Chapter 22

“Wherein Ella is reckless, just for a change.”

Ella stared at the scrap of paper in her hand and then out of the carriage window.

“You’re sure this is the place?” she demanded.

The footman, Francis, nodded at her. He was a stocky, well-built fellow of perhaps thirty years and his usually placid face was drawn into an expression of extreme anxiety.

“Yes. I made good and certain but, please, your grace, won’t you reconsider? His grace will dismiss us if he ever discovers we brought you here.”

There was a pleading tone to his words, though the look in his eyes wasn’t hopeful. Little wonder, as he’d been saying the same thing over and over before they’d even left Chancery.

“No.”

Ella motioned with irritation and the man sighed, too well trained to make any further sign of dismay. He let down the steps for her and stood away from the open carriage door. She’d assured him a dozen times their jobs were all safe. Oscar knew better than anyone that no one could stop her once her mind was made up. He’d not punish them for obeying her instructions. After all, if they hadn’t, she’d simply have come alone.

“Your grace?” Nancy said, tugging at her sleeve and white as a sheet. “They say he killed a man when he was twelve years old!”

“Oh, nonsense. I shan’t listen to gossip. Do buck up, Nancy,” Ella said with impatience. “He will not murder us in broad daylight. I gave the manager of the hotel details of where we are going, and we have two brave men to protect us.”

She shot narrow-eyed looks at the two footmen she’d brought. Francis shared a glance with his colleague and both appeared rather unwell, but they swallowed and stood a little straighter.

Ella stepped out of the carriage and took a deep breath. She had done some reckless things in her life, but she had to admit that this was possibly the most terrifying. At least when she was riding Virago she’d had an idea of what she was doing.

The warehouse loomed over them, red brick and cavernous. It was one of many bonded warehouses here at the East India Docks, and the buildings were so vast the sheer scale of them was intimidating. Ella shivered and crossed the paved road, moving to what she took to be the front entrance. The footman gave her one last look of desperation before giving into the inevitable. He gave a sharp rap on the door and a moment later a man appeared.

He was of average height, though his breadth seemed to be of an equal measure. His neck was as thick as an ox’s and small, glittering eyes stared at them with suspicion. Those beady eyes landed on Ella and widened as far as they were able.

“The Duchess of Rothborn to see Mr Blackehart,” the footman said, his tone steady, even if he did look the colour of cold porridge.

A curious smile quirked over the fellow’s mouth. “Rothborn, eh? You’d best come in then.”

He led them inside and they followed him up a thin, steep stairway. The warehouse seemed to be for storing goods of every variety. Bolts of silk and satin in glorious colours were stacked on deep shelves next to hundreds of huge wine casks and towering stacks of crates. The vast floor was alive with people, the sound of cheerful chatter and good-natured shouting filling the air as various carts were loaded and unloaded. There were several of them stationed outside the wide, open doors opposite where they’d come in.

Ella stared with interest as they climbed the steps, until she heard a knock and saw that their guide had brought them up to a landing area. He stood before an office door, waiting for them. Here, too, there were crates and boxes neatly stacked. Flanking the door were two of the biggest, most terrifying men Ella had ever seen. She heard Nancy whimper with distress at the sight of them.

She clutched the girl’s hand to give her courage as the short, squat fellow went in at the sound of a terse command.

Ella’s heart picked up at the sound of that voice. It was deep and commanding, and she had to admit that she too was scared sick. They waited in uneasy silence.

All four of them jumped as the door swung open again and the man who’d led them here reappeared.

“Come in,” he said, grinning at them.

It was quite obvious that he knew they were all quaking in their boots and was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

Ella took a deep breath.

“You three will stay here,” she said, rather pleased that her voice didn’t quaver as she felt certain her knees were knocking beneath her gown.

“But, your grace,” Nancy exclaimed, trying to hold onto her arm as her eyes grew wide with horror. “You can’t be alone with… with that—”

“I’m sure Mr Blackehart is a gentleman,” Ella said, interrupting her before she could say anything more insulting, and raising her voice loud enough that the occupant of the office could hear her. “There is nothing to fear.”

She became aware of movement in the office, and saw a large shadow moving in the brightly lit room. Their guide turned to look behind him and then moved out of the way, as the biggest man Ella had ever seen in her life filled the doorway. The terrifying looking fellows that flanked his door seemed to shrink in his presence, and she’d thought them big men.

“You sound very certain of that, your grace,” he said. It was a rough voice that spoke of the streets of London, yet it had a deep timbre that was not unpleasant. Right now, it held a note of amusement. “Are you quite sure?”

Ella looked up, and up, and tried very hard not to flinch or take a step back.

He had a square-jawed, ruggedly handsome face, which was ruined by the dreadful scar that ran down his right cheek. It tugged at his eye, drawing it down and giving him a rather devilish appearance. At this moment, Ella could believe every word of the intelligence she’d gleaned about the man. He did not look like a gentleman.

“You tell me, Mr Blackehart,” Ella replied, raising her chin. Her heart was hammering so hard and fast that she was breathless, but she put all the force she had into keeping the words even and calm. She was a duchess, after all; she’d damn well act like one.

He smiled then, showing even, white teeth. It was not a wholly pleasant expression.

“I won’t eat you, Duchess,” he said, apparently entertained by her boldness, going on the glitter of amusement in his eyes.

“Well, that’s most reassuring,” she replied tartly as she swept past him and into his office.

Ella stood, rigid with tension, as Blackehart closed the door and moved back behind his desk.

“Do sit down,” he said, the words somehow mocking even though they were polite.

“I prefer to stand, Mr Blackehart. This is not a social call.”

She suppressed a flicker of irritation as Blackehart sat down despite the fact that she was still standing.

“A shame,” he murmured. “I would have ordered tea.”

He scratched at his jaw with one large hand as he stared at her consideringly, his gaze unflinching, defiant even.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself. I suspect you know why I’m here.”

Blackehart pursed his lips. “I suspect you wish to discuss the fight with your husband, though I am at a loss to know why, your grace. Unless you wish to make a bet on the outcome, without your husband’s knowledge, perhaps? I’m afraid you’ll not get very good odds on me now. I’m certainly the favourite to win.”

He grinned at the outrage in her eyes.

“I know you’re the favourite, damn you,” she snapped, amused herself now by the surprise in his eyes at hearing her curse. “Why do you think I’m here? What will it take to make you cancel the fight?”

His shock was palpable.

“I’ll pay you,” Ella carried on, heedless of the growing horror in his expression. “Any amount. Name your price.”

The desperation in her voice had to be clear but, when Blackehart stood again, she scurried back from his desk, daunted by the look in his eyes.

“You dare to ask me to back down from a challenge? For money?” He gave a bark of laughter that made her jolt with alarm. “Duchess, I am a very, very wealthy man, and my reputation is priceless. There is not enough gold in the world to make me back down from this fight.”

“Your reputation?” she repeated, her temper rising. “You mean your reputation as a thug and a criminal?”

“Aye,” he said, his tone severe as he stepped out from behind his desk. “That reputation. You reckon it would suit my purposes to have my enemies see me back down from a fight? To think I’ve gone soft or lost my nerve?” He snorted, giving her a look of utter contempt. “Never.”

Ella felt tears prickling at her eyes as she realised there would be no bargaining with this man. She swallowed hard, determined to keep her composure.

“Then there is nothing more to say.” She moved to the door, her throat tight with fear and anxiety. As she reached for the door handle Blackehart blocked her path and she gasped, stepping away from him.

“Did you really come here just to save your husband’s skin?”

There was curiosity in his eyes now and no little suspicion.

“Of course,” she said, hearing the quaver behind the words as she struggled for composure.

“Why?” he demanded.

Ella stared up at him, astonished that he could ask such a question.

“Have you never loved anyone, Mr Blackehart?” she demanded. “Haven’t you ever loved someone enough to risk everything to keep them from being hurt?”

She watched his face, finding herself curious as to the answer. For a fleeting moment she saw a flicker of emotion there, a flash of something dark and sorrowful, but it was quickly gone.

“That’s why you’re here?” The words were incredulous and even a little angry. “You came here with those two pitiful footmen and a maid to protect you? Even knowing my reputation? You must be out of your bloody mind.”

Anger rose in her chest, which was a good thing as it chased away the desire to cry. Ella clung to it, holding his gaze unflinchingly.

“No, not in the least, sir. I’m perfectly sane, I assure you. I am simply in love with my husband, and I would do anything to keep him safe.”

He stared at her, a long, hard look that had sweat prickling down the back of her neck, but she refused to blink or look away from him. Finally, he gave a little huff of amusement and smiled; a proper smile this time rather than a baring of teeth. To her astonishment, she noted that the brute had dimples.

“I believe the Duke of Rothborn is a very lucky fellow,” he said, giving a low chuckle.

There was something that might have been admiration in his eyes, but Ella was unimpressed. He’d not do as she asked, and so he deserved none of her thanks.

She returned a hard look. “Not lucky enough, it would seem,” she said, glowering, the words more snarled that spoken. “Good day to you, Mr Blackehart.”

***

“I’m an idiot,” Oscar said, staring across the room to where Blackehart was warming up.

Stripped to the waist, he was even more intimidating than he was dressed. Any hopes that his bulk had been emphasised by a clever tailor with judicious padding was scuppered at once.

Bertie turned around to look at him, frowning a little.

“You’re not expecting me to counter that argument, are you?”

Oscar shook his head. He felt sick. He was good in the ring, an accomplished boxer, everyone knew that. Why he’d agreed to this he couldn’t fathom. What had he been trying to prove, for the love of God? It was David and Goliath all over again, except he didn’t have a sling shot. He was outclassed and, if Blackehart was in a vindictive mood, he’d draw it out for as long possible, killing him by increments.

Oscar took a deep breath and carried on, warming his muscles, jabbing and crossing. Why he was bothering he didn’t quite know. With Blackehart’s massive reach he’d be lucky to land a blow at all.

“Oscar,” Bertie said, a slightly alarmed note to his voice. “Oscar.”

“What?” he demanded, a little irritated at his concentration being broken. He looked to see Bertie give a jerk of his head and discovered Blackehart walking towards them.

“Your grace,” Blackehart said, looking perfectly at ease, as well he might. “Might I have a word.” He glanced at Bertie. It was not a complimentary look, which ruffled the fellow’s feathers a little. “In private.”

Bertie held up his hands. “I know when I’m not wanted,” he said, giving a tight smile and walking away.

Oscar stared at his opponent, quite unable to tear his gaze from the ugly state of his neck. He’d thought the scar on his face proof enough of a violent life, but this was something else. Someone had tried to hang Mr Blackehart – and failed. The rope had bitten cruelly into his flesh, leaving the skin deformed and shiny with scar tissue.

Oscar forced himself to meet the man’s eyes and concentrate on the here and now. If Blackehart had come to intimidate him, he’d not give the man the satisfaction. Oscar was an idiot, but not a coward. He moved back a little, so he didn’t have to look up so far.

“Did you want something?” he asked, keeping his enquiry nonchalant.

“Yes,” Blackehart replied, his demeanour affable. “To congratulate you on your wife. She’s a remarkable woman. Brave, too… bloody reckless, though.”

Oscar experienced a shiver of alarm at his words. Fear and fury rose in his chest.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, moving closer. “By God, Blackehart, if you’ve touched her, I’ll rip your bloody head off.”

Blackehart’s eyebrows rose a little, but he looked amused rather than daunted.

“Calm down, man. She’s safe and well. Why the devil would I harm her? We both know this match is already won.”

Oscar forced himself to consider this and tried to get his heart to slow down as he realised Blackehart was right. He had nothing to gain.

“She came to see me,” he said, as Oscar jolted in horror.

Blackehart seemed entertained by this, and rather admiring, but Oscar’s heart was racing again, and he felt like he might actually throw up.

“What?” he demanded, horrified, praying he’d misheard.

To his dismay, the fellow just nodded. “Yesterday. Strode into my office as bold as brass and tore me off a strip when I refused to allow her to pay me off.”

He stared at Blackehart, open-mouthed, too stunned to speak for a moment.

“Oh, my God.”

Oscar stumbled back, relieved to discover a bench against the wall. He sat down with a thud and put his head in his hands. He should have known. Bloody hell, he should have known. This was Ella he was dealing with; she’d never sit back and do nothing if she had a chance to save him. Hell’s bells!

“You swear she’s all right?” he asked again, sighing when Blackehart nodded.

“Word of honour. She left in the same state she’d arrived. No, that’s not true, she was angry as a hornet,” he amended, chuckling now. “I had my men see she was escorted safely back to her own neighbourhood.”

“I didn’t know,” Oscar said, once he’d calmed himself enough to speak. “Truly,” he added, horrified lest the man believe he’d sent his wife to try to defend him.

“I believe you,” Blackehart replied, looking thoroughly diverted by the matter. “She’s not the kind of woman who takes no for an answer.”

“You have no idea.” The words were wry, though Oscar was sure his pride in her was evident enough. “I never know what she’ll do next.”

“You’re a lucky man, Rothborn,” Blackehart said as he held out his hand.

Oscar stared at that hand. It wasn’t a private handshake this time, but in full view of his peers. A prickle of alarm ran down his back. If Blackehart thought he’d do it in the hopes he’d go easy on him in the ring, he had another think coming. Yet he’d seen Ella safe home, and Oscar didn’t believe that was his motivation. No. Blackehart was clever, and he wanted powerful friends.

He reached out and clasped Blackehart’s hand.

“I know how lucky I am, believe me, and I thank you for seeing her safe home.”

He looked up to see the spectators were filing into the large hall. The murmur of voices and a sense of anticipation filled the room. Butterflies erupted in his stomach.

“To battle then,” Blackehart said, grinning. He went to turn away and then hesitated. “I’ve no interest in murdering you. Let’s just enjoy a bit of sport, eh? I’ve seen you turn out. You’re damn good, you know your stuff. You might even land a punch if you’re really lucky.”

“Why, you cheeky blighter,” Oscar said, unsure of whether to be amused or insulted.

“Loser buys the drinks?” Blackehart suggested as he walked away.

Oscar snorted, laughing now, and rather more at ease than he had been. “You’re on.”

***

Ella paced the spacious parlour of Oscar’s town house. There was no point in keeping up the subterfuge of staying at a hotel now, so she’d had everyone pack up.

The fight was over, and Oscar had lost. This much she knew, as she’d sent Francis out to await the news and report back to her at once. He’d been knocked out cold at the end of the third round, though Francis assured her he’d been revived with no ill effects. But, if that was so, where on earth was he?

The fight had ended hours ago.

Yet still, no Oscar.

She tormented herself by worrying that the blow which had knocked him out had done more damage than they’d realised, and he’d been taken ill later. What if he were unconscious somewhere?

Ella forced herself to take a breath and be reasonable. Bertie was with him. Her brother would see him safe home and call a doctor if there were aught amiss. She knew that. Yet she could not help but worry.

The sound of raucous laughter reached her ear and she hurried to the window, craning her neck to see who was approaching the front door. With a gasp she took in the scene with utter disbelief and ran down the stairs just as the butler opened the door.

Oscar and Blackehart staggered through, their arms about each other like brothers. Bertie came in after, weaving a little, but apparently a little less inebriated than his companions.

Ella stared in astonishment, taking in the spectacular black eye that Oscar was sporting, and noting that Blackehart wasn’t totally unscathed. His lip was swollen and had obviously been bleeding.

Good, she thought, with just a touch of vindictiveness.

“There she is!” Oscar said, sending Ella a flourishing wave and sounding cheery. “My wife, Blackehart. None finer in the whole of England…. No, no,” he said, suddenly grave as he shook his head and wagged his finger at Blackehart. “That’s not right… in the world.”

“I agree,” Blackehart said, magnanimous in victory.

The two men swayed gently, grinning at her with twin expressions of benign contentment. Coming from Blackehart, it was quite unnerving.

“Do you know, she won the Craven Stakes at Newmarket,” Oscar said, beaming with pride.

Blackehart gaped at him, round eyed.

“Oscar!” Ella exclaimed, horrified as she ran down the stairs. Good Lord, just how drunk was he?

“Oh, sorry, love,” Oscar said, sending her a dazzling smile. He turned to Blackehart and put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Secret.”

Blackehart snorted. “I’m good at secrets,” he said, a rather unsettling look in his eyes. “Won’t tell a soul.”

Ella shook her head, surprised to discover she believed him. Behind her, Bertie slid down the wall and landed with a thump on the ground.

“H’lo, Bug,” he said, an inane grin on his lips. “He’s still alive. Tol’ you he’d bounce.”

Perhaps her brother wasn’t as sober as she’d hoped.

“Good heavens,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Coffee, at once,” she instructed an amused looking footman. “And plenty of it,” she added.

“You’d best go into the library,” she said, ushering the two bosom pals through before going back to lever her brother to his feet.

“You were supposed to be looking after him, Bertie,” she scolded, though she was too relieved to be truly cross.

“He’s not dead,” Bertie replied, shrugging.

“No,” Ella agreed with a sigh and then smiled at him, kissing his cheek. “He’s not.” For the first time since Oscar had made his ridiculous confession, she felt like she could draw a breath.

“Come along, then. I’ve a duke and a villain to sober up. I can’t leave you sitting in the hallway.”

“Lead on, Bug,” her brother said with a grin, giving an after you gesture and managing to stay upright.

Ella laughed and flung her arm about his waist, and the two of them staggered to the library.