Chapter Seventeen
Bear knew that if he turned up at Fenwick’s wearing a stained and crumpled tailcoat, people would notice. And he didn’t want anyone to notice him. He wanted to slip in, unobserved, and walk about the place unchallenged.
On this occasion, he needed to be every inch the son of a duke.
Therefore, he returned briefly to Fairfield House to wash and change, though every moment spent not searching for Toby felt like a moment wasted. His valet could not lay out clothes quickly enough for him, nor could he bear to sit still while the tangles in his hair were slowly teased out.
“Enough,” he declared, striding back out into the August afternoon wearing an immaculate linen shirt paired with an inconspicuous dark colored waistcoat.
He hailed a carriage and bounded inside, giving the address of the Lyon’s Den.
Then, alone at last, he leaned back against the coarse leather seat, ignored the itch of horsehair poking through his breaches, and let out a deep sigh.
What a couple of days it had been!
And what challenges still lay ahead!
But he would not change a moment, not for anything.
He had never felt so alive as he had since owning his true feelings for Marianne.
The future, still within his grasp, was rosier than he had ever dared imagine.
And he would do whatever it took to find and rescue Toby.
Because Marianne’s son was as essential to her as the air she breathed.
Therefore, he was essential to Bear as well. But if he allowed himself to dwell on memories of the little boy he had met in the park, he knew he could well become overly emotional. For a mission such as this, it was better to stay detached and rational.
He must think of it as a military maneuver.
The carriage jolted over a rut in the road, flinging Benedict back against the narrow, uncomfortable seat. The scar across his hip twinged as if in warning, and he automatically put his hand there, feeling the familiar ridge of scar tissue.
Marianne had not minded his disfigurement.
He recalled their night in the hayloft, and his wide smile banished the ghosts gathering in the darkness at the edge of his mind.
A military maneuver, he reminded himself. One that must be meticulously executed. To that end, he would prefer to operate alone. But he had given Marianne his word that he would not.
Bear gazed out of the carriage window, only dimly aware of the passing houses and squares as they trundled over the cobbled streets of London. He had but one destination in mind, Fenwick’s Gymnasium. Although first he must meet the two men he would take with him.
Jeffrey was the first to come to mind. He was a tall, gangling youth with an obvious fondness for young Toby.
Bear felt instinctively that he could trust Jeffrey.
And if the gardener played his cards right, he would pass unnoticed amongst the similarly aged patrons of the gymnasium.
Pyramus was a different matter entirely, having a face that was familiar to many.
However, Pyramus had the advantage that his face was never questioned.
Deep down, Bear would be pleased to have the seasoned wolf by his side. But he was wary of bringing anyone else into the fold. Of course, if William were still alive, that would be another matter.
He closed his eyes at the customary jolt of pain which seized his chest whenever he thought of his fallen friend.
This time, however, the pain was different.
Still there, but less raw. Less infused with guilt.
Bear could almost imagine William sitting beside him on the cracked leather seat, urging him on with his infectious smile.
The idea made him warm and hopeful.
But he hardly had time to digest this before the carriage pulled up at the familiar, blue-painted house.
He paid the driver and disembarked, feeling the ache of two days riding deep in his calves.
The day’s heat was baked into the roads and buildings.
He could almost see a haze of it flickering before him.
He pushed up his sleeves, uncaring of appearances, and crossed to the agreed meeting point near the back door.
Pyramus melted out of the afternoon’s shadows and greeted him calmly, as if what they were about to do was no more significant than a game of cards.
Bear nodded, understanding the need to remain unremarkable and unobserved.
Jeffrey, he thought, might be more excitable, and he regretted not taking the time to speak to the lad properly before they both departed Fencham House. But when Jeffrey appeared, he was sober and composed in a dark-blue tailcoat and neatly tied cravat.
He will pass, thought Bear.
By mutual agreement, they walked the short distance to the gymnasium together, muttering quietly to confirm their hastily concocted plans.
Bear would be the one to search the upstairs rooms for Toby.
He was the obvious choice, having met the boy already, and by virtue of being Lord Benedict Fairfield, able to stride about London as if his father owned the place—which, much of the time, he actually did.
Pyramus would stay reasonably close, pistols at the ready.
Jeffrey would remain downstairs, mingling and watchful, ready to sound the alarm if need be.
Bear felt the familiar churn of adrenaline beneath his ribs. He recalled his younger days as a uniformed soldier who lived for the thrill of battle, and he sought to channel that once familiar confidence and resolve.
They would succeed. Defeat was simply unthinkable.
All too quickly, they reached their destination.
Jeffrey went inside, Pyramus said he would follow in two minutes, and Bear decided to do a quick walk around the high, narrow building.
Upon arriving home from France, he had attended a number of bare-knuckle fights within these walls.
He was familiar with the wooden gym apparatus inside, and the plastered walls permeated with the scent of male sweat and determination, but he had never paid much attention to the exterior.
Now he saw that the building, once a grand home, had been set into a hill, so that the front was significantly taller than the back.
A row of overgrown shrubs hugged the back wall, giving way to a rather scruffy lawn.
Jeffrey would not approve, mused Bear, thinking of the manicured lawns of Fencham House.
He glanced up at the sky, noting that the sun was descending behind the spire of St Paul’s Cathedral. Evening was coming, and with it the booze-riddled abandon that would see Fenwick’s filled with ill-placed threats and bets.
There was no time to lose.
He slipped inside, immediately feeling the heat of many male bodies packed in together.
Going by the cheers and groans echoing from the main room, there must be a fight underway.
Bear hesitated on the threshold, not wanting to be seen and drawn into conversation with any acquaintances from the Lyon’s Den who may be here.
He spied Jeffrey, leaning nonchalantly against the back wall and sipping a glass of beer.
The youth turned toward him and Bear stiffened with warning, but Jeffrey’s eyes slid over him as if the two had never met.
Before Bear could process his relief, he became aware of a second gaze.
A man with glittering black eyes sat on a wooden bench to his left.
The man’s dark eyes were trained upon him so directly that Bear’s breath caught in his throat.
I have seen this man somewhere before!
Bear didn’t have time to try and unravel this. He forced himself to stare squarely back. A smile flickered around the man’s thin lips before he turned his head and focused his attention on the boxing ring.
Bear looked down at the scuffed floor, telling himself to relax. Tension would do him no favors in the quest ahead.
A group of young men, well into their cups, pushed past, all with shouts of advice for one of the men in the boxing ring.
Bear took advantage of the disruption and slipped up the back staircase, moving with purposeful intent along the narrow stairway.
The smell of beer and tobacco smoke was reminiscent of the Lyon’s Den, though without the sweetening aspect of perfume.
He emerged onto a dimly lit landing, dotted with grimy windows and on the opposite side, a row of closed wooden doors. What now?
If he knocked or pushed at each of the doors, surely some nearby servant would hear and come to investigate.
Bear remembered an army major telling his band of new recruits that in times of difficulty, often the best course of action was to stand still and listen.
Breathing as quietly as he could, he crossed to the first door, pressed his ear to the wood, and listened.
Nothing.
Bear moved to the second door.
Nothing.
Quelling his growing impatience, he walked to the next door in the line. Before he had properly positioned himself, he heard a familiar piping voice coming through the thin walls.
“But why hasn’t Mamma come to find me yet?”
A rush of adrenaline made Bear act in haste. He reached for the door handle, twisted it and barreled into the room. His shock at finding the door unlocked was matched only by what he found inside.
Toby, his hair uncombed and his rosy cheeks smudged with dirt, sat cross-legged on a narrow mattress. An older woman, with gray hair pulled into a bun, sat on a wooden chair beside him. The woman was knitting while Toby was occupied with a ball-and-cup.
“The Lord protect us,” the woman gasped, surprise stamped all over her pale features.
Toby blinked slowly and then smiled. “Bear.”
Under the circumstances, Bear was disproportionately pleased to be so quickly recognized. He smiled back at the little boy. “Are you hurt, Toby?”
He shook his head vigorously. “No. But Nanny says we can’t leave here and I want to go home.” His voice quavered on the last word, but his gaze remained defiant, and Bear felt his heart softening.