Chapter 10
The surprisingly simple classical facade of the four-story building nestled down one of the close corridor’s off of Fleet Street was the sort one might walk past and assume it was the residence of some upstart solicitor. After all, it was close to the Inns of Court.
It was also remarkably close to Covenant Garden, the theaters, and London Bridge which one could take to the far less pristine entertainments that the mama’s of the ton preferred. If one could call the stews of South London entertaining.
In short, it was an excellent location for a group of men who wished to remain. . . anonymous.
Number 79 had been bought by Damian Drake, Duke of Drake, six years previously and the exclusive group of friends had modeled it into a home away from home, a gambling club, a place for mini-theatricals, masked parties, political machinations, and a secret room at the top floor that only the dukes were aware of.
It was whatever they needed it to be when facing a world that insisted they always be on show.
In previous years, Rob had always loved stepping down from a hackney on teeming Fleet Street, weaving around the flashing journalists, tradesmen, and lawmakers turning along the small brick close that had survived the Great Fire and wandering down to the quiet corner where the house, and their refuge, resided.
Not today.
As he stared at the polished brass numbers and the whitewashed columns that held up the portico, he fisted his hands by his sides. Facing his friends was the last thing he wanted to do.
No. He was not ready to meet them. Not yet. Not when he was still in such a terrible pecuniary state.
He took a step back onto the cobbled path, ready to whip about and head down the winding way past the Templar Church and find himself on the bank.
The door swung open and Madame de Coqueville, stood in the rectangular candle glow.
She propped a hand on her curved hip. “Are you coming in cherie or non?”
He ground his teeth together but found he could do naught but give the lady a curt nod. “In.”
“Bon!” She clapped her hands. “Entre, Your Grace.”
He stepped across the granite threshold and over into the dim, amber lit foyer of dark wood and black and green marble.
Madame de Coqueville took his cloak and hat. “It has been some time,” she tsked. “Such absence from your friends cannot be good for your health.”
“Indeed,” he replied, knowing if he started any sort of discourse with the renowned French playwright he wouldn’t survive with a secret intact.
Yvette had barely survived the guillotine in 1794. It had been Rafe, Duke of Royland, in fact, who had gotten her out at the very last minute by bribing a prison guard and hiding her in a coffin with someone who had been less. . . fortunate and intact.
Though it had been a ride of horror, she and Royland had remained close friends since and the dukes had decided that they, as a group, would be her patron and had given her the running of the house when they were not visiting it.
She was the perfect person to see it kept in order. Intelligent, discreet, not easily shocked, and experienced in the horrors of the world. Madame de Coqueville was, to the world, the owner of Number 79. All events were held under her name and she protected the dukes with a fierce lioness’ determination. For they had ensured her freedom not just from the Assembly in France, but she was able to write as she pleased now and do as she pleased, too.
She swung his dark cloak over her pale arm and arched a fiery brow at him. “They are upstairs, Your Grace.”
He nodded.
She cocked her had to the side, her red, lush curls dancing over her shoulder. “It is not a funeral, you are attending, non?”
“No,” he agreed, fighting a sigh.
Squaring his shoulders, he smiled at her, though it felt more like a grimace.
“I am off to the opera, mon ami. Mozart, you know,” she said lightly before waggling her brows. “And there is a certain young man who needs my attention. They are waiting for you.”
Turning towards the stairs, he forced himself to mount them, even as he attempted to convince himself that this wouldn’t be so very bad. He was a talented actor himself. Surely, playing the part of a powerful and successful duke was not beyond him.
As he climbed stair after stair, he at last came to a wide landing with a series of packed bookcases. The mahogany wood shone under the lit wall sconces and the golden letters sparkled in the dim lighting. He scanned the titles until he spotted Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man and tilted it towards him.
A soft snick echoed through the air and the bookcase slid to his left.
The narrow corridor before him was empty but now that the thick panel hiding it had pulled back, he could hear the soft hum of several male voices at the end of it.
He bent slightly then strode forward and up a set of three steps until he stood before the final door.
The voices paused on the other side.
There was nothing for it.
He grabbed the latch and lifted it.
“Huzzah!”
“At last!”
“Old boy!”
The chorus of welcoming voices did not lift his spirits but rather hit him with a wave of guilt. He’d missed his friends. But even now, under their enthusiastic greetings, it was difficult not to linger.
But he’d never been a coward or fond of retreat. So, he strode into the room and did not resist Royland, strode forward, grabbed him, and clapped him on the back. “Too long, old man. Too bloody long.”
“Well, if you’d stop running off to the Continent,” Rob replied.
Royland snorted, his overly long, curling, black hair nearly blue in the candlelight. “From what I understand, it wouldn’t matter where I was.”
“Truth be told, Blackstone, you’ve been hiding under a rock,” Harley said.
He couldn’t deny it.
Raventon handed him a snifter of brandy, his knuckles callused from hours of boxing. “Here. Drink this and tell us all about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he said quickly, taking the carved crystal in his palm, warming the cognac. “Has anyone had word from that Scottish devil?” he added, hoping they’d all leave him be.
“Ardore?” queried Raventon with a quirk of his brow. “He’s still in the Americas.”
Finally, Drake turned from the fire, his blond hair glinting icily in the firelight. “Don’t attempt to distract us. You’re a terrible liar, Rob.”
He stared back at the man who had really started it all. The duke who had once seemed so lost, was now possibly the coldest, hardest, most powerful and yet somehow most charming man in England.
It had been something to behold the way in which Drake had destroyed any who had stood in his way then utterly charmed them to do his bidding.
But now, how would Rob be able to stand before him, a man he’d seen vulnerable and who knew him through and through, and. . . lie. There was only one way to do it.
“I’m getting married,” he announced before taking a gulp of cognac.
Royland blinked, his amber eyes flashing.
Raventon gaped as if he’d announced an execution.
Harley’s brows rose.
And Damian, Duke of Drake? His lips curled in the slightest, mischievous smile. “Felicitations.”
Royland suddenly cleared his throat and lifted his glass. “Congratulations! To the lady.”
Harley and Raventon started to raise their glasses but then Raventon demanded bluntly, “Who the devil is she?”
Finally, Rob laughed. A big, dry laugh and it felt marvelously good. For his life had become absolutely absurd. “I don’t know.”
The statement was met with stares and glasses held in midair.
Harley cocked his head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”
“I. Don’t. Know,” he said pointedly before taking another great swallow of brandy.
Drake threw his head back and laughed then headed to the pianoforte in the corner. As he sat down and pushed back the walnut lid, he asked, “Shall we start a list?”
“No need,” Rob said. “My mother is doing that.”
Raventon’s eyes widened. “Good God, man. Have you no morale?”
Rob shook his head. “Not really, no.”
“But why like this?” Harley demanded.
Rob sighed then crossed to a wing-backed chair before the fire and threw himself in it. “Really, why not? It’s how it’s been done for hundreds of years. Why bother with romanticism?”
“Surely, we’d pick a better wife than your mother,” Raventon said skeptically.
“Do you think so?” Rob asked dryly, allowing himself to relax into the chair.
Drake glanced over at him and narrowed his eyes. “Are you in need of funds?”
“What?” Rob yelped, straightening as he realized the tone of his voice had been most telling. “No. Why would you say that? No.”
Drake trailed his fingers idly over the ivory keys. “Oh, I heard a rumor at the exchange.”
Rob’s mouth dried and his friends grew strangely silent. “A rumor?”
“Mmm.” Drake played a sprightly tune. “Fortnum, Fortnum, and Brown knocked upon your back door a few months ago. And then there are reports that a man of business has been drinking in the local public house, saying all sorts of things about a certain duke who will any day be thrown in the Fleet debtor’s prison.”
Rob ground his teeth together. Collins. He was going to bloody kill him. The man liked his gin. There was no question. But Rob hadn’t imagined the old man would let such a thing slip. Which only meant he was a fool.
“The man, who shall remain nameless, declared deep in his cups that the coal bill hasn’t been paid in two years,” Drake said simply. “The roofs haven’t been maintained in five.”
Rob swallowed. “What are you trying to say?”
“Are you done, old man?” Harley asked softly, the air having fairly gone out of the room.
“Dukes aren’t done,” Rob bit out.
“Anything can happen to anyone,” Drake countered.
“Look at France,” Royland said, his gaze dark.
“You know, you can tell us, Rob,” Raventon said, his voice a quiet rumble.
Rob stared into the last drops of his drink, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut, and yet he also found an odd sense of relief that he wasn’t going to have to lie anymore. “I’m going to need a lot more brandy.”
Royland crossed to the long, ornately carved sideboard, opened one of the doors and methodically pulled out three bottles of brandy. “Best we get started then.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” Rob groaned.
“At the beginning, is always a very good choice, old man,” Drake said, launching into another jaunty song. “You’ll feel a good deal better for it.
Royland uncorked the first bottle then made the rounds, not bothering to pour delicately.
“Out with it,” Harley said.
Rob winced. “It’s. . . it’s embarrassing.”
Drake turned slowly on the bench before the pianoforte. “You know my secret, Rob. I think it’s time we knew yours. Don’t you?”
Rob met the eyes of the man who he’d gone out of his way to help all those years ago and was tempted to curse himself for it now. But there was no going back. No, the only way was to face the bloody thing and stride forward into whatever hell awaited.