The Duchess and the Phantom (A Gentleman’s Gambit #3)
Chapter 1
White’s, London
“What in God’s name possessed you to step in between a drunk husband and the man who defiled his wife?” Keaton Finch, Earl of Blackhill, glared at Vincent as he held out a block of ice wrapped in cloth.
Wincing, Vincent took the ice from his friend and placed it on his jaw.
His shirt was ripped, the sleeve hanging at an awkward tilt off his shoulder; he’d tugged his cravat off because it felt like it was strangling him, and his cutaway jacket was thrown over the back of the chair he was sitting in.
Thank the devil this billiards room at White’s was empty on a Wednesday night because he truly did not need to see his name splashed across every newspaper in London.
“I was trying to cross the room, not play interceder,” he corrected.
“And who was so important that you got a facer for it?” Benedict Lockhart, Baron of Tomstrong, barely held back his mirth.
Unwilling to admit that he’d been seeking a man named Ernest Weaver, the steward of the bastard Gibbs Custor—London’s most elusive moneyman—Vincent fought to find a reasonable excuse.
His friends did not know the history Gibbs Custor had with his family and his late father, and Vincent intended to keep it that way.
It had taken Vincent a while to dig up anything on the steward, until his investigator had found a curious lead: that the man was up to his beady eyeballs in debt and frequented an unsavory tavern, feeding his gambling compulsion.
Before going to meet the doddering merry-begot, Vincent had expected that he’d find the man, get the information he needed, and be on his merry way to reconvene with his friends all before eight. It was midnight now, and to say things had gone awry was an understatement.
Before he could reply, Benedict pressed another question, “More to the point, why were you in Soho and at that tavern of ne’er-do-wells at all? I don’t recall you playing Henry the Fourth. We’d expected you at Whites hours ago, and the investor left with you being absent.”
Vincent pressed the ice to his stinging eye and sighed internally. “…It was spur-of-the-moment.”
He did not have to peek up to know that both his friends were sharing an odd look, questioning his sanity.
They knew he never acted on impulses and that spontaneity was not in his blood.
Moreover, he had been seeking this particular investor to open his shipping business for months now, and now he had lost that opportunity, too.
“I can practically feel the two of you wondering when you should take me to bedlam,” Vincent scowled.
“We are,” Keaton replied calmly, but he gazed at Vincent with those barrister eyes that Vincent hated. It felt as if Keaton’s gaze was a scalpel, sliding under his skin. “You are structured down to the last minute of your day. When do you ever do anything by spur-of-the-moment?”
“Need I remind you about last summer when you took off to Bath with no explanation?” Vincent leveled a one-eyed glare at Keaton before shifting to Benedict.
“And you. Remind me why we had to rig a fountain to erupt to stall Lord Mercer from going inside his home and finding you with his wife?” He pulled the ice away before pressing it to a sorer spot. “And that was after you swore to us you would leave her alone.”
Benedict, like the unrepentant rake he was, shrugged. “I had fun that night.”
“And if Mercer had found you, you wouldn’t have seen morning,” Vincent said plainly.
Bursting out a laugh, Benedict finished, “Which is why I am glad I have you two.”
The faint rumble of a spring rainstorm came through the thick brick walls. Vincent shot a quick look at the window, grimacing at the sight of rolling grey clouds that merged in the pitch-black sky.
Capital, he thought dryly. And I took my horse instead of the carriage. I suppose getting wet is the fitting topping on the most miserable, unproductive day.
Pulling the ice from his eye, Vincent blinked once and twice to clear his vision before rising. “I should get home.”
“I should get home too.” Benedict eyed the window. “I do not want my new phaeton to be waterlogged.”
“Need a ride home, old boy?” Keaton asked.
Rubbing his temple, Vincent shook his head. “No, but thank you. I’m going to ride home like the devil’s hounds are on my heels. Grosvenor Park is not so far from here.”
Another rumble of thunder, harder this time, had Vincent’s head snapping to the window again. To Keaton, he asked, “Do you think you can get your contact back in a few days?”
“I can try,” Keaton shrugged. “Wilburn is a busy man, and he is slated to go off to Scotland this week.”
“Whenever you can arrange it, I’d appreciate it,” Vincent sighed while raking a hand through his hair.
Standing, he strode down the hallway and passed the gas-lamp-lit foyer, while a trio of men stepped in, one of them almost bumping into him.
“My apologies,” the man dipped his head; the burnished red of his hair looked like brass under the light.
Unwilling to linger, Vincent nodded curtly. “Please, excuse me.”
He stepped into the dark street and swiftly retrieved his horse from a stable nearby. At eighteen hands, his pure black Shire—save for the white streak on his nose—was an intimidating creature.
Before swinging into the saddle, he paused to rub the horse’s nose. “I hope you are in for a quick ride, Colossus.”
With the horse nickering, Vincent began plotting his next move of getting his hands on Weaver. The rumbles got louder and, on the horizon, too close for his comfort, thin bolts of lightning carved the sky in two.
Eyeing the sky, he spurred the horse into a gallop, hoping to beat the worst of the rains, but two lanes down, he lost the battle. A soft mist quickly developed into a battering downpour, and he’d eventually given up the fight against Mother Nature, falling into a canter instead.
As he trotted down a lane heading to Grosvenor, he spotted a woman huddled into her cloak, hurrying down the lane. She was possibly a washerwoman or a maid who had left her place of employ at the worst of times.
His gaze swung back to the road—only to be jerked back to the woman as she frantically threw her head over her shoulder, once… twice… four times.
What was she looking for?
Was she running from something?
He was up the road from her, and while the rain had grown harder, it was not so severe that he couldn’t see. A shadow emerged from around a corner just then, tall, hulking, and clearly male. The young woman looked over her shoulder again and picked up her pace.
Vincent dug his heels into Colossus’s side, wordlessly telling him to halt and be still. Immediately, the horse obeyed, and Vincent fixed his eyes on the woman.
She was quite petite, even from the short distance, and Vincent knew she was no match for the footpad following her. Before he knew it, he was off the horse and fishing in his saddlebag for the pistol he kept there.
As she broke into a sprint, the footpad lurched forward and snatched at her cloak. Vincent still had ten feet to cover before he got to her, and just as he expected her to succumb to the blackguard’s grip—the girl spun and shoved a fist in the man’s face.
The footpad jolted back, clearly not expecting a fight, but while he rocked on his heels, she drew back her booted foot and kicked outward. Her heel cracked into the man’s gut.
Oddly, Vincent fell impressed. For a little thing, she had some fight in her.
Once again, the sod lurched to grab her, “You little bit—”
Vincent cocked the gun from five feet away. “I would reconsider my next move carefully if I were you.”
Blackened teeth reared their repulsive head as the man sneered and wrapped a hand around the woman’s middle. “Mind yer business guv’. This had nothin’ to do wif you. This lightskirt here cheated me of me coins.”
“I am not a prostitute!” the girl struggled to rip his grubby hands away from her. “Let me go!”
“Do as she says, or I shall see you laid dead where you stand.”
“You cannot—”
Furious, Vincent let out a shot that slammed into the wall behind the two, and instantly, the man let out a cry of terror.
He dropped the poor girl and backed away so fast that he slipped on the slick pavement.
Still, he staggered to his feet and hightailed it around the corner, apparently grateful to have his life.
With the man gone, Vincent turned to the young woman, his chest pained at the terror still marring her beautiful face. She looked so… delicate with her high cheekbones and arched brows. “Are you all right now, miss?”
She shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle. Chest heaving, she managed to whisper, “Yes, thanks to you, my lord.”
He looked down the street and over his shoulder. “Where can I take you? You really shouldn’t be out in these streets so late, and this storm is only going to worsen.”
The girl shook her head. “You really do not need to—” A jagged fork of lightning carved the sky in two, and the terrifying roll of thunder had her jumping.
“I don’t think you understand,” he said stiffly. “I was not asking. It is now incumbent on me to get you somewhere safe.”
A thick fall of rain that blanketed them must have broken her resolve as she nodded at last. “I do not live too far from here, sir.”
He ushered her to his horse and easily set her on the saddle before grasping the cantle and swinging himself into the seat. With a swift heel to the horse’s side, the steed leaped into a run, and he held the young woman fast to his chest.