33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

G athering his resolve, Alex approached One-Eyed Jack and congratulated him on his victory. Jack looked at Alex with barely disguised disgust. "Toffs come slummin'," Jack said and moved off. Richard stepped in his way, stopping him.

"We know that you were involved in that jewellery robbery a few years ago," Richard stated bluntly.

Jack's body tensed, his single eye narrowing as he regarded them with a mixture of wariness and defiance. Alex stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture.

"We're not here to cause trouble," he assured Jack. "We simply want information, and we're willing to pay for it."

Jack let out a bitter laugh, his lips curling into a sneer. "And what use have I for some soft-handed man's coins?" he spat, his tone dripping with contempt.

Alex held Jack's gaze, his expression calm and resolute. "More use than you might think," he replied evenly. "We're not looking to turn anyone in or settle scores. We just want to know the truth about a woman named Mary, and her involvement in that robbery."

Jack's eye flickered with a brief flicker of recognition at the mention of Mary's name, but his expression remained guarded. "And why should I tell you toffs anything?" he challenged, his voice low and dangerous.

"Because we can make it worth your while," Richard interjected smoothly. "And because, if you don't, we'll have to find someone else who will."

"Be my guest," Jack said with a barking laugh as he gestured broadly at the others in the dingy room. Everyone had turned to watch what was happening, and Alex could feel their cold eyes on him. "That is, iffin' you can find anyone who cares to speak."

Alex held Jack's gaze, his jaw set with determination. The disdainful laughter that rippled through the Den only served to strengthen his resolve. He knew that in this world, respect had to be earned through strength and grit, not bestowed by titles or wealth.

Glancing towards the rough chalk outlines of the boxing ring, Alex made his move. "What if we settle this like men?" he challenged, his voice carrying a note of quiet authority. "You and I, in that ring. If I best you, you tell me everything you know about Mary."

A hush fell over the Den as Jack's single eye narrowed, sizing up the well-dressed nobleman before him. A slow, predatory grin spread across his scarred face as he nodded. "Aye, I'll take that wager," he growled. "But if I win, you pay double what your brother's offered."

Without waiting for a response, Jack turned to the gathered crowd. "Lay out your coins, lads!" he bellowed. "We've got ourselves a toff who fancies himself a boxer!"

As the crowd erupted into raucous cheers and jeers, Richard gripped Alex's arm, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you mad?" he hissed. "You can't be serious about this."

Alex met his brother's gaze, his expression resolute. "I'm deadly serious," he replied, his voice low. "Don't worry, Richard. I know what I'm doing."

Shrugging off his coat, Alex rolled up his sleeves, his muscles rippling beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. He had been trained in the art of boxing from a young age, a pursuit encouraged by his father as a means of instilling discipline and strength. It was a favourite pastime at many gentlemen's clubs in London, though Alex doubted it could compare to the raw brutality of street fighting. Though it had been years since he had stepped into a ring, the familiar thrill of anticipation coursed through his veins.

As he stepped between the chalked lines, Alex cast one final glance at his brother, a ghost of a smile playing upon his lips. "Trust me," he murmured, before turning to face his opponent.

Alex circled Jack warily, his footwork light and his hands raised in a defensive posture. Despite the rawness of his surroundings, the familiar rhythm of the ring settled over him like a comforting cloak. He feinted left, testing Jack's reflexes, and was rewarded with a glimpse of the man's blind spot as he instinctively turned to cover his right side.

Seizing the opportunity, Alex struck with lightning speed, his fist cracking against Jack's ribs with a dull thud. Jack grunted, his single eye widening in surprise, but he recovered quickly, retaliating with a wild haymaker that Alex deftly slipped beneath.

The exchange continued, Alex's aristocratic upbringing melting away as the primal dance of the fight consumed him. He took his share of blows, his lip splitting and his knuckles stinging, but he gave as good as he got, using his agility and precision to exploit the gaps in Jack's defence.

Jack, for his part, fought with the ferocity of a cornered animal, his fists like sledgehammers and his snarls punctuating each swing. As the bout wore on, a glimmer of respect began to shine through the initial disdain in his eye.

Finally, Alex saw his chance. As Jack overextended himself with a powerful cross, Alex slipped inside his guard, delivering a rapid-fire combination that left the bigger man reeling. A final, perfectly timed uppercut caught Jack squarely on the chin, and he crashed to the floor, his eye patch askew and his body trembling from the force of the blows.

The Den fell silent, the spectators too stunned to react. A few of Jack's compatriots took a menacing step forward, but Jack waved them off, his chest heaving as he slowly regained his feet.

"You didn't fight like no toff," he rasped, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the scuffed floorboards. His single eye met Alex's, and to the Duke's surprise, he saw a glimmer of respect shining through the hardened exterior.

Alex exhaled slowly, his shoulders rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. The Den's acrid air stung his lungs, but the thrill of victory coursed through his veins, lending him a sense of clarity and purpose that he had not felt in far too long.

As Jack accepted a filthy cloth from one of his cohorts, using it to dab at the split in his lip, Alex straightened his posture, his gaze steady and unwavering. He had proven himself in the most primal of arenas, and now it was time to collect his due.

"You fought well, Your Grace," Jack grunted, his single eye regarding Alex with a newfound measure of respect. "Didn't think a man of your standing had it in him."

Alex inclined his head, acknowledging the backhanded compliment with a slight smile. "There's more to me than meets the eye, it seems," he replied evenly.

Jack let out a rasping chuckle, beckoning Alex and Richard to join him at a small, rickety table in the corner of the Den. Gingerly, Alex shrugged back into his jacket and waistcoat, loosely draping his cravat about his neck without bothering to tie it. As they approached, the other denizens of the establishment seemed to melt back into the shadows, their initial hostility tempered by the spectacle they had just witnessed.

"So," Jack began, lowering his voice as he leaned across the table, "you want to know about Mary, eh?"

Alex nodded, his expression grave. "Everything you know," he affirmed. "I need the truth, Jack."

The scarred man's gaze flickered briefly towards Richard before settling back on Alex. "Aye, I know her well enough," he admitted with a grunt. "She's a clever one, that Mary. A right proficient confidence woman, using her charms and her wits to swindle wealthy men out of their fortunes."

A flicker of recognition passed over Alex's features, and he felt a pang of bitterness in his chest. He had been one of those wealthy men, once upon a time, seduced by Mary's beauty and her guile.

Jack seemed to sense Alex's discomfort, for he let out a bark of laughter that sent spittle flying. "Aye, I reckon you know firsthand what she's capable of, eh, Your Grace?" he sneered. "One of her favourite schemes is to appear with a child in tow, claiming it's the product of some affair with a rich man. Gets 'em every time, the soft-hearted fools."

Alex's jaw tightened, his fingers clenching his thighs beneath the table. So that was Mary's game – to ensnare him once more with the lie of a child, to bleed him dry of his wealth and his standing. The thought made his blood boil, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm, nodding for Jack to continue.

"Last I heard, Mary scarpered off to France after that jewellery heist went sour," Jack went on, leaning back in his chair. "Laid low for a bit, no doubt, but a woman like that can't stay put for long. Too much of a hunger for the finer things, see?"

He paused, fixing Alex with a calculating look. "I ain't seen her in a good long while, mind you," he admitted. "But I know people who might have knowledge of her movements, where she's like to be stayin' and such."

Alex felt a glimmer of hope spark to life within him, tempered by a lingering sense of caution. If what Jack said was true, if Mary's claims of a child were nothing more than an elaborate ruse, then perhaps there was still a chance for him to salvage what he had lost with Rosalind.

Squaring his shoulders, Alex met Jack's gaze head-on. "Then tell me what you know," he said, his voice low and insistent. "I'll pay whatever price is required, but I want the truth about Mary – all of it."

Alex regarded Jack with a newfound respect, his brow furrowed in contemplation. The man's gruff exterior and unwavering code of honour had proven to be a surprising revelation amidst the gritty underbelly of London's underworld.

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Alex retrieved a small leather pouch and slid it across the table towards Jack. The clinking of coins against wood punctuated the gesture, a tangible symbol of the agreement they had forged.

"For your trouble," Alex said, his voice low and measured.

Jack eyed the pouch warily, his single eye narrowing as he considered the Duke's offer. For a tense moment, Alex wondered if the man would reject his payment outright, a gesture that would undoubtedly insult the delicate balance of respect they had established.

Finally, Jack shook his head, his scarred features twisting into a wry grin. "Keep your coin, Your Grace," he rumbled, pushing the pouch back across the table. "I lost fair and square, and I always pay my debts – good or bad."

Alex blinked, momentarily taken aback by Jack's refusal. In his experience, men of Jack's ilk were seldom known for their scruples, especially when money was involved. Yet, here was a man who adhered to a code of honour that transcended mere financial gain.

Inclining his head in a gesture of respect, Alex slid the pouch back into his pocket. "As you wish," he replied, his voice tinged with a newfound admiration for the scarred boxer. "But I trust you'll uphold your end of our bargain?"

Jack's lip curled into a predatory grin, revealing a mouthful of crooked, yellowed teeth. "You have my word, Your Grace," he growled. "I'll send word the moment I learn anything about Mary's whereabouts."

With a grunt, Jack hauled himself to his feet, his battered frame creaking with the effort. He extended a calloused hand towards Alex, his single eye glinting with a mixture of wariness and grudging respect.

Alex accepted the proffered handshake, his grip firm and unwavering. In that moment, he knew that he had forged an unlikely alliance, one that transcended the boundaries of class and station. Jack may have been a denizen of the underworld, but he was a man of his word – and that, Alex realised, was a rare and valuable commodity in a world where deception and betrayal were all too common.

As they made their way out of the Blackfriar's Den, Alex couldn't help but feel a sense of renewed determination coursing through his veins. The truth about Mary's past, and the true nature of her claims, was within his grasp. With Jack's assistance, he might just have a chance to unravel the web of lies that threatened to tear his life asunder.

The streets of London seemed to stretch out before him, teeming with possibility and peril in equal measure. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Alex felt a glimmer of hope kindling within his heart. A hope that, perhaps, he might yet be able to reclaim the future he had envisioned with Rosalind.

As Alex and Richard stepped out into the slightly fresher air of London's East End, the weight of their encounter with Jack seemed to lift ever so slightly from their shoulders. The streets were a maze of grime and squalor, a stark contrast to the opulent grandeur of Mayfair and St. James's, but there was a raw vitality here that Alex found oddly invigorating.

They had only ventured a few paces when a commotion up ahead caught their attention. A group of ragged children, their faces smeared with dirt and their clothes little more than tattered rags, were embroiled in a fierce struggle over what appeared to be a half-eaten crust of bread.

Alex watched, transfixed, as a boy with a mop of unruly brown curls seized another child by the front of his dingy shirt, raining blows upon him with tiny but determined fists.

The other children formed a raucous circle around the combatants, chanting and jeering in a cacophony of high-pitched voices. "John!" they cried, their cries rising and falling like the crashing of waves upon the shore. "John! John!"

Alex felt a pang of sympathy for the children, his heart aching at the sight of such deprivation and desperation. He knew, better than most, the harsh realities of life on London's streets, having witnessed the depths of human suffering firsthand during his misspent youth. Yet, even now, as the Duke of Somerton, the sight of these forgotten urchins stirred something deep within him – a desire to intervene, to offer aid and succour where he could.

He made a half-step forward, his hand instinctively reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, but Richard's firm grip on his arm stayed his advance.

"It won't matter," his brother murmured, his voice low and tinged with a world-weary resignation. "They'll be at it again the moment we've gone around the corner."

Alex knew that Richard was right, of course. Such was the nature of life in the East End, where survival was a constant struggle and the slightest scrap of sustenance was worth fighting tooth and nail to obtain. Still, his heart ached at the thought of turning a blind eye to such suffering.

As if sensing the weight of their scrutiny, the boy known as John turned, his fist still clutching the mouldy remnants of the bread crust. His eyes, large and luminous in his dirt-streaked face, went wide as he caught sight of the two well-dressed gentlemen observing the fray.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to hang suspended, the cacophony of the other children's jeers fading into a distant murmur. Alex's gaze locked onto the boy's face, and he felt the world tilt violently beneath his feet as recognition washed over him like a tidal wave.

It was him. The child from his meeting with Mary – the one she had claimed was his own flesh and blood. However, here he was, scrapping in the filthy streets of the East End like any other vagrant urchin, his eyes burning with a feral intensity that spoke of a life lived in squalor and deprivation.

As the realisation took hold, Alex felt his heart constrict, a maelstrom of emotions swirling within him. Anger, confusion, and a profound sense of betrayal all vied for dominance, leaving him reeling and unsteady on his feet.

The boy seemed to sense the shift in the air, his gaze flickering towards the two well-dressed gentlemen with a mixture of wariness and fear. For a moment, Alex thought he might bolt, his slight frame tensing as if poised to flee.

Moving with a swiftness that belied his stature, Alex closed the distance between them in two long strides, his hand shooting out to seize the boy by the tattered collar of his shirt. The child let out a startled yelp, his eyes going wide as he found himself suddenly ensnared in the Duke's iron grip.

The other children, sensing the shift in the dynamic, took a collective step forward, their faces a mask of uncertainty and trepidation. Alex felt Richard tense beside him, his brother's hand straying towards the reassuring weight of the cane he carried.

But before the situation could escalate further, Richard deftly intervened, producing a handful of coins from his pocket and flicking them towards the ragged band of urchins. "Off with you, then," he barked, his tone brooking no argument.

The children needed no further encouragement, swarming over the scattered coins like a pack of feral dogs descending upon a scrap of meat. Within moments, they had dispersed, scattering into the labyrinthine alleys and side streets of the East End, their shrill voices fading into the distance.

Only the boy remained, his slight frame trembling in Alex's grasp as he fixed the Duke with a look of abject terror. Alex felt a pang of regret at the fear he had instilled in the child, but he could not deny the burning need for answers that consumed him.

"Calm yourself, lad," he murmured, his voice low and soothing as he loosened his grip ever so slightly. "I mean you no harm. I simply wish to know the truth."

The boy's lower lip quivered, his eyes darting between Alex and Richard as if searching for an avenue of escape. Finally, he seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

"M'name's John," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "That Mary paid me to pretend to be 'er son. Said if I did well, I could be a rich man's son an' live in a 'ouse as big as a palace, never be ' again."

Alex felt his heart plummet at the boy's words, the truth of Mary's deception laid bare before him. He exchanged a glance with Richard, his brother's expression grim and unreadable.

"And where is this Mary now, John?" Alex pressed, his tone gentle but insistent.

The boy shook his head, his eyes downcast. "Don't rightly know, Yer Grace," he mumbled. "She just...vanished. Ain't seen 'er in weeks, an' she ain't paid me nothin' more."

A heavy silence filled the air as the boy's revelation sank in for the trio. Alex felt the anger and betrayal he had harboured towards Mary transmute into something else – a grim determination to unravel the tangled web of lies and deceit that had ensnared him.

Releasing his grip on the boy's collar, Alex reached into his pocket and produced a handful of coins, pressing them into the child's grubby palm. "Thank you for your honesty, John," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You've been a great help to me this day."

The boy's eyes went wide at the unexpected windfall, his fingers closing reflexively around the coins as if fearing they might vanish like a mirage. He stared up at Alex, his expression a mixture of awe and trepidation, as though he couldn't quite believe his good fortune.

Alex knelt down in the muck of the street so that he could meet John's gaze at eye level. Reaching out, he placed a gentle hand on the boy's bony shoulder, his heart aching at the sight of such destitution and neglect.

"John," he said, his voice low and earnest. "I must ask you to be a very brave lad now, and tell me the truth once more. Can you do that for me?"

John's eyes flickered towards Richard, his small frame tensing as if poised to flee. Alex could see the fear and mistrust etched into the child's features, the product of a harsh existence spent fending for himself on the unforgiving streets of London.

After a moment's hesitation, John gave a small nod, his grip tightening around the coins clutched in his fist. "I...I could, Yer Grace," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. "But it's just...it's so hard, bein' 'ungry an' cold all the time. It makes a fella want to do things 'e shouldn't, just to get by."

Alex felt a pang of sympathy for the boy—he'd never known a moment of hunger in his life, and the wide gulf between his own circumstances and those of most of the people filled him with guilt. He had witnessed firsthand the desperation that drives people to desperate actions.

Reaching out, Alex clasped John's hand in his own, his grip firm but gentle. "I give you my word, John," he said, his voice ringing with conviction. "If you tell me the truth, and continue to do so, I shall see to it that you never want for food or shelter again. You have my solemn vow on that."

John's eyes widened, his gaze flickering between Alex and the coins clutched in his hand. For a long moment, the boy seemed to wrestle with an internal struggle, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

Finally, he gave a tentative nod, his grip loosening ever so slightly as he extended his hand towards Alex. "A'right, then, Yer Grace," he murmured, his voice laced with a fragile trust. "I'll tell ye everythin' I know, if ye promise to keep yer word."

Alex felt a surge of relief wash over him as he clasped the boy's hand in his own, sealing their bargain with a firm shake. "You have my word, John," he repeated, his voice resonating with the weight of his vow. "Now, tell me everything you know about Mary, and where she might have gone."