Chapter 23

23

It waslate after Penelope’s art show when Spencer returned to Sumhall.

He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Joanna after she spoke with her aunt. She’d retreated quickly afterward, sending him a look full of meaning, like she’d learned something valuable. And, oh, how he craved to drink that gaze in, that connection so precious and delicious—the hours and days without Joanna had been dragging like resin.

He’d stayed for dinner to spend time with his family, even though what he really longed to do was to see Joanna.

He couldn’t pay her a visit unchaperoned. And even chaperoned, his attentions would be immediately perceived as courting, especially after his previous visit with Grandmama. The only way to see her every night after every dinner was to marry her.

He should. He’d ruined her. Taken her virginity. If another woman was in her place, she might have cried bloody murder and forced him into marriage, threatening him with scandal.

But Joanna was not that kind of woman.

The dark streets were illuminated by gas lamps when he climbed out of his carriage in front of his home and saw a man standing at the corner of two streets across the road, twenty feet away.

He was easy to miss, almost as dark as the shadows, with his unremarkable brown-gray clothes and his unremarkable appearance. But Spencer felt the man’s heavy gaze like stones.

He cursed under his breath, pausing.

Were there men following her, too? She didn’t say so today, but what if there were? Good God, someone must have watched him today when he went to Newdale Place for the art show. They could have seen Joanna entering, too.

And the thought of her being hurt in any way was an icicle being dragged down his spine.

He walked across the pavement in front of Sumhall, about to climb the stairs and go in. Carl waited on the driver’s seat, about to take the horses and the carriage into the mews.

Spencer turned around to see if the man who’d been watching him for the past few days—he was certain it was the same one—was still there. Sure enough, he was. Spencer’s blood was like acid in his veins.

Spencer had had enough of hiding. He was a fighter; he was not one for running away. And yet that was exactly what Ashton had made him do.

Was that the new him? The coward? As the Duke of Grandhampton Spencer had never run away from a fight. He’d won fights.

Spencer strode back to the carriage and opened the door. He lifted the seat and took out his trusty pistol, then tucked it into the back of his trousers.

He was furious with Ashton. He was furious with these criminals who tracked his every step. He was furious with himself and his mangled body that couldn’t do what he wanted it to do.

He wasn’t a fool, either, thinking he could take any man he wished in a fight, not with his injured thigh. Instead, he’d lure the man. He’d frighten him. He’d become the hunter rather than the prey.

Spencer crossed the road, his gaze locked with that of the man in the shadows.

“My lord!” called Carl after him.

“Stay back, Carl,” snarled Spencer.

The man across the street detached himself from the corner of the building and straightened, an expression of wary surprise stretching his face. Good. This unexpected move would give Spencer an advantage. With the next few steps Spencer took, the man retreated, turned around, and ran.

Spencer cursed. Carl called after him again, and Spencer considered asking his coachman to come with him, but his pride balked at the thought of asking for help.

Spencer trailed the man through the dimly lit streets of Mayfair, his senses heightened, every muscle tensed for what might come.

Perhaps Spencer was running after the old self he’d lost, the man who was in complete control of his life: at the top of society’s ranks, master of his own body; ready to take on any challenge.

The man looked back at him from time to time. After the next crossing, the thug continued running straight, but at the end of the next building, he turned left sharply. Spencer cursed and followed him, reaching for his pistol. It was a dark, narrow alley, and Spencer couldn’t see much except for the streetlamp at the end.

“Stop or I will shoot,” Spencer warned, aiming at the dark silhouette ten feet away.

The man stopped and spun around, but the sinister grin on his face had a boulder of dread drop into Spencer’s gut. Before Spencer could react, four more figures appeared from the shadows, walking towards him purposefully.

A trap? The man must have known his accomplices were hiding here and led Spencer to them.

And Spencer had walked right into it. Damnation.

It was hard to see in this darkness, but he aimed at the head of the first man, which was easily visible against the light at the end of the alley, cocked the hammer, and shot. These men were clearly here to harm him, and this would be the only shot he’d probably get. He may not have time to reload.

The recoil, the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the smoke brought him back to the ship—he was going to take another life. He felt a short stab of regret and hesitation, disgust at himself for the act.

The man grunted and screamed as he was shot back, clutching at his shoulder. He fell on the ground, groaning in pain.

Spencer’s heart pounded in his chest, shock surging through his veins.

That was it. His last chance at survival—where the rest of them had knives and perhaps guns, too. He was outnumbered. He hoped the gunshot would attract the attention of one of the inhabitants of the street. In fact, his best bet was to run out into the light, calling for help.

He turned and ran, limping.

But he didn’t have the chance to reach the light. Quick, heavy steps hurried after him, and he felt rather than saw the assault. On instinct, Spencer dodged, and a glint of steel flashed to his right, near his torso.

Through the tearing pain in his thigh, Spencer pivoted and plunged his fist into his assailant’s nose. The satisfying pain in his knuckles and the crack of bone sent a momentary jolt of triumph through him.

But it was extinguished right at the root as three more men surrounded him. The tallest one shoved the knife at Spencer, and a sharp sting told him the blade had grazed his skin.

He countered with a swift punch, his fist connecting with the attacker’s jaw. The man staggered back, but the others were quick to close in. Drawing on his boxing skills, Spencer kept his feet moving, throwing the jabs with practiced precision, but his thigh was sending searing bolts of agony through him with every move, and the wall he was getting backed into worked against him.

A heavy blow landed on his ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for air, pain flaring with each breath. Just as he shifted his body to keep his defense, another man he hadn’t notice before closed in from behind and grabbed him, trying to pin his arms. Spencer twisted and turned, even through the excruciating torture of his wounded thigh. He managed to break free, but the effort left him exposed as the fourth man, whose nose Spencer had likely broken, stood up and the four of them surrounded him again.

A fist crashed into his temple, stars exploding in his vision. He stumbled, disoriented, as another punch hit his stomach. He doubled over, fighting to stay conscious.

The attackers were relentless, their blows coming from all sides. Spencer fought back with dwindling strength, his body aching, his movements growing sluggish. A kick into his solar plexus made all the breath leave his body. He fell, gasping for air as kicks rained over him, and all he could do was use the boxing technique of guarding his torso with his arms.

Then, as suddenly, the blows stopped. He must be dead, he thought as he rode the waves of pain in various parts of his body.

But he saw the feet turning away from him towards three more silhouettes. What was going on? Who were the three new men? They began fighting with each other, arms thrown back, fists punching, legs kicking.

Why were they helping?

He used the wall to stand upright. He peered at the fighters, trying to see who they were. One of the rescuers, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek, delivered a series of precise, powerful blows that sent one of the attackers reeling. Another, more agile and wiry, darted in and out, his strikes quick and targeted, leaving his opponents disoriented. The third, silent and imposing, lay about himself with passionless blows, knocking down anyone who came close.

Spencer, though weakened, tried to rejoin the fray, but his body protested, his vision swimming with each movement.

The alley was a whirlwind of fists and grunts, the clash of bodies echoing off the walls. Spencer leaned against the wall, his chest heaving, as he watched the tide turn in their favor. The attackers, realizing they were outmatched, began to retreat, their confidence shattered.

With a final effort, the three unknown men chased the assailants out of the alley, disappearing into the night after them. The sounds of the chase faded, leaving Spencer alone in the quiet aftermath.

Spencer’s mind reeled. Were the three helpers footmen of one of the nearby houses? They didn’t look like footmen.

In fact, he realized with a shock, the one with the scar seemed familiar.

Wasn’t he the man who’d watched Spencer and Joanna when they were in Whitechapel, chasing Joseph?

Hoping to find the men, Spencer detached himself from the wall and walked out of the alley, his steps echoing with shooting pain from everywhere.

He was blinded a little by the light after the darkness behind him and squinted his eyes, trying to adjust. The street was quiet at this hour, only a carriage passed by in the distance and turned on to an adjacent street. Windows in the nearby Georgian and modern houses were slightly lit with dim candle and gas lamp light. A gentleman was walking towards him, but there were no signs of the original thugs or the other thugs who had helped him.

His cheek was tender, and when he touched it with his fingers, he winced. He should rejoice that he had, once again, come out alive. But he couldn’t let go of the burning need to know who had come to his rescue so unexpectedly. And why.

“Seaton?” asked a male voice, and Spencer turned. “Spencer?”

It was Dorian, the Duke of Rath, walking towards him with his walking stick. When he saw Spencer’s face, concern creased his handsome, sharp features and he hurried towards him.

“My God, Spencer, what happened to you?” he demanded, his sky-blue eyes swiftly looking Spencer over for other signs of damage.

“I was attacked.”

“Damnation. Come, my house is just that way, let’s go.”

Spencer winced. “There’s no need, Rath, I live just two streets down…”

“And I’ll return you there once we make sure you’re not in any danger.”

Spencer groaned and nodded. “All right.”

But he proudly refused Rath’s shoulder, which he offered to help him walk.

Once they were in Rath’s home, the butler showed them into the sitting room and disappeared to fetch stiff drinks and the housekeeper—who, according to Rath, knew how to mend wounds. A handy skill in Rath’s household. Spencer had visited Rath’s home before the man had become a duke, and he remembered the somber and austere atmosphere with dark teals, aubergine and mahogany colors that seemed to absorb any light the windows could provide.

The housekeeper, Mrs. MacArthur, was a handsome woman in her fifties, with dark hair, a straight back, and a Scottish accent. She commanded him to sit still while she quickly and efficiently cleaned and bandaged shallow cuts, put salve on his swelling bruises, then gave him ice wrapped in a cloth to hold over the worst of them. She left carrying the tub of bloody water and a basket of medical supplies, as if tending a bloodied and beaten man were no more significant than changing bed linens.

When Spencer and the duke sat across from each other, the fireplace lit with expensive wood and not coal like most households used these days, Spencer threw a glassful of brandy down his throat.

“I take it Mrs. MacArthur keeps that medical basket handy,” Spencer said, raising one brow.

Rath chuckled bitterly and nodded. “You know me.” Silence fell between them as Rath studied Spencer. “Will you tell me what happened?” he asked finally, with an unusual for him softness.

Spencer sighed. Unceremoniously and quite against proper manners, he picked up the decanter of brandy and poured himself another. The drink was doing its work, relaxing his aching muscles and making his head spin pleasantly.

“I have an enemy,” said Spencer. “And, apparently, a mysterious protector.”

Rath frowned, leaning forward with his elbows against his knees and looking at Spencer with an intense expression. “An enemy?”

Spencer sighed and felt his jaw working. “Yes.”

“Does it have anything to do with you being press-ganged last year?”

Spencer nodded, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace. “Yes, it does. The man responsible for my press-ganging is the Duke of Ashton. He’s been a constant threat since I returned.”

Rath’s eyes narrowed, the calm, collected facade beginning to crack, revealing a simmering anger beneath. His fists clenched tightly, knuckles whitening, as he absorbed the gravity of Spencer’s words. “Ashton, you say?”

Spencer leaned back, his body aching with every movement. “Yes. He’s dangerous, manipulative. He’s been blackmailing people, controlling them for his own gain. He committed high treason, Rath. And now he’s after me and those I care about.”

Rath’s expression grew dark. “High treason… Good God. And blackmail? That sounds eerily familiar. My uncle, Admiral Langden, was caught in a similar web. A family scandal he was desperate to cover up. Someone was blackmailing him to keep it silent.”

Spencer’s interest was piqued, but he chose his words carefully. It seemed he and his friend likely shared an enemy, especially given what Calliope had told him about Langden’s involvement in what had befallen him.

Though officially Langden’s killer was unknown, Spencer knew Calliope had killed him to save Nathaniel. But he couldn’t share that with Rath and risk his sister’s life. “Ashton has a knack for finding people’s weaknesses and exploiting them. He’s a master at this game.”

Rath’s eyes glinted. “Wait. Is that why you asked me to sneak you into his masquerade ball?”

Spencer nodded. He remembered Dorian had asked him to share, to tell him what had happened and his reasons for wanting to attend the ball, and Spencer had pushed him away like he had pushed away everyone else.

He didn’t want to do that anymore. Wasn’t it fascinating how Joanna had broken his barriers in such a short time?

“Yes, it is,” Spencer said.

Rath spat out a vile curse. “Could Ashton be behind my uncle’s downfall?” Rath’s voice, usually smooth and controlled, took on a sharp edge, each word laced with venom.

“I am sorry, friend,” said Spencer. “I’m certain Ashton was the one forcing Langden to make sure I landed on Concord and was shipped to the war.”

The duke’s face reddened, a vein throbbing visibly at his temple. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“What a despicable, dishonorable man. He did not just do that to my uncle. He manipulates and destroys other lives. For what?”

“That I do not know,” said Spencer, “but I suspect it’s for his own gain.”

Joanna had told him how she saw a man with an accent give Ashton money. And given the messages being sent to America regarding military ships, it seemed most likely that he was selling information to the enemy.

Rath growled and began to pace the room while clenching and unclenching his fists. Rath had been a frequent boxing partner, and Spencer knew how well the man could use those fists. The anger always coiled up in Dorian gave him so much force his thrusts were especially dangerous.

“This…this is unforgivable!” Rath’s voice rose. “Men like Ashton, they’re a plague to society, preying on the vulnerable, the innocent!”

Spencer remained seated, observing Rath’s outburst. He had seen the duke’s temper flare before but never with such intensity.

Spencer took another sip of brandy, allowing the liquid to warm him from the inside out. He knew that he had struck a nerve with Rath, awakening a deep-seated anger that had been festering beneath the surface for years.

“I am going to take him down,” Spencer said. “That is the whole purpose.”

“Well, you let me know what you need,” grated Rath. “And I will do whatever is required.”

Spencer swallowed, his throat clenching. He couldn’t ask this of his brothers because they’d never keep this secret from their wives. He couldn’t ask this of Nathaniel for the same reason.

And he needed to protect not just Joanna’s life but her reputation.

He could ask Dorian, who would be able to protect Joanna just as well as his brothers—both physically and through his money and connections. Spencer trusted Dorian like he trusted his own brothers. But he didn’t need to be afraid for Dorian’s safety; Dorian was one of the richest and most powerful men in England. And his fists could be deadly.

So Joanna would be safe.

“I need you to protect someone,” Spencer said. “And I need you to be very discreet about it.”

Dorian stopped pacing. “Discreet?” He narrowed his eyes. “A matter of a lady, I presume? Is that, perhaps, the very same you chased after at the ball?”

Spencer looked at his friend in awe. “I knew you were bright, but you are seeing through everything today. Yes. I need you to protect a lady.”

Dorian nodded. “Of course. Just tell me who.”