The Perfect Duke (11 page)

“Your friend”—Farley turned his assessing gaze toward Garret—“speaks well, though his judgment is faulty.”

“Ah, you’ve got that right. I’ve dubbed him William ‘The Duke’ Hendricks. A man wot speaks like him needs a title.” He slapped Farley on the back. “Don’t you agree?”

Garret shot to his feet. It took all his control not to choke. What the hell did Morgan think he was doing?

Frowning, Farley removed a snuffbox from his pocket and took a pinch into each nostril, wrinkling his nose as the tobacco entered. He replaced the box, then stared Garret up and down as though appraising horseflesh. “You must ‘ave come by your opinions through experience. Did you plan to wager or fight?”

“He came to fight.” Morgan nodded toward the previous winner. “Ya think the big fella’s too tired to humble my friend here?”

“I doubt ‘The Gravedigger’ would find it much of a challenge.”

Morgan grabbed his ale, took a large swig, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Go on, Duke, ye thought the man short on technique, show ‘im how it’s done. I’ll even be yer second.”

For some reason, Bradford’s Irishman wanted this fight and, truth be told, Garret was in the mood to hit someone. If it weren’t ‘The Gravedigger,’ then Morgan would have been a good second choice. “Do you employ Broughton’s Rules?”

“Strictly.” Farley placed a hand on his chest as though offended, his heavy gold rings glinting in the torchlight. Those rings would certainly injure any opponent who dared cross the man, and judging from his crooked nose, he was no stranger to the sport.

Garret inclined his head. “I’ll do it.” If Bradford was right, and these men were involved with the events at Cara’s school, then he’d enjoy besting them.

Farley’s slow smile never reached his deep-set eyes. “Good. Let me speak with my associate.” He crossed to his champion and appeared to speak rapidly. At one point the hulking man glanced back at them, outrage apparent on his features.

Morgan smirked. “I don’t think Digger’s happy. You’d better be as good as Bradford says.”

“I am.” He began to remove his jacket as he headed for the stairs. Morgan followed, then went to examine the box—a yard square—that had been chalked onto the middle of the stage. Garret removed his shirt, thankful that the breeches of a steward were looser than those he normally wore.

The crowd quieted, and he peered down to see Farley accepting wagers from the crowd. No doubt the odds were stacked against him.

He stretched, relishing the feelings of anticipation and tension inspired by a physical contest. It was too bad his instructor couldn’t be here to see this, but his ship must be half way to East India by now.

Garret extended, then clenched his fingers. Duggan preferred caring for sails and rigging to fighting. How long had it been? Fifteen . . . sixteen years since Edward had coaxed the great Duggan Fearns, victor at The Crown Inn over the renowned Harry Sellers, to visit Belcraven?

It had taken all of his brother’s considerable persuasive abilities to get Duggan to agree to teach them. If only Edward were alive to see this. Garret could imagine the gleam in his brother’s eye.

Of course, if the
Gazette
ever heard about the Duke of Kendal’s little escapade, the scandal would go on for months. Morgan’s joke increased that possibility. Damn the meddling Irishman. His jaw tightened. He’d just have to make sure that didn’t happen.

“The lines are clear and properly measured,” Morgan called from the center, then returned to the corner as Farley and Digger took the stage. He lowered his voice. “I’ll watch to make sure he doesn’t hit below the waist. I’d not be trusting this one.”

“I’m not.” Garret rolled his shoulders. “However, that doesn’t mean you’re to throw in the sponge if things get bad. I have no intention of losing.”

The crowd stamped their feet and called encouragements to Digger as he strutted along the outside edge of the stage, stopping now and then to take a bow. No doubt a local favorite.

At last he reached the opposite corner and stripped to the waist. After a short conference, Farley nodded that his man was ready. Garret approached the box, never taking his gaze from the boxer. He tried to recall what he’d seen of the man’s fighting style.

Digger’s shaved head gleamed with sweat, his features contorted into a gruesome mask as he advanced. They faced each other at the chalk lines for a split second. Then, with a growl, the bigger man launched himself at Garret. Heavily muscled, Digger’s bulk tended to make him slow.

But not slow enough.

Little Red Riding Hood knew the forest was dangerous. In this place, even benevolent souls could be swallowed up by the dark.

Little Red Riding Hood

Danger permeated this part of London. Cara knew it was foolish to come here alone, but she had to catch Michael before he did something rash. She pressed forward, refusing to acknowledge the men she passed, or their comments. Ahead Michael ducked into an alley. She followed.

Little light seeped in overhead between the worn stone buildings that crowded around her. The walls held close the stench of human excrement, mold, and other smells that forced her to cover her nose.

Vague shapes became discernible in the darkness. Shutters hung at odd angles from the building on her left, a testament that at one time it had not had a neighbor. The broken windows felt like malevolent eyes watching her progress.

Michael had disappeared. Her only option lay in the darkness ahead. She stepped around the remains of a cart and edged between two barrels.

Her world shrank to clammy dimness filled with the sounds of scratching from whatever ungodly animals she disturbed. The thought of rats worried her not nearly as much as being in this dark, enclosed space. She started to tremble. If she didn’t find him soon, she’d have to turn back.

A hand reached out of the shadows and closed over her wrist. At her cry of fright, Michael stepped from his hiding place, released her, then put a finger to his lips.

“Come on,” he whispered, “I want to show you something.”

He forced her to follow him into a deeper shade that turned out to be a doorway. Once inside, dim light filtered into their hiding place from an adjoining room, revealing crates of all sizes, along with rough-hewn tables and chairs.

Rowdy male voices could be heard nearby. Encouragements and swearing ebbed and rose with whatever appeared to be happening beyond the door.

Michael stopped at a place near the wooden wall where a coin-sized beam of light cut into the darkness. He indicated she should peer through the knothole.

Men from all walks of life crowded around a platform, many with their arms raised and faces contorted. Four individuals stood on the elevated stage, two of whom seemed to be intent on killing each other with their fists.

Dear God
. Her fingers curled against the rough wood on either side of the hole. One of the fighters was Garret.

Confusion and fear swept through her. She wanted to run into the room, but that would be madness. She’d have no reputation left. Then the school would have no choice but to close.

What did he think he was doing? Her breath left her body as she got a clear view of his opponent. He faced an oversized troll, at least her idea of what those fearsome creatures would look like.

The giant of a man had beady eyes, rounded nose, and a slavering mouth which seemed to be squeezed into a small space at the center of his face, leaving the onlooker an endless view of gleaming uneven skin on the rest of his head. His hulking body appeared grotesque, a solid block of muscle and bone that had been expanded beyond its normal boundaries.

To her surprise, the troll sped forward and his blow connected with the area above Garret’s eye. Blood smeared the giant’s meaty fist.

The cut oozed as Garret sidestepped another blow. Stripped to the waist, he was blatantly sensual, like a gladiator of old. Heat grew in the pit of her stomach. He moved with grace, darting in and around the creature. The supple muscles of his back and arms danced as he lunged, then blocked, then lunged again.

She shouldn’t be watching him like this, yet she couldn’t turn away. His delineated chest muscles reminded her of the Herculean statue at Belcraven.

What would it feel like to run her hands over those ridges? Her cheeks warmed at the thought and she rubbed her palms against her skirt. This image of him, muscles slick with sweat, his thick, blond hair loose around his shoulders, would remain with her forever.

Michael leaned close. She relinquished her place, and as he gazed through the peephole, he let out a low whistle. “Mr. Stone can ‘old his own in a fight.” The boy’s voice held a grudging respect.

Cara prayed Michael was right. Where had a duke learned to fight like that?

Her student turned away, then placed his back against the wall. “Do ya think he could teach me ‘ow to do that?”

“I don’t want you fighting.” She’d never understand the fascination men and boys seemed to have for the sport.

Michael nodded toward the hole again. “The man wot took Tommy is on the platform. The one with the fancy clothes.”

She peered into the room once more and searched the stage. A thin man with ostentatious clothing and a hooked nose appeared to be encouraging the troll. She could see how his noble manner might have fooled the boys. However, the devious expression on his hardened face made her shiver.

Garret stumbled.

She pressed against the wall, willing him to rise. The creature approached Garret, triumph written on its face. Her stomach clenched until she thought she would be ill.

Garret rose up on one knee, his head hung low. With a roar, his opponent clasped his hands and raised his arms over his head. His muscles bulged as he prepared to strike. A slight whimper escaped her lips. The blow would break the duke’s neck.

Before the troll’s arms descended, Garret shot upward with a powerful fluid stroke that caught his adversary under the jaw. A loud crack sounded above the commotion. The larger man flew a couple of feet before landing sprawled on his back. He didn’t move.

Silence filled the hall. The big Irish-looking gentleman and the kidnapper crossed to the fallen man and started the count.

It was the longest sixty seconds of her life.

A cheer broke out from the populace when the Irishman joined Garret and raised his arm above his head to declare him the winner.

“Did Mr. Stone win?” Michael sounded more like the little boy she knew.

“Yes.”

“Blimey.”

The duke didn’t bask in the attention. He combed his hair back with his fingers and rubbed his jaw. After an indifferent glance at his opponent, he donned his shirt and retrieved the rest of his clothing, then hurried off the stage. Men opened a path before him as he strode to a chair and sat.

Pride, anger, and something else warred within her. His nobility didn’t come from the clothes he wore, or his impeccable manners, but breeding. He had descended from a long line of dukes. No ragged attire or shabby surroundings could take that away from him. He was truly noble, and their worlds couldn’t be further apart.

Tears stung her eyes as she gave her attention to the troll, who still had not revived. The kidnapper nudged him with his foot but received no response. With a grunt of disgust, he stalked away.

She turned toward her companion and tried to keep her voice from wavering. “Michael, I want you to stay away from Tommy’s kidnapper. He’s dangerous.”
Please, God, let him listen to me.

He shoved away from the wall and drew himself up to his full height. “I’m not afraid of ‘im. I’m goin’ to ask ‘im what happened to Tommy.”

She grabbed at his arm before he could get anywhere near the door. “You are not to speak with him.” Fear at losing yet another student made her hold tighter than she’d intended. At his wince, she relaxed her grip. “Is that clear?”

His mutinous stare made her want to scream in frustration. She took a steadying breath and let go of his arm. “Look, Michael. If you confront him now, he’ll know we’re aware of his deception, and we may never find out where Tommy is.”

“I wagered you’d let Mr. Stone talk to him.”

“I don’t want Mr. Stone conversing with him either, but I seem to have very little control over what the odious man does.”

At her disparaging comment, Michael seemed to brighten.

She chewed on her lip, weighing her options. “I need to get the authorities involved.” That was really the only solution. Whether they believed her or not. She pinned the young man with her gaze. “Will you let me handle it?”

At his reluctant nod, she let out the breath she’d been holding. In the morning she’d try to convince the authorities they needed to investigate this club, but in the meantime she’d find out what had brought the duke here.

It couldn’t be coincidence. If he’d discovered the whereabouts of the kidnapper and hadn’t told her, then he’d find out she wouldn’t tolerate his interference in her life. Not sharing information was as bad as a lie.

Garret took his seat. Furtive glances, filled with wary respect, were cast in his direction. For the first time in years he was receiving recognition for his abilities, instead of his rank. Grim satisfaction warred with his throbbing cuts and bruises. He ordered ale, then watched as Morgan collected several men to help him carry Digger into a back room. When the deed had been accomplished, he joined him at the table, a cocky grin on his face. “You’re good. Bradford didn’t stretch the truth about your skill.”

“I nearly lost.”

“Perhaps, but I may have forgotten to mention that Digger is considered one of the best in London.” Morgan held up his hand, as if to ward off Garret’s displeasure. “We needed to get Farley’s attention. And we have.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Let me handle this.”

Farley approached them with a charming smile that presented a sharp contrast to his previous demeanor. His ingratiating voice rubbed Garret’s nerves raw. “Congratulations, Duke. I underestimated your prowess.” He took a pinch of snuff. “You cost me a small fortune with that little exhibit. Not many men would be able to accomplish what you have today. I appreciate a fighter with such skill.”

Garret noted the man’s white knuckles as he grasped his snuffbox. How much had he lost? He hoped it was substantial.

Farley wrapped his hand around the box and inclined his head. “Perhaps you would give me a chance to recoup some of my losses? I have influence with other clubs. If you’d like, I could sponsor you in a match.”

Morgan winked at Farley. “It’s sure I am ‘The Duke’ would be pleased to take you up on yer offer. But how would that be benefiting him?”

“He’d receive twenty-percent of the entry fee.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows and leaned back, crossing his arms. “Fifty.”

“Thirty-five. And that’s my final offer.”

“Done.”

They both turned toward Garret, and he forced himself to nod.
What did Morgan hope to gain?
He wanted to groan.
Another match
. If he didn’t know Morgan was on his side, he’d suspect him of collaborating with the devil.

Already his body ached from his recent beating. What he wouldn’t give to be soaking in a warm tub right now.

Before Farley could leave, Morgan tapped him on the shoulder. “Might I be having a word with you in private?”

The smaller man shrugged and they moved off to a secluded corner. At one point Farley glanced back at Garret in surprise, but nodded his agreement to whatever Morgan had asked.

The Irishman returned to the table. “Let’s go.”

Garret refused to show his discomfort as he followed Morgan from the club and into the twilight. Stars edged the horizon and a full moon cast the street in shades of gray. “Do I dare ask why you wanted to speak to Farley alone?”

“You’ll not be liking my answer, but this is the quickest way to force his hand.”

Garret closed his eyes briefly. What had Morgan done now? “Out with it.”

“I told him aside from the percentage, you’d be wanting some companionship.”

“And?” He couldn’t see Morgan’s face well in this light, but he’d swear the man was smirking.

“It seems you have some special requirements. You prefer them young, male, and untouched.”

“Bloody Hell!” The few people on the street stopped to glare at them, but he didn’t care. It was bad enough he’d fought in a public place, but now the Duke of Kendal had been connected with lusting after young boys. “What possessed you to do such a thing?”

“I wanted to force Farley to make a move.”

The Kendal name would be destroyed. Sweat broke out on his palms. Perhaps it had been inevitable. The last few weeks Cara had made him forget that he wasn’t free to do as he pleased. This was the price he paid.

Morgan took a right, leading them with ease through the darkened streets. “I’ve set up your entertainment a couple of nights from now. He’ll have to find an untouched boy before then, and my guess is, he’ll approach someone at the school.”

“You’re using the children as bait.” He didn’t like it, and Cara would be furious if she found out.

“They’ll be in no danger.” Morgan’s confident voice didn’t help to assuage his fear. “If you can keep the students close to the school, then we can intercept any correspondence they may receive. We’ll find out where he’s to meet his victim and get there first.”

“But what if he doesn’t recruit one of Miss McClure’s pupils?”

“Then you’ll arrive at the arranged location and question the boy.” Morgan’s rugged features promised a moonlight mask of retribution. “Either way, we get a predator off the streets.”

“And what would we tell the authorities?” He didn’t try to hide his sarcasm. “That Farley agreed to procure a boy for ‘The Duke?’ There would be an investigation.”

Morgan stopped short, forcing Garret to stumble back. He sighed and shook his head. “I apologize. On occasion I’m overzealous. We won’t bring in the officials. But I insist on finding gainful employment for the lad. I’ll not leave a child in Farley’s power.”

“Neither will I. Let’s hope we intercept a note. That, combined with the missing children, would be sufficient to bring him before the magistrate without involving ‘The Duke.’”

Morgan nodded and fell into step next to him. “I’ll be keeping watch outside the school in the morning. You see what you can discern from the students.”

It sounded simple enough, but how was he to explain his actions and injuries to Cara? He drew the damp night air deep into his lungs. Pain knifed at his ribs as he exhaled. More lies. Still, the alternative would be to advise her of their true plan.