Chapter 6 #2
He rapped on the roof, vaulted from the carriage as it rolled to a stop on the crowded street, and crossed the road without a word to his coachman.
Daphne wasn’t sure how much money he gave the woman, or what he said to the child as he crouched and pressed something shiny into her hand, but he returned with the entire basket.
She might have commented on the kind gesture, but she was too busy trying to breathe evenly and ignore the ache in her heart.
The scoundrel.
Why could he not be cutting and cruel?
Why offer a glimpse of the man beneath the facade?
To make matters worse, he said, “A gift for Mrs Haggert.”
Just as she felt the prick of rejection, he found the only white rose in the basket, brought it to his nose, and handed it to her. “For you, Miss Harland.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest. She should toss it back and accuse him of mockery, but her fingers closed around the stem.
Good Lord. He was the devil.
An enticing devil.
One who knew how to soften a romantic’s heart.
“No man has ever given me a rose.”
“Perhaps they feared you might slap their face with it.”
“Only if the gesture were insincere.”
He smiled, but it faded as the vehicle turned into Little Earl Street and stopped at the entrance to Monmouth Court, a narrow passage hemmed in by smoke-dark walls.
He took her arm, not her hand, and helped her alight. “What’s said here remains between us. If you want to live at Shadowmere, trust is the only currency that counts.”
She nodded. To profess too much might make her sound desperate for his approval. “Of course.”
The two boys blocking the entrance to the passage knew him. Though they stood firm in their boots, like soldiers guarding a general’s tent, they doffed their caps.
“Looking sharp as ever, Mr Hawke,” one said with a cheeky grin.
Daphne silently agreed.
The other was already wiping his sweaty palm on his trousers, anticipating the sovereign Mr Hawke would toss his way.
“Give this basket to Mrs Haggert and tell her I request an audience. It can’t wait. I need to leave London today.”
The warning note in his voice had her curling her hands into fists against her skirts. She scanned the street behind her, the rowdy laughter from the drunken men outside the tavern setting her nerves on edge.
Had she been in the company of a gentleman, she might have slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. As it was, she didn’t dare touch Mr Hawke. Not if she hoped to keep her sanity.
The older of the two boys narrowed his eyes at her. “Mrs Haggert will want to know you’ve brought company. Pretty company, at that.”
“Tell her I’m here with Miss Harland.”
That sufficed. The younger boy scampered away with the basket, careful not to drop the flowers, and disappeared into a house at the end of the passage.
That’s when Mr Hawke touched her again, his long fingers grazing her elbow as he bent to whisper in her ear. “Mrs Haggert won’t mince words. Hold your nerve. But be respectful.”
Beneath the lingering trace of bergamot was the warm, clean scent of his skin, and it unsettled her more than the chaos in the street.
She turned her head a fraction. He was so close her heart galloped. So close she could see slivers of gold in his dark green eyes, the faint crease beside one brow, the tension in his jaw.
“I’ve waltzed with you and survived, sir.”
His gaze dipped to her lips. “Our dance isn’t over, Miss Harland.”
“It’s not?”
“You know damn well it’s not.”
He released her, stepping away as the boy returned.
“Mrs Haggert will see you now, Mr Hawke.”
His words echoed through her mind as they followed the boy to the house at the end of the grimy passage.
A thin, skeletal man in a pristine coat opened the door and showed them into a comfortable drawing room.
The dark walls and velvet chairs reminded her of Shadowmere, rich, worn, and full of secrets.
They sat beside each other on the settee, waiting as the mantel clock ticked amid the silence. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. He lounged with his legs spread wide, a picture of casual dominance.
She couldn’t take her eyes off his knee, its nearness a maddening distraction. Every time he shifted in the seat, anticipation curled tighter in her belly.
Our dance isn’t over.
It’s not?
You know damn well it’s not.
What did she know? That he found peculiar reasons to visit the cottage. That there was weight to their silences. That something unspoken hovered between them. That she looked forward to the carriage ride home. Even if he slept the whole way.
The door creaked open.
A woman’s voice, dry as kindling, cut through the quiet.
“Well. Well. What have we here? A murderess on the run, is it?”
Mrs Haggert kept abreast of all London gossip.
Running a criminal organisation required staying one step ahead of the peelers. Which meant she already knew of Harland’s death, and that they were both potential suspects.
A cold hollow opened in Dominic’s gut.
He could take care of himself. But Sergeant Carter seemed too eager to see someone behind bars, and Miss Harland was a convenient target.
“She’s innocent,” he said, rising to greet the woman who’d come to his aid when he was a boy. Her hair was grey now, not black; her cheeks pink with rouge, not a healthy blush.
She had more secrets than Shadowmere.
He’d long suspected she worked for the Crown and wasn’t the villain most people feared. But he never asked questions. Never pried.
“Aren’t we all?” Mrs Haggert beckoned her closer. “Let me take a good look at you. I’ll know if you did it, mind. If you tossed your poor papa into the Thames.”
Miss Harland met her gaze without flinching. “I would have done anything to escape his clutches. Anything but kill him.”
He didn’t expect her to cower, but damn if he didn’t feel a flicker of pride.
“We’ll see, deary. We’ll see.” Mrs Haggert took hold of her chin and peered into her eyes. “Has he touched you? Has he used that rugged charm to have his way? I wouldn’t blame you if you’d succumbed. There’s few what could resist him.”
Miss Harland blinked. “Who?”
“Hawke. Who else?”
Had Dominic been drinking coffee, he’d have spit it out.
“He’s never brought a lady to the hen house.”
Miss Harland frowned. “The hen house?”
“This is the coop,” Dominic said, wondering if the world felt vast to her now that she’d lost her only anchor. “A haven for Mrs Haggert’s chicks, children without parents. The ones left to wander the streets alone, often blind to the dangers.”
“Foxes are ten a penny in these parts,” Mrs Haggert said with a world-weary air, “and they don’t just roam the city at night.”
“They often congregate in London ballrooms,” Miss Harland replied, which earned a chuckle from their hostess. “I hear White’s is overrun with them.”
“Likely you’ve met your fair share.” Mrs Haggert’s gaze fell to the full bosom Dominic was having trouble ignoring. “You’ve a figure men would easily admire. Including Hawke, I’d wager.”
“Mr Hawke and I are barely friends,” she countered.
“Ah, so you have thought about bedding him.”
He stilled, eager for the answer, but Mrs Haggert was done playing games. “Sit down, the pair of you, and tell me why you’re here. It ain’t as if I’m short of problems already. I may as well add another to the list.”
Dominic revealed nothing but the necessary details. His deal with the enquiry agent, the letter naming Harland as his mother’s lover, the waltz, the kiss. Acquiring a new maid, though he had never expected to see Miss Harland again, let alone house her in a cottage.
Mrs Haggert tutted. “I hope you paid Daventry for the information. He’ll have you by the danglers till you do.” She looked at Miss Harland and gave a toothy grin. “You’ve got some pluck, girl. I’ll give you that.”
“What else does a lady have but her wits, ma’am?”
“You’ve got more than enough to recommend you. Tell her, Hawke. She could have her pick of the plums.”
“Not her pick,” he corrected. “Some men like the docile types.”
Mrs Haggert gave the air a nudge and a wink. “Not you, though. It’d take someone with gumption to stir your pot.”
“Enough about plums and pots,” he barked.
Mrs Haggert snapped her spine straight. “Watch your tone, laddie. You ain’t too tall to get a clip round the ear.” She turned to Miss Harland. “The week I took care of him, he never said boo to a goose.”
Bloody hell.
Coming here had been a mistake.
Miss Harland was on it like a terrier sniffing out a burrow. “Mr Hawke stayed in the hen house? When?”
“How old were you?” The matron pursed her lips. “Eight?”
“Ten,” he said reluctantly. “I was small for my age.”
Mrs Haggert cackled. “You wouldn’t credit it, would you, deary? Look at those thighs. Thick enough to make an oak look spindly.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed,” Miss Harland lied.
Best he rectify that. She’d be pumping the water the next time he washed. It was only right she earned her keep.
Mrs Haggert glanced at the mantel clock. “You’d better get to the point. I’ve somewhere else to be this afternoon.”
Miss Harland spoke up, tucking that distracting dark curl behind her ear. “My father owed money to the Moseley brothers, and we wondered if that’s who killed him. We were hoping you might arrange a meeting.”
The comment was met with a high-pitched whistle. “Happen you should visit the coffin-maker on Monmouth Street, unless you’ve got ten thousand sovereigns hidden in a chest.”
The colour drained from Miss Harland’s face like water from a cracked glass. “Ten thousand?”
He’d known the number would be steep. Men like Harland never gambled small.
“That’s what he owes, deary, give or take.”
Miss Harland’s fingers curled into the plush velvet of her seat. He noticed the tension in her grip before she spoke. “I haven’t a penny. My aunt is my only living relative. But I’m sure—”
“You can’t visit your aunt,” he said. The Moseley brothers would round up all family members. “Sergeant Carter will have a man watching her house.”
Mrs Haggert gave a slow, pitying shake of her head. “Happen you should visit your aunt. The only way to save your neck is to clear your father’s debt. There’s a ship that docks down near Fobbing Marshes. I’m told many young women find themselves aboard, bound for distant shores.”
Mrs Haggert wasn’t exaggerating.
He had seen girls vanish before. Spirited away in the dead of night, sold into god-knows-what by desperate kin or scheming debt collectors, always too late to stop it. Miss Harland would wish she’d married her merchant suitor.
“I’ll pay the debt,” he said sharply.
Mrs Haggert grinned like she’d found a silver sixpence in the plum pudding. “You? But Miss Harland hasn’t a hope of repaying you.”
“She can consider it recompense for her part in the plan.” A man needed a clear conscience to sleep at night.
“Well, well. That’s mighty generous. And you’re barely friends, too. I’d keep the news close to your chest before there’s a stampede of ladies hoping you’ll ruin them.”
He was glad he couldn’t hear Mrs Haggert’s thoughts. She knew firsthand how generous he could be to those facing hardship. He contributed to the upkeep of the hen house whenever he was in town. But this gesture might be easily misconstrued.
Mrs Haggert gripped the arm of the chair and stood. “I’ll see if the Moseley brothers are willing to parley. Until then, you’d best lie low. There’s a costume shop in Long Acre, deary. Maybe think about getting a disguise.”
Dominic rose, as did Miss Harland.
But he wasn’t quite ready to leave.
“Miss Harland has concerns regarding her father’s involvement. That he wasn’t my mother’s only lover.” The last word lodged in his throat. “I know my mother confided in you.”
The slight twitch of the matron’s brow was a mild reprimand. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. My word is my bond. I never break a confidence.”
Anger flared. “Not even when Miss Harland’s life is in danger?”
“I can’t be accountable for everyone’s mistakes.” She clasped Dominic’s upper arm with her bony fingers, her rings dull with age but worn like weapons. Only a fool would mistake her for frail. “You’ve the strength to take on a Roman battalion. Maybe it’s time you called in a few debts.”
“Are you suggesting I blackmail the good men of the ton?”
“Lives are in danger, you said. You’ve not welcomed the debauched into your home for nothing.”
Dominic held Mrs Haggert’s gaze for a moment, recognising the truth in her words.
Those who partied at Shadowmere paid handsomely to indulge their sins. He knew their wicked deeds, their scandalous secrets. He kept the worst of them on paper, locked in his study.
Power was a currency.
And he intended to spend it.