Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

T he indifferent hackney William had hired dropped him in the midst of Spitalfields, specifically a tavern named the Red Lion Inn, a packed East End public house that catered to the laboring class but had cutthroats, thieves, and moneylenders sprinkled in. On a Friday night, he knew there would be a host of sources ready for the picking.

Even before he approached the tavern, the raucous pounding of an ill-tuned pianoforte and screeching singing greeted him. Two drunks stumbled out of the doorway, grabbing at each other and sloshing rank Blue Ruin from their pewter tankards.

Sidestepping them, he entered the dim room and was about to make out the patrons when he noticed a man in a lurid blue velvet jacket banging away at a popular song, while at least a dozen men and a handful of women sang along. Half of the patrons of the pub sang with them, and the mood of the place was jolly, wild, and uninhibited.

God knows I do not want to be revisiting this place.

Alas, he had little choice in the matter. According to his sources, here should be a moneylender named Giuseppe Alfonso, a slimy snake with black eyes, who made this bar his headquarters. The man had grown as rich as Croesus on the back of poor schmucks who had got themselves neck-deep in gambling, drinks, and whores. He could guarantee anyone who was in debt would come to this man.

I know, for I had been one.

Circling the room, his eyes skimmed over the men carousing with brightly painted courtesans, the men throwing dice on tables, and wrinkled his nose at the cloying tobacco smoke.

At the far back, sheathed mostly in murk, he spotted Giuseppe , the large carnelian ring he often donned flashing bloody red in the low light.

William went over and stopped at the foot of the table. “Ah, Giuseppe, old chap. I must have a word with you.”

“Pah!” the man leaned forward, his eyes glinting like onyx in the light—his French accent warped his words into a serpentlike twist. “The Prodigal Son returns… but I must ask… why? Word on the street has it that you have gotten out of debt, stopped your bad habits, and are working to rebuild your fortunes.”

“I’m not here for myself,” William replied matter-of-factly. “I’m trying to find a Frederick Wycliffe.”

“That name does not feel familiar, but…” Giuseppe stood with a flourish, then beckoned, “Come to my office, young Duke. We’ll talk there.”

This ‘office’ was little more than a glorified cupboard with a table shoved into a corner, two chairs surrounding it, a tiny window, and a gas lamp. Upon seating himself, Giuseppe pulled a ledger and flicked it open. William chose sagely to stand and wait instead, lest he get his fresh clothes stained with whatever business went on here, and have his valet at his neck about it again.

The moneylender hummed a tune and leisurely trailed a finger down the sheets, checking the inserts, turning the pages with excruciating slowness. Finally, he leaned back and stroked the patch of hair on his chin. “He is not in these records, but this is only for the past year. I have other records from years past but those are at my other office in Soho. Would you care to visit tomorrow, perhaps, Your Grace?”

“I suppose I have no choice,” William muttered bluntly.

“I am curious, however,” Giuseppe sat back and drummed his fingers on the arms of his rickety chair. “Why are you here with me instead of gracing the well-appointed bed of your new wife?”

William knew he shouldn’t be surprised—word spread fast in the stews after all. Many believed that money was the currency of the stews; William knew better; if you dealt in information, you were king.

“Who said I hadn’t?” William replied calmly.

“I seem to recall the days when you didn’t give a whit about the ton or propriety and you would stay whole weekends with your courtesans, never leaving until dawn.”

I still don’t care a whit about the ton.

“I hold my wife to a different standard,” William replied.

“They are delicate little things, aren’t they,” Giuseppe laughed. “Trained to sing and dance and paint but not the most important thing of having stamina or creativity in the bedroom.”

“As touched as I am about your concern for my wife, I did not come here to talk about her,” he replied sharply. “It is her missing brother.”

“Ah, I see,” the man murmured in thought. “In that case, I shall throw you a bone, Your Grace. You do not have to come to me, I will send you word if I find his name in my books. That being said, though I know I deal with some of the lowest, there is another who serves the scum. His name is Harrison Black, and he works inside Covent Gardens. He may be a better outlet. Though you will have to break through a wall of cutthroats to get to him.”

“My wife fears her brother might be dead,” William stressed. “This is pressing, so please send me whatever you find. In the in-between times, I’ll try seek out this Harrison Black.”

“Be careful, he has a budding disdain toward the fops of the ton,” Giuseppe warned. “But maybe use your other hobby to your advantage, hm?”

William considered his options. He did not question the man on how he knew William boxed—this was the stews, the men were more intelligent than others took them for—but did question how he was going to get this Harrison Black on his side.

“Send me whatever you find.”

“You should check the whorehouses too,” Giuseppe said to his back. “But not the upscale ones you once patronized.”

That made sense: men who escaped to pleasure houses were less likely to be discreet. After all, most of them didn’t think they had to be reserved to be with some ‘cotton-headed’ wench.

“Any recommendations?”

“The Blue Siren in Whitechapel. I’d start there,” Giuseppe replied.

“Duly noted,” William inclined his head, then flickered his cowl up.

Thinking of her husband somewhere deep in the pits of London, searching for her brother, had Bridget worrying intensely. Unable to sleep, she glanced anxiously at the Ormolu clock on the fireside mantle. The soft ticks sounded thunderous against the quiet night.

Where is he?

Is he okay?

Fidgeting in her bed, she sighed. “What is it about him that… affects me so?”

Suddenly, she heard the soft thump of boots down the corridor and checked the clock again—it was half past three in the night. Sitting up, she looked to the door and wondered, would it help to see him? Would he think it brazen and improper?

The other door opened, and she slid her legs out from the covers, then hesitated again. Five minutes passed before she worked up the courage to don her wrapper and leave the room. Two steps across the corridor and she found his door, dared herself to twist the knob, held her breath, and stepped in.

A dark form sat atop a small, single bed, one knee pulled up. Again, she paused.

“…You’ve made it this far,” William murmured. “Come closer.”

Relieved, she approached and sat at the foot of the bed, fingers coasting over the soft cotton. “This is not what I had expected. Why do you sleep in a cot?”

“To dissuade myself from returning to my old ways,” he muttered. “A large bed means two in it, or three.”

“Three?” She went red. “Meaning…”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Back in the day when I thought nothing of my life, such things were commonplace. I know better now. Life is fleeting, frail, with unexpected turns and twists. It’s not wise to live so… carelessly with your health.”

She peered upward through her lashes at him, all virile lines and masculine grace. He was so handsome that her heart ached.

“Penny for your thoughts, sweetling,” he said with a lazy smile.

Her fingers brushed the faded purpling bruise on his cheek. “You’re not like other lords, are you?”

William leaned into her touch. “No.” After a small pause, he continued, “…Do you want to know a secret?”

“Please.”

“The dukedom,” he nuzzled her palm. “I never cared for it. The thought of bearing such a great responsibility never appealed to me, not even from a young age. I am sure others would have loved the idea of price like rank, more money than Midas, and have women nipping at their heels, but not me.”

The feel of his bristles against her skin was oddly arousing, and the more he nuzzled, the more her blood heated. “And what did you want?”

“Something more… hands-on,” he replied in thought. “Quite literally. When I was nine, my father took us to his countryside Manchester home for a holiday, and there, I snuck away to a countryside fair. I saw two men in a prizefighting bout and crowds of people cheering them on.

“They were so… awe-inspiring, so powerful, so much in control of their destinies,” he murmured, lost in his past. “I drew parallels that made no sense at that age. I thought they showed me that a man can be the master of his life, that no one should have power over you. No man, no title.

“Minutes later, one of them sent the other flying out of the ring, he won on a knockout, and the women flung themselves at him,” William’s eyes took on a nostalgic haze. “Right then, I knew that was what I truly wanted in this life. To be famed for the destiny I carved out, not one handed to me on a silver platter. And so, I trained in secret. Pembroke was not jesting when he told you I was once a skinny wisp, but then I minded my meals, ran for hours, worked out in boxing salons…”

His voice trailed off, eyes closing. “Then, it was like one day, I just… woke up. My life had taken a sudden turn, I was losing money left and right, and I had to take some drastic measures to correct them…”

It was not hard to put two and two together for Bridget. “You… prizefight?”

“Hm,” he replied. “And I’m pretty good at it too. There’s a tournament going on and I am about to win it. A hundred thousand pounds. It’s a pittance compared to my inheritance, but this is money I earned fair and square, not tainted by ancient blood or war. Is it foolish of me to consider that money of greater value than what I will get passed down?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I think it is fair for one to take greater pleasure in things that they have earned over what was handed to them. Do you want the dukedom?” she asked.

His lids lowered. “I… do not know.”

Feeling that it was a sore spot for him, Bridget asked, “You went out looking for my brother, did you not? What did you find?”

Rubbing his eyes, he admitted, “Not much yet. Missing men who are up to their ears in debt have many places to hide. The first step is finding who they borrowed money from, and I know a moneylender who caters to anyone, so I went to see him first.”

“And then?”

He looked up. “I don’t want to scar you.”

“Tell me?”

“If your brother was anything like how I was… he quite possibly sought female companionship, so I visited a brothel,” he continued. “I need to ask you a very important question though, when exactly did your brother disappear? I have to narrow down the time.”

“Between three months and two years,” she said, grimacing. “I should have told you before.”

He gave her a slanted smile. “I just started, love. It’s fine.”

Her heart jumped. Love, he said love.

“I will try tomorrow evening, but first—” He swung his legs over the bed, bent, and scooped Bridget up into his arms. “—let’s get you to bed.”

Holding onto his arm, she stayed still as he carried her to her bedchamber and rested her on the bed. At the side, she watched as he stripped his shirt off and removed his trousers to stay in his small clothes.

And when her gaze fell upon his body, her breath caught. The man was a sight to behold. He was lean, yet his torso, shoulders, arms, and legs were still strong and finely muscled. A mat of dark hair covered his chest, arrowing to a thin line upon his ridged belly and down to the band of his small clothes.

The moment his knee pressed on the bed, her heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. He cocked his head to the side, “I am not attacking you, my sweet. Do not look so horrified.”

Huffing, she snagged a pillow and smacked him lightly. “Don’t mock me.”

Laying beside her, he pulled her into his side, “Let's mark off sleeping with a man off your debutante list.”

She laughed, then pillowed her head on his arm, “In the same token, you have never slept with a virgin, have you?”

“Never,” he muttered. “Virgins seem… tricky. All my life, I have preferred women who knew their way with bedsport, but I suppose they all had to start somewhere.”

Her brows lifted. “Is that your way of saying I should… begin with you?”

William laughed. “Not at all, but so far, I have realized you do have feminine passion, unplumbed passion at that, but in your heart of hearts, you must be asking of all the men you might have discovered it with, why did it have to be me, a seasoned rake.”

“You are proud, self-assured, even flippant at times, but you are a good man. You’ve made mistakes and are self-aware enough to take the steps to correct them.”

He peered at her. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Now—” He gently turned her on her side, wrapped an arm around her middle, and pulled her into his chest. “We sleep. I need to see my uncle tomorrow.”

Despite his indifferent tone, she sensed the underlying tension. Felt it in his body. His arm was a possessive steel band around her and the feeling uncurled a deep-seated need inside her—male comfort. His scent enveloped her and cocooned with his body, she slipped off to slumber.

It was the absence of his arm around her middle that woke Bridget and instantly, she sought out William. Had he left? Turning over, she saw he was there still, his eyes were closed, the blemish on his jaw faded yet pronounced against his tanned skin.

His brows were smoothed out from their usual harsh knit, his ordinarily taut jaw now lax in sleep. Beneath the blanket, his chest rose and fell in slow, deep surges. It seemed impossible that her strong, potent husband could be this vulnerable.

Her words to her godmother came flooding back. William Hartwell was nothing like the world took him to be, and she now knew why—it was a shield. Yes, she had no doubt he’d been wild in his younger days, but he was a good man now, smart, witty, kind, and oh-so-handsome.

It hit her like the first icy splash of morning ablutions. Could she be developing feelings for William?

“Ah!” The gasp punched itself from her as her back met the bed, William looming over her, pinning her hands over her head.

His eyes were sleep-laden, his hair ruffled and bed-tousled, his jaw dusted with dark stubble. Eyes coasting over her face, he whispered, “I could feel you watching me in my sleep.”

“I was admiring you,” she corrected.

His lips twitched, “How was your first night sleeping beside a man?”

Her cheeks tinged red. “It was…”

“No lies, sweetheart.”

“…Sublime,” she replied, tamping down on her embarrassment at admitting it. “Your hold on me was… oddly comforting.”

“You like my hands on you,” he murmured warmly.

With him above her, she felt her world narrow to him and him only. Arching, she leaned up and kissed him squarely on the mouth, slanting her lips across his in the way she knew he loved. She let out that breathy moan as her lips touched his.

There was no taking it back. Not that she wanted to. Goodness, no. His mouth felt exquisitely warm against hers, and the soft, bristled hairs of his stubble abrased her skin in a sensual way. A delightful heat welled within her as William deepened the kiss.

Again, he switched their places smoothly, spinning them with her straddled atop him—his hands framed her jaw, holding her still for his kiss. His mouth possessed hers with firm, arousing authority and she parted her lips for his tongue, moaning as he plundered her softness.

As he licked inside, saturating her senses with his masculine flavor, his hand, rough with calluses, slid up her outer thigh, up under her nightdress, and cupped her bottom. Her woman’s place was throbbing, aching, shockingly wet already.

Good Lord, he was potent. He lifted his mouth from hers, and the loss of contact momentarily broke her reverie.

Awareness jolted her just then—it was daytime already, and while the under-curtains were drawn, the morning light filtered through the thin material, tinting the room with a golden glow.

William shifted them so they lay on their sides, as his hand smoothed over her silk nightdress. “As much as I would like to stay with you and tumble over this bed, I must see my uncle.”

“Should I come with you?” she whispered.

“I think it is best if you stay here,” he kissed her cheek and sat up to ruffle his hair. “Explore your new home, you may even visit or invite your friends if you’d prefer.”

She leaned on her elbow as he slid from the bed and headed to the door. William paused, hand on the knob, “Would you like to sleep together again?”

Falling to the pillows, Bridget gave him a soft smile, “I’d love nothing more.”