Chapter Three
Lawrence winced. “Not so hard!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to fix this cut a little more gently?” asked Alan in a growl. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to get utterly—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Lawrence said hastily, raising up a bandaged hand.
His digs in Endell Street were only just large enough for two people, but it had been impossible to clean the cut on the back of his head properly.
Another souvenir gained after staying late in the boxing ring without his boxing coach. Another mistake.
And another night, he thought privately, Miss Julia Dryden had not appeared.
Not that he had been looking for her. Obviously. No matter what Lawrence might want, the place was far too dangerous for a lady, let alone one that beautiful.
“Stay still!”
Lawrence raised both hands in mock surrender as his friend gently dabbed at the cut with fresh cotton. It stung, but not as much as his twofold disappointment.
Firstly, that the blaggard John Mortimer had still not returned to the Almonry Den. It was outrageous. No one had ever said to Lawrence that he would have to stay here for weeks, let alone months.
“You could always return home,” murmured Alan, as though able to see into his mind.
Lawrence’s jaw tightened. “And admit defeat?”
“You’re getting defeated plenty enough in the ring,” Alan pointed out. “Why not go back to Penshaw, be the duke again, live in fine—”
“Because that bastard killed my brother,” Lawrence spat, trying to keep still to prevent the searing pain from rushing through his neck. “You know that. When he stole those secrets from my brother, killing him in the process, I made a promise. And I don’t back down from a fight.”
He could hear rather than see Alan shake his head and sigh, but he knew the man agreed with him. Neither of them would permit John Mortimer to return to England and return to his old tricks of murder and treason.
Besides, returning home to the safety and seclusion of Penshaw up in the north had been a tantalizing offering just a few days ago. Something he had thought dreamily about in the early hours of the morning when he returned to his digs, another day wasted.
It had been.
Now his thoughts were otherwise engaged, with the face of a beautiful woman…
“We only guessed he would be coming back to the Almonry Den.”
Lawrence sighed heavily. He could not deny Alan’s words, but that did not mean he had to like them. “I know.”
“And no one has recognized you?”
It was an important question. In fact, it had been Lawrence’s first concern when he had agreed to put his boxing skills to the test and slip undercover in the murky world of London’s fighting class.
The whole cover would be blown if someone from the gentry decided to lower themselves for an evening and spotted the notorious Duke of Penshaw in the ring.
Lawrence shook his head as Alan stepped around him. “No, I do not think so.”
Though he spoke the truth, a strange twist enveloped his stomach.
Well, Miss Dryden and her brother were gentry, it was true. That had surprised him, seeing two people of quality there, but he was not wrong. Lawrence could recognize the signs of good breeding from a hundred paces, and the two of them were well-to-do, even if they had no titles to speak of.
Yet they had not recognized him.
Lawrence blew out a heavy breath. At least, they had not said anything. There had been no glint of recognition in her eyes; that was surely the reason he had looked into them so deeply…
“Lawrence?”
He started. Alan had clicked his fingers before the duke, a wry grin on his face.
“That’s Penshaw to you,” jested Lawrence, ignoring the momentary loss of concentration.
It had been a point of debate between them when they had first met. Lawrence had stiffly requested that when alone, he would be addressed as Penshaw. A compromise, he had thought. Not so formal as “Your Grace,” but not so familiar as to astound anyone.
After six months, it hardly mattered.
“Mr. Penshaw,” Alan said, eyes twinkling. “I’m off.”
“Off?” Lawrence repeated. Had he missed part of the conversation? Had the memories of Julia—of Miss Dryden—distracted him that much?
A woman with those features was likely distracting people everywhere she went…
Alan clicked his fingers again. “Damnit man, how hard were you hit yesterday?”
Lawrence sighed. “Hard enough to know better. Go on with you, spend your afternoon as you will. I’ll see you this evening.”
“Six o’clock sharp,” his boxing coach warned with a wagging finger. “I don’t want to have to apologize any longer for your tardiness!”
It was all Lawrence could do not to laugh. “I’ll make a note.”
The digs were quiet after Alan shut the door behind him. Well, digs. Lawrence snorted. He could never have imagined before he had taken on this assignment, that anyone could survive in such measly accommodation.
Two rooms. One he had turned into his bedchamber, the room just large enough to fit a single bed, the other a mixture of parlor, kitchen, and drawing room.
Lawrence sighed heavily and leaned back in the armchair he had managed to buy for a shilling. The stuffing was partly gone on one side, but the embroidery had kept the rest intact. It was far more comfortable than the wooden chair he had found in the rooms when he had taken them.
To think, his butler’s chambers were more luxurious than this!
A prickle of nostalgia crept into his heart. Though he tried to push it away, it overwhelmed him. Penshaw Place. A beautiful manor, hundreds of miles away.
Thank goodness his sister was there to look after it—although, Lawrence thought with a start, she would be in town now, wouldn’t she? Here, in London.
Goodness, the very thought…
At least their paths would not cross. Lawrence groaned as he moved to the window, seeking something to distract him. No, no self-respecting lady would deign to be seen anywhere on Endell Street—
Something caught his eye.
A bonnet. Slightly larger than fashionable, though Lawrence was often behind when it came to women’s styles—why did they have to change so blasted often?—with a blue ribbon edging it that was remarkably familiar.
Familiar? Lawrence blinked. He had seen no ladies of repute for so long, how could it possibly be…
His stomach left his chest, falling past his knees and down to the floor.
Miss Julia Dryden.
It was definitely her. No one else had those sparkling eyes, glittering even from this distance, no one else held themselves like that, proud yet curious.
She was out of her depth. Lawrence’s jaw fell open as he watched her serenely stride down the street, no chaperone in sight, then swiftly duck through a doorway and into…
Into the Almonry Den.
Lawrence’s temple throbbed. He had taken these rooms for just such a view. Perhaps he would spot Mortimer not from the ring itself, but from his rooms.
But he couldn’t just stay here, he told himself frantically as he searched around the room for his coat, while Julia—while Miss Dryden was in there alone. It wasn’t safe.
A slow smile crept across his face as he hurried down the stairs out onto the bustling street. She had managed to give her brother the slip, at any rate, which rather endeared her to him.
Not that he should be thinking about such a woman. Not that he should be thinking of any woman.
No, Lawrence told himself as he crossed the street, narrowly missing a cart hellbent on accelerating through a crowd rather than avoiding it. He needed to concentrate. He was a duke in danger here, a spy, a man undercover.
All he needed to think about was—
“Ah, Lawrence,” Julia said brightly the moment he stepped into the Almonry Den. “I wondered if I would find you here.”
Lawrence swallowed. All words slipped down his gullet.
What could he say?
Sunlight was spearing through the windows—not all still filled with glass—and poured past Julia, illuminating her like an angel. If an angel was wearing a matching pelisse to her bonnet, an umbrella tucked on her arm, and a reticule on the other.
If an angel could have such luxurious hair, escaping her hair pins. If an angel had curves like—
“Lawrence?”
Lawrence blinked. He was starting to make a habit of this lack of attention, and it did not bode well.
Particularly when he would have to step into the ring tonight.
“Julia,” he said, then cleared his throat. “I mean, Miss Dryden.”
The beaming smile on the woman told Lawrence she was pleased to be addressed by her first name.
It went against his character, all his training. Why, Lawrence had not even known his governess had a first name until he was sent to school and made to sign a letter of thanks his father had drawn up.
Only after asking who Vivienne was did he realize that ladies had more than a surname. Miss Clarke was also a Vivienne. Most unsettling.
But Julia…
Miss Dryden, Lawrence reminded himself. Julia suited her better. Which was a pity, for he would absolutely follow propriety now. No duke would do anything less.
“Miss…” Lawrence hesitated.
Yes, that would be what a duke would do. Yet he was here pretending not to be a duke. That was the whole point.
It had never occurred to him before, but only as he stood before the beautiful woman—not that he was looking—did Lawrence realize he had been treating this undercover business wrong from the start.
He had seen it as a frustration, a reason to grow bitter, all the rights and privileges due to him, as Duke of Penshaw, stripped away.
But only now did he see that it was quite the opposite.
Why, he was free. Free from rules and restrictions, free to speak his mind, utter an opinion without worrying about whether it would offend.
He could eat pies, drink beer, laugh at bawdy jokes, and call Miss Dryden…
“Julia,” Lawrence said with a slow smile. “I was surprised to see you enter the Almonry Den, so took it upon myself to…well. Hello.”
“Hello,” said Julia, blushing prettily.
Lawrence’s mouth went dry. No, this was ridiculous. He was no green gilled fool of one and twenty; he was near thirty! Had seen plenty of pretty women in his time, had danced with them, kissed them, bedded a few.