Your Grace!” The shout, accompanied by the sound of pounding hoofbeats, broke his thoughts. August looked up in the late-afternoon light to find Miss Baker flying toward him on a lathered horse, her short curls disheveled, her expression panicked.
August vaulted over the stone fence of the sheep enclosure, reaching for the reins of his own horse as Miss Baker reined hers to a sliding stop.
“YourGraceyouneedtocome.” Her words were breathless and hard to understand as her horse danced sideways.
“Steady, Miss Baker.” He caught hold of her horse’s reins in his free hand.
“There are soldiers at the Silver Swan,” she said, making a visible effort to speak more clearly. “They’re tearing it t’ pieces.”
“What?” August froze for a moment before he let go of Miss Baker’s animal and swung himself up into his own saddle. “Why?”
“They’re lookin’ for smuggled goods hidden there. They’re sayin’ they got anon—amenen—”
“Anonymous?”
She nodded her head, her eyes wide. “Anonymous information stating so.”
“What are they looking for?”
“They wouldn’t say. But they’re makin’ a terrible mess.”
August cursed under his breath as his horse surged forward, Miss Baker right behind him. Anonymous information his ass. He might not live on the coast of Kent, but he knew very well that almost every soul on its chalky edges was quite aware of the covert trading that went on all along the shores. And if they weren’t involved, either directly or indirectly, at the very least they certainly had a family member or a friend who was.
And there were very few who were willing to sabotage a system that often offered their only means of survival.
He had no idea why the Silver Swan had been targeted, but it didn’t matter. August urged his horse to greater speed. If he hadn’t already been spoiling for a fight with an officer who let his troops use children for target practice, he certainly was now.
It didn’t take them long to reach the town. He slowed his horse only enough to navigate the busy main road that ran parallel to the harbor. Within minutes he’d reached the Silver Swan, the commotion audible even before he pulled his winded horse to a stop in the chaotic stable yard. Soldiers milled about, boxes of supplies that had been dragged from the rear storehouses strewn across the yard. Near the stables two soldiers were bent over a large crate, tools being tossed carelessly from its confines. A third soldier stood in front of Miss Baker’s brothers, keeping them immobile against the exterior stable wall with the threat of his gun. From somewhere in the stables, a loud crash could be heard.
August dismounted, leaving the animal with Miss Baker, his fury rising with every passing second. Nearer the rear of the tavern, where the kitchens were accessible by large doors that led through an attached storage building, a cacophony of angry voices rose. He stalked forward and yanked the heavy door wide. And stared.
The interior of the kitchens was in shambles, much like the stable yard. Pots and pans had been left in haphazard piles, and a handful of soldiers were still hauling items from the depths of the cupboards. Crates of produce had been opened and emptied, the contents of the pantry shelves scattered across the surface of the large wooden table that had been dragged to the side amid broken crockery. Where the table should have been, covertly hinged pieces of floorboards had been thrown wide, exposing a deep, gaping hole that August hadn’t known existed.
Charleaux, usually unflappable, was standing on the far side, snatching items from soldiers and cursing loudly in French. His customarily dapper appearance was disheveled, his trim frame almost vibrating with anger. In the center of the disaster, a bulldog of an officer stood, his meaty fist wrapped around the nape of a familiar threadbare coat. The man was sweating profusely, but an unpleasant smile of satisfaction had crept across his broad face. The boy in his grip struggled, much as he had once done in August’s grasp in a shadowed hedgerow before he had darted away. But all of that was not what had August gaping.
Between the officer and August, two women inexplicably stood, blocking the officer’s exit. The one with the dark hair so like his had her hands on her hips, her posture stiff with ire in a way he had seen many times before. The woman closest to him, with the mahogany hair, had her hand extended as if she could stop him from leaving with his prize.
He strode forward, coming to a stop beside her.
“What seems to be the problem here, Miss Hayward?”
* * *
Clara froze at the sound of August’s voice, her nape prickling in sudden awareness. Anne’s head whipped around, and her eyes widened slightly. The officer restraining the boy turned, an unpleasant sneer on his face. Across the room Charleaux fell silent, his face flushed in ire. The soldiers who were still pillaging the kitchens paused in their mission, their attention transferred to the commanding newcomer who stood utterly still in their midst.
The tavern and Anne had been Clara’s last stop for the afternoon, as she’d checked in with her other students already. She hadn’t been at the Silver Swan long enough for Anne and Charleaux to pull out the accounting ledgers before all hell had broken loose. Soldiers had streamed in as patrons had scrambled out. And Clara and Anne had been left trying to slow the carnage.
“There seems to be some confusion,” Clara replied with a coolness she wasn’t feeling. She and Anne could talk and plead and beg all they wanted, but if this red-coated officer and his troops wanted to destroy the Silver Swan and then leave with a terrified child, there was little they could do to stop them. If ever there was a time for August Faulkner to be an unyielding, entitled, power-hungry duke, now would be it.
“I’ve noticed.” August’s voice was hard enough to cut diamonds, and never had he sounded so perfectly ducal. “And I must say that I take great umbrage at the manner in which this property is being treated.”
He didn’t acknowledge Anne or let on that their presence was anything but expected. A measure of relief flooded through Clara. Clearly there would be a time of reckoning for her and Anne, but it was not now. Not given the scene before them.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “You cheat the king, you don’t deserve any other sort of treatment.”
“And what, exactly, makes you believe that anyone here is cheating the king?”
“I have information that says so.”
“From where?” August inquired pleasantly.
“What?”
“From where or from whom did you receive your information? Because I fear that your source is badly in error.”
“The cavity concealed in the floor begs to disagree. Big enough to store at least five dozen tubs smuggled ashore.”
“I don’t see any tubs.”
“Doesn’t mean there weren’t any before we arrived.”
“I’m sure there were hundreds.”
The captain’s mouth dropped open slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
“This tavern has been here for generations, Captain. It’s not unreasonable to think that it has, at some point in the past, been used to store ill-gotten gains. However, this establishment is now under new ownership.” August paused. “You may want to take that into consideration when flinging about accusations.”
The captain’s sneer faltered slightly. “And who might you be, exactly?” he demanded, his close-set eyes traveling the length of August, taking in his somewhat dusty, unassuming appearance.
“Ah. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Duke of Holloway. The current owner of this establishment and, curiously enough, a friend of the king.” He paused. “May I have the courtesy of your name?”
Clara took a moment to enjoy the sight of the color leaching from the captain’s face, as petty as it was.
The officer cleared his throat. “Captain Buhler.”
“Then I would appreciate it, Captain Buhler, if you would remove your men from my property before they do any more damage.” August paused and Clara saw him eye the collar of the boy’s ragged coat, still twisted mercilessly in the officer’s hand.
Clara didn’t know who the painfully thin, disheveled child was, but she had her suspicions. And the duke was once again in the right place at the right time.
“Additionally, I insist that you release the child.” August’s pretense of civility had been lost.
Clara studied the duke from the corner of her eye, struck not by the coldness of that demand, but by the bleakness that accompanied it. His expression, like his tone, was both chilling and stark.
Did you know his father was in debtors’ prison?
Clara’s stomach plunged to her toes as she considered for the first time what that might have meant for the rest of the family.
“He’s not a child,” the captain barked, having regained the color he’d lost and then some. “He’s a plague on the country.” His hand twisted a little more, and the boy flinched. “And he’ll hang for his crimes like the thief he is. He might have got away from me yesterday morning. But not today. They start them small, you know, stealing food and whatnot. Best to squash them before they get big.”
Clara hid her revulsion.
“That child is not a thief, Captain Buhler. He is my employee. And I will not ask you again to release him.”
Clara shivered at the undisguised rage in August’s voice, wondering if the duke would simply snatch up a weapon and run the man through. Even the soldiers shifted uncomfortably.
“His Grace is right. You have the wrong boy,” Clara said into the silence. “This one is here every day before dawn, including yesterday. Fires don’t light themselves.” She moved then, her hand coming to rest on the head of the terrified boy, angling her body as if she was about to lead the child away. The captain took an awkward step back, his grip faltering enough for the boy to yank himself free. He skittered away, ducking behind Clara.
Buhler lunged forward but was brought up short as August stepped into his space. “Please leave, Captain, while I’ll still willing to attribute this…disorder to an unfortunate error in judgment. And take your men with you.” Very deliberately August stepped away and reached for the door, then held it open silently.
The captain looked as if he might argue before he looked at August’s face and seemingly reconsidered. He yanked on the front of his coat, smoothing the heavy wool, and turned on his heel to exit the kitchens. The soldiers who had been searching the room trailed after him, casting hard if somewhat uncertain looks in Clara and August’s direction.
August waited only long enough to assure himself that the soldiers were collecting their horses and departing the Silver Swan’s stable yard before he closed the door with a loud bang. He turned and leaned against the heavy wood, his eyes lighting on each other remaining occupant before they settled on the boy still half-hidden behind Clara.
Beside her Anne squirmed.
“Come out from there,” he ordered the boy.
The boy shuffled out from behind Clara, regarding August warily with eyes that were too big for his face. “You never said you were a duke before,” he mumbled, and Clara’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Well, in fairness, you never told me your name either.” August crossed his arms over his chest.
“Jonas.” The boy scuffed a toe against the stone floor and ducked his head.
August peered at him. “And how, exactly, did you manage to run afoul of the captain and his posse? Again?”
“We—I was hungry. An’ I came here. Like you said I could.” He stopped, staring resolutely at the floor, his thin face drawn. “Didn’t see the captain till too late.”
“Then I’m glad you came. Consider yourself hired.”
Clara hid a smile, feeling as if she might cry at the same time.
The child’s head came up. “You’re bein’ serious?”
August nodded. “If you’re going to eat my food, I think it’s fair you work for it.”
“Yessir.”
August didn’t correct him.
“Is he goin’ to come back? The captain?” Jonas asked uneasily.
“If he does, I’ll deal with him.” August’s jaw was tight, and his eyes swung toward Clara. “You didn’t need to lie.”
“Yes, I did.” Clara held his gaze. “Occasionally one is in the right place at the right time.”
August nodded his head in a jerky movement before he turned his attention back to Jonas. “Perhaps you’d like to be introduced to the rest of the staff here? Make sure you understand your duties in the kitchens? Or your duties once we manage to clean up this mess.” The duke raised a brow at Charleaux, and the man nodded in unspoken agreement. “This is Monsieur Charleaux, Jonas. You will do whatever he asks, understood? When I am not here, he speaks for me. You may go with him now.”
“Yessir.” He bounded toward Charleaux like an eager puppy. The hotelier shot Clara and Anne a worried glance before ushering the boy from the room. Clara sighed. Charleaux had no idea how worried he ought to be.
She straightened her shoulders as August’s eyes returned to her and then slid to his sister. Clara watched as he studied Anne’s stained apron, her heated cheeks, and the expression of defiance that had crept across her features.
“Will someone tell me why my sister is standing in the kitchen of my tavern, dressed like a scullery maid? Or are you really going to make me ask?”
“I work here,” Anne said flatly.
August gaped at his sister as though she had said something in a foreign language he didn’t understand. “Miss Hayward, perhaps you can try to say something that makes a modicum more sense.”
Clara sighed in resignation. “As part of Haverhall’s summer term, we place our students in a field of study that they choose as part of their curriculum.”
August stared at her before turning to Anne. “And the field of study that you chose was lye soap and kitchen grease?” he asked acidly.
“The fields of study that I chose were lodging and food service management. Labor and inventory administration. Accounting and planning services. Shall I go on?” Anne’s words were clipped.
“Why?” August asked, raking a hand through his hair.
“Because I’m good at it.”
“But you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. And for the record, lye soap is sold at a more attractive price when you buy it in bulk locally.” Her last sentence had an edge to it.
Clara watched as August pushed himself away from the door. “All of the students do this?”
“Not this, exactly, but something similar,” Clara said.
“For example?”
Clara shrugged. “My brother is currently mentoring three aspiring physicians. Small-scale amputations are not a suitable conversation topic at Almack’s.”
“I— That’s—” He was clearly struggling for words. He blinked suddenly. “And Charleaux knows about this? About Anne? About what you’re doing?”
“Of course he does. Anne is my student, and consequently his. She isn’t his first. The staff believe she is simply his assistant, hired on for the busy summer months.” She sighed. “No one is aware that she is your sister.”
“And I want to keep it that way.” Anne’s face was set in the same hard lines her brother wore so often.
“Jesus.” The duke paced toward a pile of pans that had been abandoned near the center of the room. “Who else knows? The truth about Haverhall’s summer school? About what you do here?”
Clara rubbed her forehead. “Very few,” she said wearily. “Most people do not and will not see the value in it.”
“Miss Anne?” The harried question came from the doorway to the tavern. A young maid was standing in the frame, wringing her apron between her fingers. “The brewer is here, spittin’ mad because the soldiers took his kegs from the delivery cart. I can’t find Monsieur Charleaux and I don’t know what to do but the brewer wants to know if—”
“I’ll deal with him,” Anne said briskly, already hurrying forward.
Clara saw August frowning after Anne fiercely, but he made no move to stop his sister as she disappeared after the maid.
“You think you should have told me why Anne was really here?” he asked without turning around.
“You think you should have told me why you were really here?” Clara countered, though the anger she had wielded earlier was missing.
The duke dropped his head. “Fair enough.”
Clara hesitated. She had expected a fight. “Have you taken a good look at Anne’s plans for the Trenton Hotel?”
His back stiffened. “How do you know about that?”
“She showed me her drawings. She’s quite good at this, you know.”
August shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the far side of the kitchens, and Clara had no idea what he was thinking.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“Do?”
“You own this tavern. You hold all the power. But if you think to punish Charleaux for his role in this, or evict him from his position, I take full responsibility for—”
“Stop.” The duke looked up at the ceiling. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
Clara bent to retrieve a discarded wooden spoon from near her feet and considered her answer. She had no idea who he was, other than a study in contradictions. He was a man who offered no apology for his ruthless pursuit of wealth but then offered charity to a ragged boy he didn’t know. A man who loved his sister but refused to set her free. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Then ask me something.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Ask me whatever you want to know about me. I promise you the truth.”
Clara considered his offer. Her fingers toyed with the handle of the spoon. “My brother told me that your father was incarcerated. Debtors’ prison.”
The duke stilled, though he still didn’t turn around. “And just how did he come across that piece of…trivia?”
“He said that he had treated your father as a medical student at Marshalsea. For dropsy.”
“Ah.” August put a hand on the edge of the heavy table. “I suppose I owe your brother a debt of gratitude, then. Not only for his medical assistance but for his discretion. And yours. Most people do not know that about me.”
“I suspect most people don’t know you at all.”
The duke turned and stared at her then. She felt his appraisal like a physical touch. “Perhaps they don’t.” His quiet words echoed in the space.
“Is that what made you start? Your father’s imprisonment?”
“Start?”
Clara made a helpless gesture with her free hand. “Doing what it is you do.”
She heard August release a breath. “I suppose you could say that. Starvation motivates a man like almost nothing else can. Do you know what it is like to go for months and months without a proper meal? Reduced to scavenging the leavings of others just so that you might survive another day?”
He said it casually enough, but underneath she could hear the rawness of that confession. She had heard the same in his defense of Jonas, and it made her heart hurt. “No. I don’t.”
“It sounds counterintuitive, but I could not afford to spend the little money I had managed to put together on things like food. Or shelter. Everything I had went into my efforts to make that money work for me.”
“But you won’t starve now. You’ve achieved…more than you could ever have expected. More than anyone expected.”
“And I’ve told you that only a fool rests on his laurels. Life is not a horse race with a pretty ribbon for the winner at the end. There is no finish line, just packs of challengers hoping to see you fail.”
And enough would never be enough, Clara thought with a wistful sadness. August Faulkner would never have enough. “That sounds like a life of dissatisfaction and unhappiness.”
August scoffed. “Hardly. I find satisfaction and happiness in a great number of things.”
“Name one that doesn’t include money or calculating your net worth.”
“You.”
“Your Grace—”
“Sharing dinner with you. Dancing with you.” He took a step toward her. Her fingers tightened on the spoon as if her paltry weapon might be enough to keep him at a safe distance.
She was suddenly hot all over. “You’re changing the subject.”
“I was answering your questions.”
“Pardon my intrusion, Your Grace.” The interruption came from the same doorway through which Anne had vanished. Only this time it was Charleaux who stood in the frame, looking significantly more composed that the last time she had seen him, though worry shadowed his features. “Our guests are starting to ask questions,” he said with a grimace. “I will address them, of course, but your presence out in the public room and dining room would go a long way in quelling the rumors that have already started to fly. Rumors that might make our guests worry that they are sleeping in a den of murdering thieves.”
Clara heard August mutter a muffled curse. “Very well.” He turned to Clara. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
Clara swallowed, that addicting mixture of anticipation and desire that she had thought she’d vanquished threatening to drown her good sense. Her anger toward him might have faded, but that did not mean she was going to let her romantic daydreams lead her astray again.
“Tomorrow, then,” she said, relieved her voice was steady. “Perhaps after classes have been concluded for the day at Avondale?”
He caught her free hand in his and pressed his lips to the backs of her knuckles, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Count on it, Miss Hayward.”