Читать книгу Compromising The Duke's Daughter - Mary Brendan - Страница 12

Chapter Three

‘What is this?’

‘It’s a letter, as you can see, sir.’ The fellow sneered the final word. He peered upwards along his bulbous nose at the tall blond fellow whose sun-beaten profile was presented to him. Thadeus Pryke attempted to swipe five biting fingers from his forearm, but found he could not budge the bronzed digits an inch.

‘I can see that it is a letter. Why give it to me?’ The unaddressed parchment, having been examined, was thrust back at the messenger.

‘Because I believe you to be Mr Rockleigh...although I hear you’re known as the Squire round these parts.’ Again Pryke’s top lip curled. ‘My client has asked me to deliver the letter to you.’

‘And your client is?’ Drew Rockleigh stuck a slim cheroot in his mouth, then lit it from a match flaring in his cupped palm.

‘And my client is...my business.’ Thadeus smirked. He was inordinately pleased with himself to have secured such an illustrious patron. He had been an army corporal in his time, before he’d bettered himself and gained employment in his brother’s detective agency. But what he really wanted was to set up in business on his own account.

The Squire’s precise speech and confident manner proclaimed him to be a man of good stock. The steely strength in his grip, taken together with the battle wounds on his knuckles and cheeks, spoke of his employment entertaining the crowds in a makeshift boxing ring that sprang up illicitly in the neighbourhood, then disappeared equally swiftly. Thadeus knew that the purses could reach quite a sum and attracted talented pugilists from far and wide. There were no holds barred with these men and wily assailants used every bodily weapon they possessed, from head to foot, to gain victory.

‘Stay there, while I read it,’ Drew commanded. Taking back the parchment, he stepped clear of a group of rowdies who had been loitering outside the Cock and Hen. He’d been on the point of entering the tavern when Pryke intercepted him a few moments ago.

A laugh grazed his throat as his eyes flitted over the few lines of thick black script.

‘Have you a pencil?’ he enquired of Thadeus, sticking the cheroot back between a set of even white teeth.

The investigator immediately produced one.

Drew scrawled two words across the bottom of the paper, then refolded it and resealed the broken wax with hot ash flicked from his cigar and strong pressure from a calloused thumb. ‘Return it, if you please.’

From beneath a pair of wiry brows Thadeus watched Rockleigh’s impressively broad back as the fellow strode away into the inn, a pretty blonde tavern wench greeting him eagerly at the doorway.

* * *

‘Where is he?’ the Duke of Thornley demanded to know when the detective returned alone. In his note he’d commanded Rockleigh to accompany Thadeus Pryke to meet him and claim his reward.

Alfred had taken the precaution of garbing himself in a sober suit of clothes and hiring a creaky rig to take him to the Eastern Quarter. He had wanted to blend in with the prevalent atmosphere of lower-middle-class aspiration; lawyers and shopkeepers had colonised an area in Cheapside in which Alfred had instructed his driver to stop. The Duke of Thornley had decided that if his daughter were brave enough to journey into the bowels of the Wapping docks to school children, then he must have sufficient backbone to park on the outskirts to pay the man who had ensured her safe passage home to Mayfair.

His young son and heir was away at school and as much as Alfred adored George, he doted equally on his eldest child, trial that Joan was, because she reminded him of the love of his life—her late mother. He would do his utmost to protect Joan from scandal...and in that he hoped—but was not convinced—that he and the boxer were of a single mind.

Thadeus executed a deep bow, his hat secured beneath an arm. Climbing aboard the rig, he closed the door so they might converse in private. Drawing forth the letter, he proffered it. ‘The Squire returned you a message, your Grace.’

‘The Squire?’ Alfred echoed quizzically.

‘Beg pardon, your Grace... I have inadvertently used the fellow’s nickname.’ In fact, Thadeus had intentionally aired the sobriquet in the hope that the Duke would find the boxer risible. The impatience with which his Grace snatched the missive disappointed Thadeus. Whether he was Rockleigh or the Squire, the man was obviously of great importance to Thornley.

Impatiently Alfred broke the seal and gaped at Rockleigh’s answer to his offer of fifty pounds’ compensation for time and trouble expended on his daughter’s behalf. Nothing required was the sum of the man’s response and he hadn’t seen it necessary to add either his gratitude, or his signature.

Alfred slouched back against the upholstery, feeling miffed by the snub. He was a duke with several lesser titles and a number of ancestral estates established in the countryside from Cumberland in the north to Devon in the south. Yet a man who was rumoured to have lost everything in bad business deals, and was reduced to brawling to earn a crust, wanted nothing from him. And Rockleigh hadn’t even been sufficiently flattered by the Duke of Thornley’s interest in him to come and pay his respects.

Alfred dismissed Thadeus, who on reaching the pavement swivelled on a heel to jerk an obsequious bow. The investigator then rammed his hat back on his head and strode off. Alfred banged on the roof of the rig for the driver to head towards Mayfair. Far from accepting that that was the end of it, he was more determined than ever to have a meeting with Joan’s saviour. Curiosity about Drew Rockleigh’s decline played a part, but overriding all else was Alfred’s prickling suspicion that no impoverished fellow would turn down the opportunity to exploit his secret knowledge. If Rockleigh was playing a long game and heightening Alfred’s anxiety with uncertainty, then the tactic was working. The Duke sourly acknowledged that he was tempted to turn the rig about and drive straight into the heart of the rookery to demand Rockleigh spit out how much he did want if the sum offered wasn’t sufficient for him to drag himself out of squalor.

He pressed his shoulders against the lumpy squabs, rueing his missed chance of quizzing his son-in-law over Rockleigh the last time they’d been in each other’s company. Luke was sure to know a good deal about his friend’s degradation, yet Alfred had not previously been interested enough to probe. He was not one to want to pick over another chap’s misfortune. But now things were different.

* * *

‘I expect your father will put a stop to our meetings now.’

Vincent had sounded sorrowful. He had always been chary of upsetting the Duke of Thornley. His cousin Louise was very friendly with Lady Joan and their mothers were close, too. Years ago, Lady Joan’s infatuation with him had initially been flattering, but having the Duke’s good opinion was crucial to Vincent. Rich and powerful patrons of the church were hard to come by, and Vincent had been relieved rather than disappointed when Lady Joan’s flirtatious behaviour waned as she grew more mature. Vincent was a pragmatic man. He knew there was no real prospect of a clergyman marrying a duke’s daughter, so he had accepted early on that their relationship must remain platonic.

‘Oh, Papa is just up in the boughs over my misadventure, but he will calm down in a week or so.’ Joan gave her companion a smile as they strolled side by side in Hyde Park.

A short distance behind the couple, Aunt Dorothea was stomping along assisted by her silver-topped cane and her maid. The young servant was wielding a parasol to shield her mistress’s lined complexion from the April sun.

Joan would sooner just a maid accompanied her when she went out, but her father insisted that she be properly chaperoned even though he’d recently deemed his sister unequal to the task.

‘I don’t think Lady Dorothea cares for me at all,’ Vincent said, slanting a glance over a shoulder. ‘But for her manners forcing her to respond, I believe your aunt would have ignored my greeting earlier.’

‘She took the upset very badly that afternoon,’ Joan explained.

On the day in question Joan had entered Vincent’s back parlour to find nine children grouped in a semi-circle, sitting cross-legged on the rug. They’d ranged in age from about six to ten years old. She’d gladly assisted Vincent in chalking letters on the children’s slates for them to copy, but her aunt had refused to get involved or to budge from the front room of the vicarage. Dorothea had huddled into her widow’s weeds and sat all alone for two hours rather than make herself useful.

‘My aunt prefers it when we take a drive round the park, or head towards the emporiums where her cronies congregate. She has a fine time being scandalised by the latest on dits during their gossips.’

‘No doubt she had quite a tale to tell them after that drama.’

‘I believe my aunt is too ashamed to breathe a word about it...other than to her brother, of course,’ Joan added flatly. ‘But let’s not dwell on what disasters might have been.’ She slipped her hand through the crook of Vincent’s arm.

She had written to Vincent to inform him that she’d be unable to visit the vicarage again as soon as planned and why that was. She’d only briefly outlined the unpleasant encounter with the beggars because she didn’t want Vincent blaming himself. It was not his fault that Pip had lost his way. Sure that her father couldn’t object to her and Vincent promenading in Hyde Park, Joan had suggested in her note that they meet up to talk. She and Vincent had been friends for too long to allow a mishap to drive a wedge between them.

Next week the Duke would be reunited with his spouse and Joan was confident he’d be in a better mood then. The Duchess was presently with her daughter in Essex, as Fiona was increasing again and feeling very poorly. Maude had sped off many weeks ago to give support and encouragement, sure the signs were there that an heir to the Wolfson name was on his way.

Her brother-in-law would be immensely proud to have his longed-for son, Joan thought before her mind wandered on...to a person Luke would certainly not be proud of: his degenerate best friend...

An impatient tut escaped her as she realised Drew Rockleigh again occupied her thoughts. Since the hair-raising incident with the beggars she had not managed to forget the dratted man for any length of time, much as she wanted to. His astonishing way of life depressed her the more she dwelt on it. Infuriating though she found him, he deserved better than to end up trading blows in a boxing ring.

‘I hope the Duke won’t stop you seeing me or make me abandon the vicarage school.’ Vincent sounded anxious.

‘Of course he won’t, on either count! Papa knows that you are a good friend and he is not without compassion for the poor. He will mellow in time.’ Joan paused, searching for a new subject to talk about. ‘How is Louise liking her sojourn in the countryside?’

Louise Finch and Joan had been close since childhood. Louise’s mother and Vincent’s mother were kin and, despite one sister marrying a wealthy fellow while the other’s husband was a man of the cloth, the women remained close. Vincent had followed in his father’s footsteps, but had gained a living administering to a flock in the London stews rather than in a Kentish village.

‘I understand from my mother that her guests will be returning early next week. Apparently Louise misses the social whirl and is bored with cattle for company.’ Vincent gave a rather disapproving sniff.

Joan bit her lip to subdue a smile. It was the sort of blunt opinion she would expect from her best friend, yet she doubted Louise had intended her hostess to overhear it.

‘I shall be glad to have her back, anyway,’ Joan said, patting Vincent’s arm in a consoling manner. She gave him a smile and his indignation disintegrated. Vincent was a man of adequate height and build with coppery brown hair and pleasant looks. As they strolled around the perimeter of the lake Joan noticed that they were under observation.

‘Your association with me attracts attention, you know,’ Vincent said wryly, his thoughts mirroring Joan’s. He nodded discreetly at some people craning their necks at them as their barouche passed by.

‘No doubt they are recalling how abominably I embarrassed you when I was younger,’ Joan teased, making Vincent cough and blush. ‘Oh, the gossips should be used to us being friends by now.’ She wrinkled her petite nose in a display of insouciance. ‘It is more likely those young ladies are staring because they think you handsome and eligible,’ she added with a twinkling smile.

‘I doubt they would think my bank balance very attractive,’ Vincent countered wryly. ‘Even the clergy need to pay their bills.’ Vincent paused. ‘They appear to be returning for a second look,’ he said as the barouche again approached.

‘Oh, let them look.’ Joan sighed. ‘That is Miss Greenvale and her cousin. They are heiresses and could spare a few pounds from their trust funds to put towards your new church roof.’

‘I fear I’ll have no luck there and will carry on collecting rainwater in buckets for the foreseeable future.’

‘I’ll speak to Papa about releasing some of my money—’

‘You must not!’ Vincent interrupted sharply. ‘I’ll not let you do that.’ His features softened into a grateful smile. ‘You are a very generous and good-natured young woman.’ Vincent slanted a glance at the pearly contours of Joan’s profile, framed by chestnut curls. ‘I hate that you suffered for your goodness. Will you tell me more about this dreadful attack by those beggars?’

‘There isn’t much to tell...it was over very quickly after we received help...’ Joan said carefully. She’d sooner not make much of the incident with Rockleigh.

‘Gracious! Over there by the trees is a fellow I know.’ Vincent discreetly waggled a hand indicating to his left. ‘He is the Ratcliffe Highway’s most successful pugilist. Of course, I rarely attend those contests lest I encourage the men in their barbarism.’

Joan came to an abrupt standstill as her eyes widened on the person who rarely quit her thoughts. He was standing many yards away on a patch of grass fringed by a copse and appeared to be deep in conversation with another fellow. From their position close to shady branches, and their unsmiling expressions, Joan guessed that the meeting was not a social one.

‘Is he known to you?’ Vincent had heard Joan’s quiet intake of breath. ‘He wasn’t one of the beasts who beset your coach, was he? The fellow is known locally as the Squire. One only needs to be in his company for a short while to know he is well bred. He must be badly down on his luck, but I’d be surprised if he stooped to bullying women or begging.’

‘No...he would never do that...’ Joan murmured with a throb of conviction in her voice. ‘He was our rescuer—I told you that we received help. He drove the carriage out of the slum.’

‘I’m not surprised he was your Good Samaritan. He’s courteous, if brutal, and that’s a rarity in the parish. The Squire’s got no need to beg as the victor’s purses can be considerable.’ Vincent looked enquiringly at Joan. ‘Shall we speak to him? I’m keen to persuade some of the families to attend the Sunday services more often than they do. The ne’er-do-wells congregate in the Cock and Hen on the Sabbath when they might better spend their time seeking the Lord’s forgiveness, or their own salvation.’ Vincent clucked his tongue. ‘A few of their wives are regular church goers though...’

‘Is he married?’ Joan blurted out, unsure why the thought of Drew Rockleigh having a wife appalled her.

‘The Squire married? Not to my knowledge. He’s popular with the ladies though...’ Vincent cleared his throat to cover his slip. ‘Forgive me, Lady Joan...that was most crass...’

But Joan was no longer listening; her eyes had become entangled with a steady tawny stare. Drew stepped away from his soberly dressed companion and the man scuttled into the copse out of sight.

Joan’s heart began pounding beneath her ribs as she watched Rockleigh plunge his hands into his pockets on his casual stroll over the grass towards them. Alert to her aunt’s presence, Joan shot a look over her shoulder. ‘Lady Dorothea is occupied with Lady Regan, so we can briefly say hello to Mr Rockleigh,’ she rattled off.

‘Rockleigh? Is that his name?’

Joan gave a brief nod, already on her way to meet him and so rapidly that Vincent had to trot to keep up with her.

‘My lady... Reverend Walters...’ Drew dipped his head, then glanced thoughtfully from one to the other of them.

‘You are a distance from home today, sir,’ Vincent burst out when his companions stared at one another rather than exchanging a greeting.

‘I had an appointment to keep,’ Drew informed, sliding his attention back to Joan.

‘I must thank you very much for the service you did Lady Joan. I’ve heard how you helped her and her aunt out of a very unpleasant situation.’ Vincent thrust out a hand.

‘She wouldn’t have been in that unpleasant situation but for you encouraging her into the neighbourhood,’ Drew returned coolly, giving the Reverend’s fingers a single firm shake.

‘I need no encouragement to be benevolent,’ Joan interjected sharply, conscious of the vicar fidgeting on being reprimanded. ‘I made up my own mind to go to the vicarage school.’

‘Against your father’s wishes.’

‘You are not privy to my father’s wishes,’ Joan retorted, becoming aware of Vincent’s alarmed expression as she bickered with his disreputable parishioner.

‘I know your father’s wishes, Lady Joan,’ Drew said quietly. ‘Furthermore I endorse them and advise you to heed them.’

Joan furiously pressed her lips together. So her father had gone ahead and made contact with Rockleigh to reward him for rescuing her. Joan realised such a good deed deserved an acknowledgement; nevertheless, she felt piqued that he’d been venal enough to accept a payment.

‘I...um... Lady Dorothea is about to join us, I think. Shall we move on?’ Vincent burbled.

‘Please go and keep her company,’ Joan said, without breaking eye contact with Rockleigh. ‘I will be but a moment longer speaking to...my brother-in-law’s friend.’

The news that the Squire was an acquaintance of Joan’s family caused Vincent’s jaw to drop. ‘You know Mr Wolfson?’

‘I do...very well...’ Drew’s smile acknowledged the vicar’s astonishment on learning he had lofty connections.

Vincent composed himself and with a crisp nod, hurried away over the grass towards Dorothea.

‘How much did he pay you?’ Joan demanded the moment Vincent was out of earshot. ‘Ten pounds?’ she guessed. ‘Twenty?’

‘Your father offered fifty.’

Joan’s astonishment caused her full pink lips to part. She moistened them with a tongue flick that drew a pair of lupine eyes.

‘So...you were a moment ago conversing with your banker, were you?’ Joan asked mellifluously, nodding at the wooded area into which the fellow had disappeared. ‘Is he to invest the cash, or pay off your duns with it, Mr Rockleigh?’ When Drew remained infuriatingly silent and unperturbed by her barb, Joan prodded, ‘Is that sufficient a sum to get you back on your feet or would you like me to play the damsel in distress one more time so you might again test my father’s generosity?’

‘You know nothing about me,’ Drew said quietly. ‘And I’m not about to satisfy your curiosity. Go back to your vicar friend and enjoy your promenade, but stay away from Ratcliffe Highway and me. Don’t test my generosity, my lady, or my patience, because you’ll find both lacking next time.’

Joan gasped in astonishment and outrage as he made to walk away from her. Nobody, apart from her papa, spoke to her in that tone of voice. Imperiously she retorted, ‘You may halt this instant. I have not finished speaking to you, sir.’

‘But I have finished with you...’ was sent casually over a shoulder as he strolled away.

‘Come here this instant, you impertinent lout.’

He pivoted about and returned so swiftly that Joan skittered back some steps, her heart pulsing in her throat.

‘Well? What do you want?’ Drew enquired with silky softness.

Joan could think of nothing to say and neither could she raise her eyes to meet those that were singeing the top of her head. His muscled thighs were in her lowered line of vision, encased today in black breeches that seemed as closely moulded to his powerful physique as the charcoal-grey tailcoat he wore. Had she not known what Drew Rockleigh did for a living she might have mistaken him for a businessman rather than a barbarian. Only the faint healing marks on his face and knuckles gave the game away that he was a street fighter.

‘You’re finding it hard to apologise for your rudeness, are you?’ Drew suggested, mockery in his tone, as she continued to glower at the small space of grass that separated them.

‘I have done nothing that requires an apology.’ To her shame Joan knew that was far from the truth. She’d just been horribly pompous and arrogant and her bewilderment at having allowed him to taunt her to act out of character simply added to her inner turmoil.

‘You need not apologise?’ he paraphrased silkily. ‘I seem to recall having heard that from you before. It was no truer then than now.’

Heat seeped into Joan’s cheeks. She had indeed said something similar to him following her outrageous visit to his hunting lodge. With Pip driving the trap, she’d journeyed late at night, seeking Luke Wolfson, but her future brother-in-law had not been there. Rockleigh had found himself in the unenviable position of having compromised a duke’s daughter while minding his own business in his own home. Joan had felt ashamed to have caused him trouble, but even when he delivered her safely home and prevented her father chastising her with a slap, a simple ‘sorry’ had refused to roll off her tongue. Neither had she graciously thanked her escort. She had thought of writing to him and humbling herself...until her father recounted that Drew Rockleigh had refused point blank to salvage her reputation and marry her, even with great financial inducement to do so.

No doubt he would have her like a shot now, Joan thought sourly. The jibe withered on her tongue as she saw his sardonic expression and knew he’d read her thoughts.

‘Nothing’s changed for me...’ he drawled.

‘Oh, but I think it has,’ Joan replied, bristling with indignation. ‘Once you displayed a modicum of gentility and good breeding—now you appear to be just a violent heathen.’

Drew smiled, glanced over her head to where her aunt and Vincent Walters were pretending not to gawp too obviously. ‘The vicar told you he wants to save my soul and get me to attend church, did he?’

‘Reverend Walters told me more besides about you,’ Joan blurted before she could stop herself.

‘He told you what about me?’ Drew’s demand was speciously soft.

‘Nothing I want to repeat.’ Joan knew she would never explain her comment so spun about, preparing to retreat. She’d discovered he was a womaniser and, tempted though she was to fling it in his face, there were certain breaches of etiquette she baulked at committing. Hot-headed she might be, but Joan hoped she was never vulgar.

‘Come...we both know I’m not decent and the vicar’s put some embellishment to the fact.’ With a single stride Drew strategically repositioned himself in her path. ‘We’re also both aware that you’re no shrinking violet and your reputation won’t stand scrutiny,’ he purred. ‘So tell me what Walters said.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Joan demanded.

‘I’m guessing he told you I’m an incurable reprobate, best avoided.’

‘I’m guessing that you have deliberately misconstrued my meaning.’ Joan eyed him warily. ‘You commented on my reputation and I’d like to know why.’

‘You know why. I compromised you two years ago. Or rather you compromised me. Your father attempted to make me pay for your mistake.’

‘Perhaps he did, but you were never in any danger of having to do so, sir. I made it clear from the outset that I’d sooner enter a nunnery than become your wife.’

Drew’s amusement turned to silent laughter. ‘So you did...but, capital fellow that I am, I saved you from a life of vows and celibacy by rejecting your hand and your father’s bribe of lands and riches to go with it.’

‘Very noble...’ Joan scoffed croakily. ‘I trust, despite your unfortunate position, that I can count on you still being a capital fellow?’

‘Your secret’s safe with me, my lady.’ Drew’s voice was rich with humour as his honey-coloured eyes flowed with insolent leisure over her figure. ‘But that might be all that is...so stay in Mayfair and do your good works there.’

Mingling thrill and alarm streaked through Joan. She knew if she pushed this man too far she might bitterly regret it...so flight was now the sensible option. Indeed, it was the only option because her aunt was marching towards her. Lady Regan was also staring at them and passing carriages were slowing down so the occupants could covertly watch the Duke of Thornley’s daughter conversing with a handsome, if ill-matched, stranger. Joan wondered whether any of them had recognised her modestly attired companion as Drew Rockleigh.

‘Move aside,’ Joan commanded. Chin elevating, she attempted to step past him, but was again thwarted. ‘Should my father find out about this he will punish you for your insolence.’

‘I should have let him punish you. God knows you’re in need of some sense and discipline instilled in you.’

‘Why did you not, then?’ Joan challenged. She held her breath, unsure why his answer was of vital importance to her.

‘Damned if I know...’ Drew sauntered off with a low, throaty chuckle.

Joan pressed together her lips, preventing herself again succumbing to an urge to order him back. She was furious that he’d had the last word—blasphemous, too!—and then walked away from her before she could quit his presence. But she was also hurt by his final remark. She’d hoped he’d say he’d wanted to protect her from her father’s wrath, but perhaps she’d played a minor role in the incident and it had really been a contest of egos between two antagonistic gentlemen.