Max paced in the drawing room, impatience and worry vying for his attention. The duke’s body had been carted away barely an hour ago, and Max had nearly climbed the walls waiting for everyone to leave his house. He’d seen his aunt to bed with a hot cup of lemon verbena tea, which she insisted calmed her nerves, and a promise to find Beatrice. Then he’d set out, in the dark before dawn, armed only with a list of names his aunt had given him of ladies his sister counted as friends. He knew none of them.
Certainly not well enough to know which one, if any, would be willing to become complicit in whatever it was that had happened in Bea’s rooms. He’d gone to one of the addresses and stared at the darkened house and silent square in helpless frustration. He couldn’t very well just start pounding on doors, as much as he wanted to.
He’d finally moved away when a watchman turned in his direction, realizing he didn’t know what to do next. He wasn’t familiar with his sister’s life. Her favorite shops or gardens or parks. He had no idea whom she might turn to for help, and he ignored the voice in his head that was telling him he should know. He should have been here for Bea when she needed to turn to someone for help.
He’d hunched his shoulders into his coat against the chill, shoving his hands deep into the pockets. His fingers had brushed the smooth surface of a small card, and he’d pulled it out, tipping it toward the meager gaslight.
“Chegarre & Associates” was printed in the center, the lettering plain and devoid of the curlicues and looping swirls he normally encountered on cards such as this. The title gave the bearer no clue to the services it represented. It could have been a company of barristers or bakers if he didn’t already know better. He turned the card over to find an address, written in the same plain type.
And so, as the sun finally crested the horizon, he’d found himself standing in front of a once grand town house, wondering just what the hell he was doing there.
He raised his hand to grasp the old brass door knocker, but the door was opened before he had the chance. He was greeted by name by a boy who gave no indication that Max’s arrival was anything less than expected. Max glanced up at the empty, aged windows and wondered how long he’d been observed before he’d climbed the cracked stone steps leading up to the door. He followed the boy into the bowels of the house, fully expecting to battle his way through a tenement, to find the old rooms of the stately home chopped into pieces and overflowing with people scratching out a living.
Instead he was greeted with silence and the faint smell of wood polish. He tried not to gape at his surroundings, but it was as if he had stepped back into another century, the grandeur of the past carefully restored. Not in the manner of some of the opulent St James’s or Grosvenor Square townhomes, stuffed to the seams with every conceivable object meant to convince visitors of greatness and wealth; this was fine taste tempered with function.
He was shown into a drawing room decorated in subtle shades of blue, the long drapes already pulled back to let the pale wash of morning light flood the room.
“Wait here,” the boy instructed him, before vanishing back out into the hall.
Max circled the room, and his gaze fell on a tall clock near the window. Distracted, he stepped closer, noting the gleaming burnish of pearwood inlaid with ebony. The tympanum was a brass relief of the huntress Diana, dogs and hawks and an admiring Apollo at her side. It would have cost a fortune.
Max’s eyes skipped over the furnishings, picking out the exotic woods, accented by beautiful brocaded fabrics. A pianoforte rested against the wall by the window, its craftsmanship obvious in the flowing lines. A tall, narrow bookcase grazed the ceiling, a collection of expensive leather-bound tomes standing in neat lines upon its shelves.
Max swung his eyes back to the clock and frowned at the image of Apollo, the god’s eyes turned in the direction of the fierce huntress. There was a critical question he’d failed to answer and that was who Miss Moore was. Her accent was that of a lady. Her address was that of a courtesan. Her furnishings were those of a princess. Her occupation was that of a confidence artist. Or worse.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Max spun on his heel to find Miss Moore standing in the doorway of the drawing room.
She’d been nothing if not a woman of her word when she said she’d be available at any time. For if she was surprised to see him at this ridiculous hour, she didn’t show it. Nor did she look like a woman who had been up all night. She was dressed once again in a plain grey wool dress, designed to be serviceable and, Max suspected, unnoticeable. Her thick hair was neatly braided and pinned, and at a glance she could have passed for a governess, or a merchant’s wife, or one of any number of women who made their way about London daily. Apart, that was, from her uncommon looks. No man with a pulse and eyes in his head would overlook her. She evoked images of dark nights and secret desires—
She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. “Is the décor to your taste?”
“What?”
“You were examining the clock.”
“I was checking the time,” he said defensively.
“Ah.” Miss Moore had an unreadable expression on her face.
“My father had an Edward East clock similar to this in his study. It was given to him as a gift.” Max had no idea why he was telling such an inane detail to this woman.
Miss Moore was looking up at the goddess amid her hounds and hawks, her eyes almost wistful now. “This clock too was a gift.”
“To you?” What an unusual thing to gift a lady with. But then again, there was nothing usual about Miss Moore.
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
Miss Moore turned her dark eyes back in his direction and considered him. “From my husband.”
An inexplicable pang of disappointment assailed him, and he ignored it. She was married? Well, that was a little surprising, since she had introduced herself as Miss Moore. Though given what she did, it was less surprising that she wasn’t using her real name. A thought struck Max. Perhaps her husband was Mr. Chegarre. “And where is your husband now? Can I speak with him?”
“My husband passed away five years ago,” she said, and the wistfulness that he thought he had seen earlier was clearly evident now.
“Oh.” A sliver of something that felt like relief needled through him, and Max was horrified at himself. Was he really going to admit to being pleased that this woman was a widow? “I’m sorry.” For your loss and my appalling sentiments.
Miss Moore raised her shoulders ever so slightly before letting them drop. “Thank you.”
“Your husband had good taste,” he said.
A smooth brow arched.
“The clock. It’s beautiful.” As are you. Your husband was a very lucky man. Max shifted uncomfortably, uncertain where these thoughts were coming from.
Miss Moore returned her attention to the clock. “My husband said that I reminded him of Diana,” she said so quietly that Max barely heard her.
After what he had witnessed last night from this woman, Max was rather inclined to agree with him.
“Chegarre’s clients, on the very rare occasion that they have cause to visit these offices, are generally more comfortable when in familiar surroundings,” Miss Moore said, the wistfulness gone, and her tone again one of business. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Your Grace?” She glanced at the tall clock as if factoring the hour into her choice of refreshments. “Or perhaps something more bracing?” Her eyes slid to a row of crystal decanters on a small library table.
Max cleared his throat and his mind. “No, nothing.” He forcibly reminded himself he wasn’t here to socialize and gawk at the beautiful mystery that was Miss Moore. He was here to find his sister.
Miss Moore paused. “Did Roderick not ask to take your coat when he showed you in?”
Max thought of the boy who had shown him to the drawing room. He knew his sort well—he’d recruited two such boys and their sticky fingers to work as surgeon’s and gunner’s servants within his own crews. It was a wonder his pocket watch hadn’t been liberated in between the front door and this room.
“He asked. I declined. I like my coat and the things in it.”
Miss Moore’s lips twitched slightly, but she didn’t rise to the bait, instead moving in his direction. “How can I be of assistance, Your Grace?” she asked pleasantly.
As if he had come to inquire about help in locating a lost cravat pin.
“I would like to speak with Mr. Chegarre directly. Is he available?”
“He is not, I’m afraid.” Miss Moore shook her head slightly, her dark eyes betraying only mild regret. “As I told her ladyship, I will be handling your case. You are free, of course, to terminate our partnership at any time, though at this juncture, I would advise against it.”
Max wasn’t sure he would consider this a partnership. A partnership was something where two people shared equally in the planning and the work and the rewards. But he had found himself adrift in the middle of an ocean, clinging to a life raft, the only chance at rescue coming from the woman standing in front of him.
Max ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “Bea still hasn’t returned.”
Miss Moore waved Max over to a long sofa and seated herself gracefully in the upholstered chair facing it. “Please, sit.”
“I’ll stand.” He would come out of his skin if he didn’t. This feeling of helpless ineptitude was extreme torture.
The woman shrugged, a gesture both accepting and resigned. “You are correct, I’m afraid. I would have heard had Lady Beatrice made an appearance back at your home.”
Max stared at her.
“I have a man watching your house,” Miss Moore explained. “We could not take the chance of her unplanned return being witnessed by servants or other guests before she could be intercepted and instructed on her expected behavior.”
“You have a man watching my house?”
“Two, actually. And I have others out watching any number of houses at the moment,” Miss Moore said. “Your aunt provided me with a list of Lady Beatrice’s closest friends. People she might turn to for help. Their residences are currently under observation. You’ll be the first to be notified should I hear anything.”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
She smiled faintly. “You weren’t meant to, Your Grace.”
This woman was two steps ahead of him. “If you think I’m going to sit at home and await word from you, you are sadly mistaken.”
Miss Moore stood and drifted over to the window to stand in a pool of morning sunlight. The rays made her skin glow, and sculpted shadows into the contours of her striking face. “I do not require your help.”
“To be honest, Miss Moore, I don’t really care what you require. My sister is my responsibility. I will do whatever it takes.”
“Mmmm.” She made a noncommittal noise. “I understand that the discovery of the Earl of Debarry went smoothly.”
“I’m not well versed in staging deaths, Miss Moore. I cannot comment if it went smoothly or not.”
She looked sharply at him. “Were the words murder or poison used?”
“No.”
“Did Lady Beatrice’s name come up?”
“No.”
“Did the physician who was summoned attribute Debarry’s death to natural causes?”
“Thank the saints, but that was his opinion, yes. And he was quite insistent upon it.”
“Was he, indeed?” Miss Moore gave him a wry look.
Max blinked. “That had nothing to do with the saints, did it?”
“Well, I suspect the saints are often busy these days. I do what I can to take burdens from their heavenly shoulders and place them on more earthly ones. And ones that take coin and don’t ask stupid questions.”
“The physician was your man.”
“Of course he was. And I am pleased that it all went smoothly. For the record, Your Grace, my physician did report to me on his way home that all signs pointed to an attack of the heart or perhaps an apoplexy.” She gave him another half smile and turned back to the window, tracing her bottom lip with her finger.
Max was trying to concentrate on what she was saying but it was infinitely distracting, the slide of flesh against that plump, rosy softness. For one wild moment, Max wondered what she would do if he replaced her finger with his own mouth.
“Mary, Lady Beatrice’s maid, has a brother currently toiling in the Earl of Covistan’s household as a provision boy. He is the only family she has, and she is extremely devoted to him.”
Max’s eyes were still on Miss Moore’s lips, and it took a moment before her words reached his brain and he looked up. “So?”
A pair of dark eyes gazed at him with what he thought was mild disappointment.
“Leverage,” he said, disgusted with himself for letting so slight a distraction cloud his mind. He would attribute it to exhaustion.
“Indeed.” The disappointment disappeared. “The only other witness to this incident is Mary, currently lodged upstairs. I have a contact in Kent who will arrange for a new, suitable placement for her. She’ll be on a coach late this afternoon. In the meantime you will arrange an anonymous sponsorship that will allow her brother to attend a good school and receive the education he would otherwise never have a chance at. We’ll avoid the elite snobbery at Harrow and Eton, but there is a good school in Kent that will be adequate and allow the two to visit. Mary will be made to understand the scholarship will last as long as her silence. I don’t anticipate a problem.” She arched a brow. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Excellent.” Miss Moore smiled faintly and turned back to the window, and Max was left with the dawning realization that this woman had done more for his sister and his family in a day than he would have been able to do in a month. If he had even been able to do anything effective at all. And she had done it with a skill and confidence that left him more than a little astounded. “I feel I should apologize,” he said suddenly.
Her eyes flew back to him, a crease forming between her elegant brows. “Whatever for?”
“I was rude last night.”
“No apology is necessary, Your Grace. You were presented with a difficult situation that most men—most brothers—would find intolerable. Your reaction was predictable.”
Max frowned. That label didn’t sit well. He’d like to think he was better than predictable.
“I was the third of three boys, Miss Moore,” he said, feeling the inexplicable need to explain himself. “I was sent away to school when I was six, and when I was twelve, my father sent me a letter asking me to choose between the church and military service, as befits an unneeded son in a family with two boys too many.”
She watched him in silence.
“What I’m trying to say, Miss Moore, is that I have been solving my own problems since I left home at the age of six. Mine and those of others around me. I have never had to rely on others to manage my affairs, and I find it…difficult to do with any grace.”
“I understand. There is nothing easy about the situation in which your family has found itself. Nothing that you could adequately have prepared for.”
Max wasn’t sure if he felt better or not. “So now what?”
“Do you keep a mistress in London, Your Grace? Or if not a regular mistress, then a lover?”
“What?” Max blinked in shock.
“Someone who might be prone to spite or a jealous rage? Someone who might wish to make trouble for you?”
“I don’t have a mistress anywhere,” he blurted, taken aback by the question.
“Mmm. Your estate is free from debt and in possession of…ah, considerable wealth and holdings, but are you, personally, indebted to anyone?”
“What? No. And how do you know—”
“Have you made any enemies recently? A card game gone badly? A real or perceived slight? Anything? Think carefully.”
“What are you trying to get at, Miss Moore?” Max demanded. He wasn’t entirely sure what she might be accusing him of, but he hadn’t felt this defensive since a lieutenant had caught him and another boy sneaking filched cognac onboard when he was fourteen.
“Right now I am basing my strategy on the theory that Lady Beatrice and Debarry met in her room for an assignation. When things went awry, your sister fled. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t consider other possibilities. It is possible that her disappearance may not, in fact, have been of her own accord.”
“Of course it wasn’t of her own accord,” Max said, knowing he knew no such thing. But the other option that involved Bea and red silk ribbon was wholly unbearable. “She must have been taken against her will. Kidnapped.” He wasn’t sure if he’d adequately convinced himself, and he despised himself for that shortcoming.
Miss Moore shrugged slightly in that infuriatingly casual way of hers. “I think it very unlikely though not impossible. There was, after all, nothing to suggest a struggle. It is possible, however, that she was coerced into leaving. The scene we walked in on could have been staged, and Beatrice might have been threatened with exposure unless she complied.”
“Threatened. Yes.” Max grasped the idea like a drowning man would an extended rope.
“If that was indeed the case, then someone went to a great deal of trouble. Their motivations are likely rooted in greed, control, or jealousy of the most intimate, visceral kind.”
Max was aware he was staring at Miss Moore again, but he couldn’t help it. She was calmly lecturing him in much the manner his schoolmasters had in his youth. Only she wasn’t speaking of geography, Latin, or mathematics, she was speaking of murder, extortion, and sex.
“Aside from the scene last night, I can find no other indications that either Beatrice or your aunt had, or currently has, a lover. And if you are not involved in a dalliance presently, then that leaves only money. As the duke, you are in sole possession and control of an extremely large fortune and a good degree of power.”
“You think someone took Bea to get at me? Or my money?”
“While I am still not convinced that anyone took your sister, if that was, in fact, the case, it is my experience that money makes sane people do insane things.”
“If it is a matter of money, I’ll pay whatever is required to get her back,” Max said coldly. “And then I’ll kill the bastards who touched my sister with my bare hands.”
Miss Moore didn’t flinch. “I can’t condone that, Your Grace. Vengeance of that nature gets messy.”
“Then I’ll hire you to clean up and hide the bodies.”
Her eyes held his as if she was weighing his words. “There are other, more effective ways of leveling the scales,” she finally said. “If and when that time comes, I would encourage you to consult with me first. Before things get…messy.”
Max stared at her, and his pulse kicked, gooseflesh rising on his skin beneath his warm coat. A frisson of…something traveled through his chest and down his spine. Approval? Anticipation? Admiration? He wasn’t sure what to make of this woman he’d known for less than a day. He knew she was both intelligent and clever, which were two very different things. She was also practical, logical, methodical. Resourceful, focused, fearless. Dangerous. Bloody hell, but she would’ve made a magnificent commander.
She held his eyes, a small smile playing around her mouth, as though she were privy to every one of his thoughts and agreed with all of them.
He wondered suddenly if perhaps, at one time, she had been an agent of the Crown. She’d learned her craft somewhere.
There was the sound of a sudden scuffle near the door, and a nondescript man dressed in bulky, nondescript winter clothing loomed within the frame. He was holding a struggling boy by the collar with a casualness that hinted at a terrifying strength beneath all his nondescriptness.
“Picked him up delivering a message to Alderidge’s house,” the man said, speaking to Miss Moore. “Seemed like a deuced strange hour to be delivering social invitations so I brought him here straightaway—”
She was shaking her head, and the man, suddenly realizing she wasn’t alone in the room, clamped his mouth shut.
Miss Moore was already striding forward. “You may take him to the morning room, if you would be so kind—”
“No.” Max was faster, beating her to the door. The youth had stopped struggling and was watching them with sullen wariness. “If this boy has information about…anything, I want to hear it.”
“I don’t think that that is a good idea,” Miss Moore said smoothly. “Please, Your Grace, it would be best if I handled—”
“Is this what your clients typically do?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Wait in their homes until you send them a bill and reassurances that whatever problem they have has been taken care of?”
“Generally, Your Grace.”
“Well, be advised that that will not be the case here. You work for me, Miss Moore. I hired you. I get a say in what goes on here.”
Miss Moore’s eyes flashed. “In truth, I work for your sister. And it is not in her best interests to have her brother mucking around in matters he knows nothing about and getting in my way.”
“Mucking around?” That suggested ineptness, and Max had never, in all his life, been accused of being inept. “I’m not leaving. And your man here will find that he will have a much harder time manhandling me than he did manhandling this boy.”
Miss Moore opened her mouth as if she would argue and then closed it. Max watched as she took a deep breath and then turned on him with an expression he’d only seen nannies use on their three-year-old charges. “Very well, Your Grace. You may have your way this time.”
He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or insulted.
She turned to the man in the doorway. “Is the boy carrying any weapons?”
“Nothing. Only thing he was carrying was this.” He held out a square of folded paper, sealed with a blob of rusty-red wax. “Alderidge” was scrawled across the front of it, along with his address.
Miss Moore took it from his hand and stepped aside. “Thank you. Please leave the messenger with us,” she instructed.
The man impaled Max with a hostile stare. “Are you sure? I can stay if you wish—”
“No, thank you. We will be quite fine.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
“Thank you.”
The man departed, closing the door behind him, and leaving the youth standing in front of Max.
“You look chilled. Please make yourself comfortable by the hearth,” Max said to the boy, who now had his arms crossed belligerently across his chest. He was perhaps ten years of age, though it was difficult to tell amid his layered, slightly tattered clothes and wary-eyed look. “Please rest assured that no one in this room has any interest in torturing you, or otherwise mucking around in your life.” He shot a pointed glance at Miss Moore. “But I will have a few questions.”
“I ain’t got any answers,” the boy sniffed, though he was edging closer to the heat from the hearth.
“We’ll see,” Max said under his breath. He waited until the boy was far enough out of earshot before holding out his hand. “My mail, if you would be so kind.”
Miss Moore extended the paper, and Max snatched the letter from her hand and cracked the seal, pulling the paper open. A ring slid out and landed silently on the rug at their feet.
Max bent and retrieved it, a terrible sinking sensation filling the pit of his stomach.
* * *
Ivory watched with a sinking feeling as Alderidge straightened, the color leached from his face, holding a small band of gold in which was set a round amethyst. He clenched it in his fist, his breath hissing out between his teeth.
She was still incensed by the duke and his attempts to wrench away the reins of this investigation, yet her displeasure was mitigated somewhat by the look of fear now stamped on his face.
“Lady Beatrice’s?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“I sent it to her from Calcutta for her sixteenth birthday.” The duke pulled the letter the rest of the way open and scanned the missive.
“What does it say?” Ivory asked.
The duke turned and looked at her, his grey eyes stormy. “It says, ‘Dearest Alderidge, I am fine. Please do not look for me.’”
“That’s it?” Ivory frowned and pulled the creased paper from his hands. The brief message was written in the same handwriting as the address on the front.
“Am I supposed to believe this?” the duke demanded beside her.
Ivory examined the note, studying the strange message. “Do you recognize the handwriting?” she asked him. “Is it your sister’s?”
Alderidge snatched the paper back from her fingers and examined it. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. My sister has sent letters before. I know what her writing looks like.” He paused. “But she never calls me Alderidge. She’s only ever called me Max, quite improperly, I might add. Annoys my aunt to no end.”
“Mmmm. What about the paper itself? Any markings?”
“No.” The duke turned it over, but it was of mediocre quality and had no distinguishing marks, something that could be purchased anywhere.
There was no impression in the wax either that gave any clue as to its origin.
“She would never call me Alderidge. Something’s wrong.”
“There was a dead earl in her bed very recently,” Ivory reminded him in a low whisper.
The duke grimaced, but shook his head. “Something’s not right.”
Ivory wasn’t convinced either way. She’d been half expecting an extortion note, but usually extortion notes sent to her clients were detailed, with descriptions of the crime and the amount of money it would take to make the evidence of that crime disappear. Or reappear, in the case of kidnapping victims.
“It is possible it is a simple error. Perhaps she used your title so that there was no chance of the message going astray. It would seem she is trying to reassure you that she has come to no harm.”
“I am not overly reassured. And I’m not going to stop looking for her.” Alderidge looked up at her. He glanced in the direction of the boy. “Have you ever seen him before?”
“No.”
“Then let’s find out what he knows. Someone paid him to deliver that message, and I want to know who.” He took a step toward the hearth, and the boy hunkered in front of it.
Ivory darted in front of him. “You need not trouble yourself. I will question him.”
Alderidge made a rude noise. “I will do it, and you may watch.” He held up a hand when she scowled. “Or I can simply fire you, if you prefer. You choose.”
Ivory focused on not giving in to the urge to shriek in frustration.
“Glad that’s settled.” Alderidge wandered over to the hearth, leaned against the back of the sofa, and studied the boy. The duke’s body relaxed, his movements almost languid, as if he had not a care in the world, though his eyes remained razor-sharp.
The boy standing in front of him straightened from his crouch and shifted, unsure.
“I am the Duke of Alderidge,” he said in a deceptively pleasant tone. “And I am the recipient of the note you delivered to my home this morning. I’d like to know who paid you to deliver this.”
“I got paid to forget.” The boy crossed his arms over his chest again and raised his chin.
There was pride in that statement, and Ivory wondered at it. The streets of London did not often allow the luxury of pride.
“I’ll pay you more to remember.” Alderidge’s voice was even.
“I don’t got much, but I got honor,” said the boy with defiance. “Part of my job.”
Ivory’s brows shot into her hairline as she took a hard look at the youth’s lean face and tattered clothes. She gazed at the boy in speculation.
The duke uncoiled himself from where he had been leaning against the sofa, and Ivory tensed. If he thought to harm—
The boy backed up a step. “You can’t buy me, like you buy everything and everyone else in your life. Bloody toff. You’re all the same.”
Alderidge considered the boy, and Ivory couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Ah, but there you’re wrong,” he said. “I’m not the same at all.”
This was met with a rude snort.
“I’m a sea captain.”
The boy stared at him suspiciously, uncertain what to do with this information.
“Have you ever seen an elephant?” the duke asked the youth suddenly.
“What’s an elephant?” The boy worked the syllables around in his mouth.
A stub of a pencil appeared from the duke’s pockets, and he began to draw on the back of the letter still in his hand. “It’s an animal. Bigger than the biggest horse you’ve ever seen. It has thick grey skin all over, and its ears flap out from its head like two enormous rugs. It has a long, muscular nose that hangs almost to the ground, and it can use it to pick up logs, and even people. An elephant has the strength of five hundred men. Yet a single man can tame such a beast and ride it, use it for work and for war.”
“You’re makin’ that up,” the boy scoffed, but he edged closer to the duke, craning to see what he was drawing.
Alderidge pocketed his pencil and passed the sketch into a pair of eager, filthy hands. “I’m not making it up.” The duke’s eyes met Ivory’s over the boy’s head, and she felt the strength of his gaze all the way to her core. “The place my ships sail is far, far away from England, and it has many elephants. My carpenter’s servant, who was not much older than you when I first hired him, finds one to ride every time we are there.”
Ivory watched as a grimy finger with a torn nail traced the dark lines on the paper, the boy’s initial belligerence fading. She pressed her lips together, knowing what the duke was trying to do, because she had done it a hundred times herself in the past. He was trying to establish a rapport with this urchin, trying to tease out information by establishing a common ground. But he would need to tread carefully—
“I have need of someone like you on my crew. If, of course, you were interested.”
Ivory’s head snapped up, at about the same speed as the boy’s. What in God’s name did Alderidge think he was doing? One never made promises, or threats, for that matter, that couldn’t be borne out.
“I already got a job.”
“Indeed.” The duke’s eyes considered the boy’s thin form. “Think of this as an opportunity for a promotion. Aside from a wage, I offer regular meals, a bed, a clothing allowance, and the occasional elephant in exchange for a great deal of hard work.”
Suspicion was stamped across the captured messenger’s pinched features. “I ain’t never been on a boat. An’ I can’t swim.”
“If you’re doing it right, you don’t need to swim,” the duke remarked. “We try to keep our ships upright at all times.”
“Is there pirates?”
Alderidge tipped his head. “Sometimes.” He paused. “Can you fight?”
The boy scoffed. “Not dead yet, am I?”
The duke smiled a lazy smile and crossed his arms. “Then what say you? Will you accept my offer?”
“Why me?”
Why indeed? thought Ivory caustically. She resisted the urge to speak, knowing that the duke was tantalizingly close to a chance at real information, yet his methods were deplorable. Hope was something she never used carelessly.
The duke was grinning now. “Why you? Because you’re not dead yet, are you?”
The boy narrowed his eyes. “How do I know yer not just going to sell me to one o’ them press-gangs? I don’t know you.”
“Press-gangs do not buy people, they just take them,” Alderidge noted succinctly. “And the good ones do it so cleverly, their victims oft wake up when the sight of land is just a fond memory.”
“You know people who do that?” His eyes were wide.
“Unfortunately, yes. But in answer to your question, you’re right. You don’t know me.” Ivory heard her own words from the night before echo in the duke’s rich baritone. “You have only my word.”
“Can I think about it?”
“No. I need your answer now. But choose wisely. There is no room among my men for those who do not honor their commitments wholeheartedly.”
Ivory would kill Alderidge when this was over. This offer was outright cruel.
“Fine. I’ll work fer you.” The boy scowled. “But I need some coin up front.”
“Doesn’t work that way,” Alderidge said easily. “I will provide you with an address you can report to. There you will be provided with a meal and some proper clothing. Can you find your way to the East India Docks?”
The boy snorted. “Does a dog piss in the streets?”
“‘Does a dog piss in the streets, Captain,’” the duke corrected.
The youth blinked. “Captain.”
“Excellent. As a member of my crew, you are now under my protection, and anyone who takes exception with that can direct themselves to me. And your name?”
“Seth.”
“Very good then.”
“Do I get a sword?”
“Not yet. Do you have your own knife?”
Seth shook his head.
Alderidge dug into the depths of his coat pocket and produced a small pocketknife, simple and serviceable. He held it out to the boy, and Ivory tensed. Bloody hell, but she wasn’t in the habit of giving weapons to strangers standing in the middle of her drawing room, however small. The weapon or the stranger.
Seth reached for the knife, closed his fingers around it, and retreated a few steps, examining his new possession. Alderidge was still ignoring her.
“Then this is yours,” the duke said. “Every sailor needs to keep one on his person at all times. It might one day save your life or the life of a mate. Understood?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Excellent.” A blond eyebrow rose in approval, and Alderidge once again searched his pockets. The pencil stub reappeared, along with a tiny notebook, and the duke bent, scribbling furiously against his knee. He paused once, adding another note on the back of the page as an afterthought. Once he was done, he pocketed the pencil, ripped out the page, and handed it to Seth.
“You’re looking for the Odyssey,” he said. “When you find her, ask for Duncan and give him this. He’ll get you settled.”
The boy curled his fingers around it, and for the first time, Ivory wondered if the duke was serious.
“There is one other matter of business to conclude,” Alderidge said, “and that is the matter of the letter you hold in your hand. Now, I understand that your honor prevents you from telling me who paid you to deliver it, and I will not ask again, for I admire such. But that same honor demands that you advise your current employer of your resignation. As your captain, I can do that on your behalf.”
Seth glanced down at the paper still clutched in his hand and then at the new knife in the other that represented so much more than a simple tool. “Worked at the Lion’s Paw.” He shoved the letter back at Alderidge. “Until now.”
Ivory started. “You’re running messages for Gil?”
The boy named Seth suddenly looked nervous. “Didn’t say that.”
Well, now that was interesting.
“What is this Lion’s Paw?” the duke demanded. “And who is Gil?”
“The Lion’s Paw is a tavern,” Ivory said. “And something of an anonymous communication service. Gil is the proprietor.”
“Anonymous communication service? What does that even mean?”
“It means that Gil is not the person who took your sister, if that is what you were thinking.”
“That tells me nothing,” the duke growled.
Ivory ignored him for the moment, stepping closer and crouching down before Seth. “You must be new there. How long have you worked for Gil?”
“Couple of weeks.” The boy met her eyes, looking almost ashamed. “Don’t tell that I told you.”
“You didn’t tell us anything I wouldn’t have found out on my own,” Ivory whispered. She didn’t need Alderidge listening in. “Gil and I do a lot of business together.”
Seth’s expression suddenly sharpened, and his eyes widened. “You’re the duch—”
“Yes.” Ivory cut him off before he got too far with that thought. She could feel the duke’s stare burning a hole through her.
“Would you be so kind as to stop all the whispering and tell me what is going on?”
Ivory didn’t need to look to know that Alderidge was clenching his teeth again. It was a wonder he had any teeth left in his head.
“I’ll let Gil know you have accepted another position,” she told Seth, and the boy nearly sagged in relief. She stood, smoothing her skirts. “You may go.”
The boy looked to Alderidge as if seeking confirmation. The duke jerked his head, and the boy bolted.
“I do hope you are a man of your word,” Ivory said the moment Seth disappeared, not giving the duke a chance to demand answers to questions she didn’t wish to address. “I know how valuable that information was, but you should only make promises you intend to keep.”
Alderidge’s eyes went wintry, and he closed the distance between them. “Are you really calling my own honor into question at this moment, Miss Moore?”
Cleanly shaven and dressed in ordinary clothes, he should have made a convincing picture of a town gentleman. At this moment, however, he put her more in mind of Blackbeard than anything Brummel would approve of. He was still staring at her, his eyes traveling over her face, and Ivory felt her heart banging against her ribs at the intensity of his stare. He was standing close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off of him, see the flecks of silver in his irises. His eyes suddenly dropped to her mouth, and desire shot through her, sending liquid fire racing through her veins and setting her body throbbing. All she had to do was lean forward. Go up on her toes and offer her lips to his. God help her, but she wanted this maddening man to kiss her. Kiss her and touch her and—
A coal popped loudly in the grate, and Ivory jerked. What the hell was she doing? She turned away, frantically trying to remember what Alderidge had asked her.
“Miss Moore?” He sounded aggravated.
Ivory balled her hands into fists. His honor. That was what they had been discussing before he turned his gaze on her mouth and made her wish for things she shouldn’t be wishing for. Though perhaps that was what made this man so dangerous. Perhaps he was one of those people who could see into the souls of others and expose their deepest desires, and manipulate them by using those wants. Just as he’d done with Seth.
“You promised that boy a future.” There was genuine heat in her words, augmented by self-disgust at her momentary weakness.
“Ah. And now it comes out. You truly have the same opinion of me as the boy did, then?”
“Which is?”
“That I am a useless toff.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you just said.” A muscle was twitching in his jaw. “Let me ask you this, Miss Moore. The men who crew my ships, have you met any of them?”
Ivory frowned. What did that have to do with—
“Have you?” he demanded.
“No.”
A deafening silence fell between them. When the duke spoke, it was with great care and restraint. “I’m not sure why I feel the need to say this, Miss Moore, other than the fact that your ill regard is as much an insult to my men as it is to me. Let me tell you where I don’t find the men who crew my ships. I don’t find them in pretty drawing rooms like this. I don’t find them in naval classrooms, placed there solely by the connections their titles and families have provided.” He paused. “The boy pretending to be a butler who showed me in—was he recommended to you by one of the grand houses in St James’s?”
Ivory scowled. “Of course he wasn’t.”
“But he works for you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Because he can have a man’s pockets emptied of secrets and possessions in the time it takes for that same man to remove his hat.”
“Useful, that, I would imagine, in your line of work.”
“What’s your point?” Ivory crossed her arms over her chest impatiently.
“My point, Miss Moore, is that any man who sails with me is able to survive in conditions that defy the imagination. He’ll fight armed only with his wits and is all the more dangerous for it. He’ll die for the man beside him because he is the only family he has ever had.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Where, Miss Moore, do you think I find such men? Men who aren’t needed or wanted anywhere? And what sort of men do you think they become when they are given a place to belong and a job in which they are relied upon?”
Men like you, Ivory thought suddenly. A man who, as a child, was sent away from home to forge his own future because there was no place for him in London. A man who had learned life’s lessons the hard way.
“Good men” was all she said, meaning it. “And honorable ones.”
“Yes.” He looked a little surprised at her response. As if he had expected her to argue.
“And if your new recruit changes his mind?” she asked.
“Then I am out the cost of a small knife, possibly a set of clothes, and a single meal. A small price to pay. But he won’t change his mind.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
“For whatever reason, that boy has more principles than many men I’ve had the misfortune to meet. Though the fact that he holds on to those principles tells me he has no one who depends on him. I offered him coin. He had the luxury of refusing. Had I been in his position with my sister depending on me, there is absolutely no limit to what I would do or take from a man if I thought it might help my sister survive.” His face hardened. “No limit.”
Ivory knew the duke wasn’t talking about Seth any longer. He would be ruthless, this sea captain, if his sister had indeed been put in danger, and that could prove to be either a help or a hindrance. She would have to handle him carefully. She was still mulling this over when she realized Alderidge was striding toward the door.
“Where, exactly, are you going, Your Grace?”
“The Lion’s Paw, Miss Moore. My sister is still missing, and I am wasting time standing here. I do not need your assistance.”
“Do you know where the Lion’s Paw is, Your Grace?”
The duke paused at the doorway. “I am used to finding my way around continents, Miss Moore. I can’t imagine it is so hard to find a tavern in London.”
Ivory unfolded her arms. “But I—”
“I am not a half-wit, Miss Moore. I am quite capable of having a mutually beneficial conversation with the proprietor of the Lion’s Paw, man to man.”
“But you should—”
“I thank you for your assistance last night, Miss Moore. I recognize that the quick actions of you and your colleague were invaluable in preventing what could have been a terrible scandal, and I, and my family, are in your debt. Or, at least, we will be until my estate settles with you.” He smiled a mirthless smile. “But I am not without my own resources, Miss Moore. If you recall, it was I who was able to ascertain the origins of this letter, the only clue I have as to the possible whereabouts of my sister. I will let you know if I require anything else.”
“Are you dismissing me?” Ivory asked. She wasn’t sure if she should be appalled or amused.
“Is there any further information you can provide at this moment that may lead to the whereabouts of my sister?”
“No, but—”
“Then good day, Miss Moore.”
Ivory stared at the duke’s retreating back. Of all the arrogant, idiotic, controlling— She squashed the urge to stamp her foot in frustration and took a deep breath instead. She should let him go. Wash her hands of the Duke of Alderidge and his reckless sister, who might or might not have tied an earl to her bed and who might or might not have found herself in terrible trouble because of it. She should leave the duke to his own devices and wait until he crawled back to these offices for help, his tail between his legs.
Except that was ridiculous. Maximus Harcourt would never crawl back anywhere with his tail between his legs. More likely she’d find herself summoned to Newgate because the idiot had killed someone with his bare hands in an ill-advised effort to get to his sister.
And extracting a person from Newgate was terribly tricky. And she’d hate to see Alderidge take his next ocean voyage chained within the holds of a prison hulk and not on the deck of the Odyssey.
Dammit.
“Roddy.”
Silence greeted her call.
“Roddy, I know you’re listening in the alcove in the hall.”
There was a sigh, and Roderick slumped into the room in defeat. “But I was quiet.”
“You were predictable.” Ivory sighed. “Get your coat. Fetch my cloak while you’re at it. We’re going out.”