Eight

A s they made their way down into the decrepit building’s equally deplorable basement, Phoebe practically clung to Will’s sleeve.

“I can barely see a thing,” she explained unprompted. Their path was illuminated only by the faint daylight that came in from a small window. “It will be a miracle if we don’t break our necks.”

“Not to worry,” he said with a smile as they reached the door to Mr. Felton’s quarters. “I have excellent reflexes.”

Before she could respond to that remark, he knocked so hard that Phoebe jumped and grasped his arm even harder.

“Sorry,” Will said as he patted her hand. “If he is dead drunk, I want to make sure he can hear me.”

But there was no answer.

“Excuse me,” he called out. “Is anyone in there?”

Then he knocked again even harder, while the worn door creaked in protest.

“Careful or you’ll break it down!” Phoebe hissed.

He shot her a wry look. “That would be helpful in this situation.” After a moment of taut silence, Will rattled the knob and let out a dry laugh. “Does no one lock their doors in this place?”

Phoebe’s shoulders tensed and the sinking sensation that had begun upstairs only grew. Nothing about this was right. Not Alice’s empty flat, not the mysterious visitor, and certainly not another unlocked door. People here knew better.

Will pushed the door open and entered. Phoebe followed a few steps behind him. She had faced Mr. Felton’s wrath once before and had no desire to repeat the experience.

It was larger than she expected, as it appeared to double as the man’s living space, but it was in a sorry state. Like the room preceding it, this one had a small window that let in enough natural light to make out their surroundings. A tattered sofa was littered with old newspapers and bits of soiled clothing, while used cutlery and the remnants of several meals covered a battered table. Phoebe’s nose wrinkled at the stench of rotting food. How could anyone live in such a place?

She was just about to make the comment to Will when he came to an abrupt halt. Phoebe walked right into him.

“So sorry,” she gasped, trying not to focus on his surprisingly firm backside.

Will didn’t respond, or even seem to notice. He was too busy staring at something.

She peered around him. A battered wooden desk took up the back half of the room and a pair of trouser-clad legs were sticking out from under it. Phoebe’s stomach turned.

Will slowly approached the body, then turned to her. “Well,” he said as he let out a breath. “Now we know why he didn’t answer.”

Phoebe braced herself and moved beside him. Behind the desk was Mr. Felton, faceup in a pool of dark blood that had begun to dry around the edges. His lips were parted and his pale blue eyes, so unsettling in life, were wide open, staring up into nothing—and taking whatever secrets he had to the other side.

“Bollocks,” she muttered. Will raised an eyebrow. “Sorry.” Then she made a quick sign of the cross in supplication.

“You did that backwards,” he said and turned back to the body.

“I don’t make it to church very often,” she admitted.

But he just shrugged. “Only weddings and funerals for me.”

Phoebe stared at the body. “Could this have been an accident?”

“I suppose it’s possible, given his drinking. He could have fallen back and hit his head. But that unlocked door…”

If he had settled in for the night to drink himself into a stupor, it would have been locked. She was certain of it.

Phoebe nodded in agreement. “Then if that’s the case, and this is a murder scene—”

“We need to get out of here. Now. ” Will backed away and grabbed Phoebe’s arm. “Don’t touch anything,” he said as he hauled her out of the room. He didn’t stop until they were outside and around the corner.

“We can’t just leave him like that,” she protested as they caught their breath by the side of a building.

Mr. Felton might have been an awful man, but he could be lying there for days until someone else came across him. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Will closed his eyes and leaned his head against the brick wall. “I’ve an idea,” he said after a moment. Then he cracked one eye open and leveled her with a look. “But you must do exactly as I say.”

As Phoebe began to balk, he opened both eyes. She crossed her arms and huffed. “Fine. Lead the way, Duke.”

Detective Inspector Holland took a long sip of his pint then set the glass down and folded his hands on the table. Will shifted in his seat. They were in a back room of a quiet pub in Holborn and the wooden chairs in this place were damned uncomfortable. But that was nothing compared to the glare the inspector was leveling at him.

After discovering the body of Mr. Felton, Will made Phoebe wait in his carriage while he went to fetch the inspector, who unsurprisingly had not been pleased to see him. Since Phoebe couldn’t risk returning to the station again without drawing attention, the inspector suggested they meet here.

Now the man continued to stare at Will in cold silence, mulling over the story they had just shared. He was beginning to feel like an unruly schoolboy in the headmaster’s office, which was absurd. He was a blasted duke .

“Please allow me to explain—”

But the man held up a hand. “No need, Your Grace. I believe I understand perfectly. After I explicitly told both of you to stay away from the property,” he said, looking between Will and Phoebe. “You disobeyed me, broke into the building—”

“The door was unlocked,” Phoebe corrected.

Detective Inspector Holland narrowed his eyes. “Interrogated a tenant—”

“We merely asked him a few questions,” Will clarified.

“Then broke into Alice Clarke’s flat—”

“Again, it was unlocked,” Phoebe said.

“And interfered with a possible murder scene.”

“That was an accident,” Phoebe pointed out. “We didn’t know Mr. Felton was dead. But who knows how long he would have been down there. And we told you immediately. Surely that must count for something.”

Detective Inspector Holland rubbed a hand over his face. “That was the only thing you did right. I was able to say I got an anonymous tip about a body, but I can’t protect you if you keep inserting yourself into dangerous situations.”

Phoebe bowed her head. “Understood.”

The inspector didn’t look the least bit convinced.

Smart man.

“I assure you that it won’t happen again,” Will said but the man gave him an equally skeptical look.

“Beg your pardon, Your Grace, but that didn’t work out so well last time. I shouldn’t need to tell you that it is Miss Atkinson who is incurring the greatest risk here.”

The back of Will’s neck heated. It was true. Phoebe could be ruined by all of this.

“Never mind that,” she said briskly, as if her reputation was a trivial detail. “We need to find this Maude woman Mr. Cartwright saw. If she truly was at Alice’s flat, then she has to know something. We can go to that music hall she frequents.”

“There is no ‘we’ here, Miss Atkinson,” Detective Inspector Holland said with exasperation. “You are not to have any more involvement into Alice Clarke’s disappearance.”

“But—”

“I will look into it,” he insisted. “I promise you. But you must give me some time. I will write to you within the week. Is that satisfactory?” he added mockingly.

Phoebe sat back in her seat. “I suppose,” she said with a pout. “But do you at least know Maude?”

The inspector’s pause was telling. “Possibly.”

Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Is she a prostitute?”

He let out an awkward cough and turned to Will. “Is she always like this?”

“It appears so,” Will said with a helpless shrug.

The inspector looked scandalized. He finished his pint in one long swallow and rose. “As I said, I will look into it.” Then he addressed Phoebe as he pulled on his overcoat. “And for God’s sake, don’t go to that music hall.” Then he pointed to Will. “He won’t last five minutes there.”

Will began to bristle but the inspector shot him a pleading look, so he kept his mouth shut. Phoebe gave a meek nod, but the inspector still didn’t look convinced.

“Your Grace,” he said and touched the brim of his bowler hat.

Will nodded in return and the inspector then exited the room, leaving them alone.

Phoebe stared at her untouched glass of cider. She had removed her gloves when they first sat down and now Will couldn’t tear his gaze away as her pale, slender fingers idly tapped the table. It was easy to imagine her writing on a chalkboard with smooth, confident strokes.

“I should have done more to help Alice,” she said softly. “I knew she was struggling after her mother died. Maybe then she wouldn’t have been so vulnerable.”

Will leaned an arm on the table, though what he really wanted to do was take her hand in his own. Her skin would be cool to the touch, and so soft—except a working woman like her might have a callus on her finger. The thought was unexpectedly exciting.

“I’m sure you did all you could,” he began. “And remember, she is not the first girl to fall prey to the empty promises of a scheming madam.”

Phoebe’s head rose sharply, but not with the look of appreciation Will expected. “You’re making an awful lot of assumptions about the both of them, Margrave.”

Will’s cheeks flushed at her unexpected admonishment. “They’re hardly outlandish though,” he pointed out, suddenly feeling defensive. “The peddling of flesh is a scourge in this city.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “It is,” she agreed.

Will relaxed a little, glad they had found some common ground. “Thankfully Lord Fairbanks is drafting a bill aimed at punishing the culprits, like this mysterious woman.”

Phoebe let out a harsh laugh. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that the prostitutes are to blame.”

“Well, no. Not entirely,” he amended.

“Ah, so then their clients will face penalties?”

“I—”

“And, pray, what provisions will be in this bill to help these women when they’ve lost their livelihoods?” Phoebe snapped. Her cheeks had taken on a becoming rosy color he would have enjoyed had her eyes not been bright with anger and fixed solely on him. “Or do you plan to lock up everyone who’s ever dared to sell their body? Out of sight, out of mind, is that it?”

“No,” Will insisted as his mind spun wildly. “But something must be done–”

“There are a great many things that need to be done to improve the lives of the people who live in this city,” she interrupted. “But it appears we disagree on what exactly needs changing. People turn to prostitution for all sorts of reasons. If you really are interested in ending this scourge, rather than punishing those that do, you should explore what is driving them down that path in the first place. Men like you are all too happy to indulge in vice in private while condemning it in public,” she added.

Whatever guilt Will had begun to feel at his thickheadedness immediately vanished and his jaw tightened. How dare she so casually accuse him of such hypocrisy.

“I agree that you’ve made some salient points, Miss Atkinson, and I will take them up with the earl directly.” Then Will took a breath and leaned over the table until her damned enticing scent filled his nostrils. “But do not presume to know what kind of man I am,” he growled.

For her part, Phoebe remained undaunted and simply held his gaze for a heart-shattering moment. “Then tell me what kind you are,” she finally murmured.

Will blinked. He must have imagined the suggestive note in her voice. Had to. Even still, his gaze dropped to her mouth and Phoebe’s breath caught. The air grew hot and thick around them. Then, after what felt like eons but had only been a matter of seconds, he pulled back. “The kind I’ve always been.”

Phoebe stared at him in silence but while her chest rose and fell in quick breaths, her expression was more shuttered than ever. “I should go,” she said abruptly as she pushed her chair back. “It’s getting late. My flatmate will worry.”

“Take my carriage,” Will said.

“Absolutely n—”

“My driver can return here after he drops you off. I’d like to be alone,” he added.

Phoebe stood there gaping until Will raised an eyebrow. “Is there something else you’d like to accuse me of,” he drawled, “or have you had your fill this evening?”

Her mouth snapped shut at his sarcastic reply and she left without another word. Will slid down in his chair until his knees nearly touched the underside of the table, but neither his vulgar posture nor having the last word made him feel any better.

Men like you are all too happy to indulge in vice in private…

Will had never once engaged in the kind of vice she meant, as the exchange of money for bed partners had never sat right with him. As silly as it sounded, he wanted to be with someone who chose him out of desire, not obligation. Will preferred experienced widows, like his most recent paramour, Mrs. Hunt. After the death of her much older and mostly indifferent husband, she had been eager to make up for lost time and they embarked on a passionate affair. But their liaison ended nearly a year ago, after she received an offer of marriage from a very respectable doctor and Will didn’t counter it. Though he enjoyed spending time with her, Will had to be strategic in his choice of wife. Mrs. Hunt was a pretty woman with a pleasant demeanor and a healthy appetite in bed, but that didn’t make her duchess material.

His refusal to offer for her himself had caused her great pain.

I suppose I came to think of you as my fairy prince—or duke as it were.

Her tearful admission still made him blush all these months later. It was the first time one of his paramours had admitted to harboring hopes of marriage and the incident had weighed heavily on his conscience afterward. He may not have been in love with Mrs. Hunt, but he did care for her and didn’t like thinking that he may have inadvertently given her false hope.

All in all, it was frustrating to realize that he was still uncovering new depths of power related to his title. He hadn’t pursued any more romantic entanglements afterward. And once he decided to marry, it seemed best to remain celibate until his wedding night.

Perhaps that was why he found Phoebe Atkinson so damned distracting. It had nothing to do with her in particular. He was simply… overwrought. Will finished the rest of his pint in one gulp and rose to procure something stronger while he waited for his carriage to return. Yes, that was definitely it. Phoebe wasn’t the most attractive woman of his acquaintance. Certainly not more than Lady Gwen. And though she was intelligent, intelligence was overrated—especially when it was accompanied by a tongue as sharp as hers.

Once Will reached the empty bar, he ordered a double whiskey. As the barman poured it out, Will decided that Phoebe could think whatever rubbish she wanted about him. It didn’t matter, as her opinion was of absolutely no consequence in his world.

Then he raised the glass, made a silent toast, and downed the contents.

To hell with Phoebe Atkinson.

Phoebe collapsed against the cushions of Will’s carriage and cast a dark look around the sumptuous interior. That old familiar anger rose inside her once more, pushing away the guilt that had begun to claw up her throat in the pub. He had a lot of nerve, freely judging what far less fortunate people did to survive while an eye-watering fortune had fallen into his lap. Phoebe let out a sigh and closed her eyes, but all she saw was his darkly forbidding gaze as he leaned in close to her.

Do not presume to know what kind of man I am.

He had been undoubtably angry as he said the words. Yet the deep command had skated across her skin and left a distressing neediness that was only exacerbated by his painfully familiar scent of cedar, spice, and warm skin. Together they created the kind of fierce, carnal urge that could only be born from a thousand girlhood idles—and one she would absolutely take to the grave.

Then tell me what kind you are.

The brazen question had slipped past her lips and for one dazzling moment she indulged in this practically biblical personal fantasy, pretending he was the dashing country upstart once more without his towering rank standing between them. He was simply Will Margrave. The same boy who had argued with her father over the benefits of profit-sharing, asked her mother about the time she met Eleanor Marx, and helped her rescue a wounded bird they found in the forest before giving her a sympathetic forehead kiss. Then he had to go and ruin it.

The kind I’ve always been.

Phoebe let out a snort in the quiet carriage. Will could say whatever he liked, however he liked, but he was not that person anymore. Not since the day he strolled into the back garden and ruined the little fantasy she had been carefully constructing in her heart by rattling off the list of extravagant homes he would inherit as if it were all a terrible inconvenience and not the stuff of fairy tales. And what had he gone and done with that twist of fate? Nothing of importance. When the time came, he simply took his seat in the House of Lords and blithely supported an agenda he once would have declared immoral.

He was just another man in a bespoke suit with too much power and not a clue what to do with it.

“Here we are, miss.”

Phoebe blinked in a daze and turned to the speaker. It was his coachman. She must have dozed off. Not surprising, given that this carriage seat was softer than her own bed. She quickly sat up and let the man hand her down. They were right in front of her building and the curtain fluttered in the window of her second-floor flat. Blast. Marion must have seen her. And there was no hiding who she had been with. Phoebe cast a frown as the Ellis crest glinted in the moonlight. How on earth could a piece of wood manage to look so superior?

She thanked the coachman and swiftly headed up the front steps, until the thought of Will still sitting alone at the table back in the pub brought her to a halt. Phoebe knew something about lonesomeness. Of how one could feel alone even while surrounded by people. And title or no, there was no mistaking the expression on his face.

“See that His Grace makes it home safely,” she said over her shoulder, and turned away just as a look of surprise flashed on the coachman’s face.

Phoebe tried to enter the flat as quietly as possible, but her effort was for naught. Marion stood in the entryway with her arms crossed and a thunderous expression on her face. No wonder her students called her Mad Marion behind her back.

“You were with that duke again, weren’t you,” she said without preamble. “Don’t deny it. Your students were gossiping about him before they even made it out of the building. Unless some other well-dressed toff just happened to be hanging about the school.”

Phoebe winced. “It isn’t what you think.”

Marion raised a mocking eyebrow. “And what, pray, would I be thinking? You only disappeared for hours before getting out of the finest carriage I’ve ever seen. I suppose you were inside playing checkers?”

It had been a very long day and Phoebe lacked the patience to deal with Marion’s usual sarcasm.

“I’m not involved with him.” Phoebe pushed past her into the flat and took off her coat. “Not that it would be any of your business if I was,” she added, unable to control the defensive note in her voice.

“You’re acting like a child,” Marion scolded.

“And you’re acting like my mother!” Phoebe shot back. “I told you before, the duke is a family friend. He had some information for me that could help with finding Alice.”

Marion remained unconvinced. “That he needed to relay in person until nine at night?” She then let out a sigh. “Sorry. I—that wasn’t fair. I was thinking of myself. Of what happened.”

Phoebe’s irritation faded. Marion had an ill-fated love affair last year with a promising law clerk who was all but engaged to his boss’s daughter—and had no intention of throwing the girl over for her. Marion had immediately ended things and insisted she was better off, but there were still moments when she couldn’t hide her broken heart.

“I know,” Phoebe said softly. “But this isn’t like that at all. Truly. He just wants to help.”

As she said the words, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Perhaps she had judged him a little too harshly back in the pub.

“All right then.” Marion gave her a thoughtful look. “What does he know about Alice?”

Phoebe relayed everything that had happened up until they found Mr. Felton’s body, as the inspector insisted they keep it between them. But Marion was still shocked.

“I can’t believe you went back to the building.”

“We found a lead.”

“What, some woman who sounds like nothing but trouble?” Marion clucked her tongue. “If Alice is involved with her, then she really is as good as gone.”

Phoebe’s mouth dropped open. “You would cast her aside so easily?”

“That is the way of things,” Marion said with distressing finality. “She will have ruined what little reputation a girl like her has by now anyway. And there is no returning from that. Not around here.”

Phoebe crossed her arms. “I refuse to believe that.”

Marion gave her an enraging look of pity. “You have always been an idealist. And I admire that so much. But you need to be realistic.”

Phoebe could only laugh to herself, given that Will had called her a cynic only a few hours ago. Perhaps she was a mixture of the two. A cynical idealist.

“And there are other girls you can still help,” Marion continued. “Girls who wouldn’t dream of looking at a fallen woman, let alone inviting one into her home.”

“But we don’t even know if that is what has happened,” Phoebe countered. “If I could just go down to that music hall and talk to her, I’m sure—”

“No,” Marion said firmly. “That place is frequented by the lowest sort. The inspector was right to warn you off. If anyone even saw you there—”

“Then I would be ruined?” Phoebe scoffed.

Marion sat back in her chair. “You say that like it’s nothing. Though I suppose for someone like you, it is,” she added.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you have a loving family and a mansion you can always return to if things go wrong. No one will ever have to know about your little dalliance with the lower classes.”

“That’s not fair, Marion.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said as she rose. “And it’s well past time you learned that’s the way things usually are for the rest of us. Good night.”

Phoebe remained in place for many minutes afterward, mulling over Marion’s sharp words. It was not lost on her that she had lobbed a similar accusation at Will. Much like there had been truth in her accusation of Will, there was truth in Marion’s. Now she understood his desire to remain alone in the pub. It seemed a perfectly reasonable reaction to having one’s faults pointed out so candidly.

“I’m an idiot,” Phoebe murmured as she pressed a hand to her face. She’d have to apologize to Will as well, then. And there was a decent chance he wouldn’t accept it.