Taylor considered his words, giving each woman another lengthy stare. “I already told you. If you want to see your dog again, your only hope is to pay the six pounds.”
Maggie pulled herself from her depression. “Do you promise he’ll be alive?”
For the first time, the man seemed unsure of himself. “Oh, I can’t do that, miss,” he replied.
Maggie’s ire could not be held at bay any longer. “Then why should I trust you? Why should I rely on you to help us?”
Taylor rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Well, I guess it’s because you have no one else. I’m all you got. And beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”
*
Hours later, when Maggie still hadn’t received word from Michael and she’d cried out all the tears in her body, she determined that Taylor was wrong. The bastard wasn’t all she had. She had others who could help. She also had herself.
And Maggie had never let herself down before. She weighed all her options. She could do as Taylor said and find the money to pay off the thieves, or she could simply take her dog back. It was an audacious plan, but it was something the thieves were not expecting. How many ladies ventured to Whitechapel to steal back their dogs? It was too brazen—maybe even foolhardy—which meant that Maggie would need another fool to help her. And there was only one fool she had in mind.
She didn’t bother leaving a note. If everything went to plan, she’d be back before Alice woke in the morning. And George would be with her.
Fifteen minutes later, Maggie asked the hansom cab to wait and stepped out wearing the black cloak she knew the duke admired so much. It was well past dark, but the garment added a second defense to prying eyes.
She heard peals of laughter on the other side of the door. She pounded as hard as she could.
The door whipped open, and Lord Oliver appeared brandishing a wine goblet. He was shirtless, with unbuttoned trousers that were in very great danger of falling to his feet at any moment. “Finally!” he slurred. “We’ve been waiting much too long for the pleashure of your—” He stopped. His trousers managed to cling to his narrow hips, but Maggie thought his mouth might have hit the ground instead. Hers too, for that matter.
His perennially bloodshot eyes widened to saucers as he tripped out onto the step and swiveled his neck back and forth. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The day had been too terrible to care about good manners. “What the hell are you doing answering your own door… and like that?” Maggie snapped.
Oliver frowned at his lack of attire before answering with a naughty smirk. “This is my home. I can answer the door and dress any way I please.”
Maggie angled her head. Waiting.
Oliver relented. “Fine, I’m entertaining someone. Fine, I’m entertaining a few someones inside.” He sniffed, raising his nose in the air. “And we were waiting for another someone. I thought you were her, but she’d never wear a drab little cloak like that.”
Maggie pulled said garment tighter around herself. “I’m trying to go unnoticed.”
“Brava, well done.”
She sighed. “I came for your help. I need you to take me to Whitechapel.”
Oliver slumped against the doorframe and took a sip of his drink with his wine-stained lips. “Darling, you know what Whitechapel is, yes? You know it’s not the best place for pretty dukes like me and beastly ladies like yourself?”
“Of course I know that, but I still have to go. For George.”
Oliver pondered her for a long moment. “Darling,” he drawled, “I am currently hosting a group of… energetic people tonight. Why don’t we take our little trip to Whitechapel tomorrow? I hear it’s much less bloodthirsty in the daylight. We can help your friend then.”
Maggie balled her fists. Why had she thought this would be a good idea? She’d never wanted to hit someone so much in her life. “Tomorrow will be too late.”
Oliver yawned. “Yes, well, tomorrow is always too late. That’s why I prefer to avoid it as much as possible.”
He was a lost cause, Maggie thought dismally. “Never mind, Your Grace. I’m sorry to take you from your fun.” She spun around and marched back to the cab.
“Well, you don’t have to be all rude about it,” Oliver called after her. “Where’s your precious Michael? Why isn’t he helping you?”
“I don’t need his help,” Maggie yelled over her shoulder. “And I don’t need yours either. I will do this on my own.”
*
Michael laughed at another of Tommy’s jokes. The entire tavern laughed. Michael was positive that he’d already heard the funny story, but he didn’t want to be rude—not when Tommy had been buying his drinks all night. He had lost track of the time hours ago, along with the number of drinks he’d consumed. But it must have been too many, because two Lord Olivers stumbled into the tavern, and neither looked happy to see him.
“You!” the duke said, pointing directly at Michael. “I have to talk to you.”
Tommy rose out of his chair only to tumble back down. “You should congratulate him, Your Grace. We’re celebrating. Mike, here, is set to fight Jack Harrison in two weeks. Get your bets ready.”
Oliver smiled grimly. “I have a feeling Lord Michael might not be alive next week, or even tomorrow, for that matter.”
“What’s he going on about?” Tommy asked, and Michael could only shake his head.
Oliver disregarded the trainer, keeping his tipsy intensity on Michael. “I had a little visitor tonight.”
Tommy shrugged. “Did you really come here to tell us about your whores?”
Oliver struck him with a death glare. “They’re paid companions . Why do men have to be such insufferably cruel arses?”
Michael dragged himself up to his feet, hands on the table to keep his balance. He wasn’t too drunk yet, but he was close. “What about your paid companions, Your Grace?”
“This isn’t about my paid companions! This is about your…” Oliver slammed the table with his palm. “I don’t know what the hell she is to you.”
Michael’s brain cleared. “Maggie? What about her? I was supposed to meet her this afternoon. How the hell did I forget that?”
“Because you’re a son of a bitch,” Oliver replied, “like we all are from time to time. But I thought you might want to know that she mentioned something about wanting to go to Whitechapel tonight. I sent her home, but who knows what a girl like that might do. She’s a tenacious one.”
The blood drained from Michael’s face. Whitechapel? He’d only been away from her for less than a day. What the hell trouble could she have possibly gotten herself into? “Thank you for not taking her,” he said. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t.”
“Well, I was a little busy,” Oliver replied, checking his nails, “and I’m still a little busy, but out of the goodness of my heart, I wanted to find you and make you aware.”
Michael surveyed the man who looked even more worse for wear than usual. He hadn’t shaved in days and his linen shirt was on backward. Michael was shocked he was wearing trousers. “The goodness of your heart, huh?”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “And… my last paid companion never showed up, so I thought I would come here and see if there were any other ladies in the mood to have some fun tonight. They don’t say ‘the more the merrier’ for nothing.”
“You really are a disreputable piece of shit, aren’t you, Your Grace?”
Oliver flashed that smile that said he’d heard it all before and nothing Michael could say would ever harm him. “I most definitely am,” he said with typical good humor. “But at least the ladies that talk about me do it with a smile. You can’t say the same, can you?” His expression hardened. “So, find Maggie. I don’t know if this is just another ruse in her little game with you, but I know many actresses, and I never took her for one.”
“What game? What the hell are you talking about?”
Lord Oliver unearthed his flask from his coat pocket and threw back an interminably long drink. He blinked as if to remember what they were discussing. “Ah, the game… the game… You know the game? The one where she uses me to make you jealous and fall in love with her so that she can squash your heart—that game. Surely you’ve figured it out?” He leaned his hip on the table. “Between the two of us, I don’t think she was ever going to do it. She’s a different sort of girl, I give her that, but she’s not one to go for the jugular. I told her to go for the balls instead, but for some reason, people don’t like to accept my advice. I’ll never know why.”
Michael could have taken a blow to the head and still not be as astonished. “Oliver, focus. Look at me, Your Grace.” He snapped his fingers until the duke stopped swaying. “What are you telling me? Why would she want to break my heart?”
The duke closed his eyes as he chuckled. “Oh, you dear, stupid boy, because you broke hers first. Why else?”