Dare to Love a Duke Page 11

  Her hand throbbed with the need to touch him, to slide her palm up his chest and feel the strength of his body. But yielding to attraction would only complicate matters—and imperil her heart.

  “The workers here have always supported my innovations,” she said as neutrally as she could manage. “They, like I, believe that we ought to give the guests exactly what they want, and we should also make changes so the guests are compelled to return again and again.” Her gaze flicked to the empty stage at one end of the ballroom, and then to the musicians in the far corner. “After I presented the idea to the staff, they were in favor of adding both performances and music.”

  “Haven’t seen a performance in some time,” he noted.

  “Admittedly, I haven’t been attentive to maintaining them, but that should be remedied. Guests seemed to enjoy watching the spectacle.”

  “The addition of music was a clever one.” He eyed her with admiration. “That’s how the former proprietress came to choose you as her successor, by presenting her with good ideas.”

  Lucia permitted herself a little smile. She had worked damned hard to get to where she was, and she felt a glow of gratification that he saw her labors as commendable.

  “I made sure she saw me as invaluable,” she said primly.

  She’d been one of Mrs. Chalke’s girls at a brothel on St. Martin’s Lane near Covent Garden, and when given the prospect to work one night a week away from the house, seized the chance. Opportunity was ripe, and she wouldn’t let it rot on the vine.

  “It was quick,” she continued, “my movement from serving refreshments to overseeing the ordering of wine and supplies for the kitchen.”

  “I wager even that wasn’t enough,” he said approvingly.

  “It wasn’t,” she said, which was a simple way of describing her measureless ambition.

  Neapolitans all adored the commedia character Pulcinella. They cheered his antics, laughed at his ridiculous schemes, and empathized with his perpetually empty belly. But Lucia had always breathlessly awaited the appearance of Columbina on the stage. The wily, flirtatious character was always one step ahead of everyone else, and though she was a servant, she expertly manipulated situations to her mistress’s advantage.

  As a girl roaming the streets of Napoli, earning coin and favors by running errands and serving as an intermediary in the constant shift of things and services, Lucia had dreamt not of becoming an actress and performing the role of Columbina, but to be Columbina. To run the show, to be perpetually aware—to be, ultimately, the powerful force behind the scenes.

  “One added duty wasn’t enough to content me,” she said with a tip of her head. “Maneuvered myself into hiring and training new staff, paying off local law enforcement, tallying the night’s receipts.”

  Hardly had Mrs. Chalke a notion to undertake a task before Lucia completed it for her. Shrewd gel, Mrs. Chalke had said with a knowing smirk. That’s the way we get ourselves out of the gutter. Cunning and determination.

  “The Orchid Club belongs to you,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “but it flourishes because it’s mine. More than that, the staff wants for nothing because of my constant attention. I keep their wages high, protect them when they are threatened, and make allowances when they’re unable to perform their duties.”

  She’d never acknowledged her own work—not at such length, and not aloud—but to speak of it now filled her with a surge of pride, as if liquid light flowed through her veins. It was too easy to dismiss accomplishments and dwell only on the negative.

  But to do so meant robbing herself of purpose, of joy. She couldn’t let that happen.

  Confidently, he said, “They appreciate your efforts on their behalf.”

  She’d heard it from their mouths, but always fretted that it wasn’t enough, that nothing she did would ever be enough. Why didn’t she believe them? They wouldn’t lie. At the very least, they wouldn’t stay with her for this long. Yet they had. She drew strength from that.

  “We’re all living this dangerous, brutal world together,” she said. “Merely surviving isn’t enough. The least we can do is care for one another.” A wave of emotion swept through her, but she didn’t want to give him the impression that she was easily agitated. Trying to regain her equilibrium, she ran a hand down the front of her skirts. “Let’s move on. There’s more to see.”

  In short order, they visited the small pantry upstairs where Lottie cleaned glasses and plates as well as the chamber set aside for guests who had grown unruly or lethargic from too much drink. Drowsing people sprawled on mattresses piled on the floor, while George, a member of the staff, watched over them.

  “Though the establishment provides only two glasses of wine,” she explained softly so as not to wake anyone, “occasionally, they arrive having already imbibed. We try to turn them away, but they slip through from time to time. Our enforcers bring them here to rest until they’ve regained control of themselves, and then we have this good fellow minding them as tenderly as a shepherd with his flock.”

  “They’re not a bad sort,” George said affably. “Just a little disguised, is all.”

  “Seems as though you’ve a thankless task,” Tom said. “Sitting here, watching this lot sleep off their drink.”

  “Ah, no,” George answered with cheer. “I don’t mind it. Gives me a chance to catch up on my reading.” He held up a newspaper. “Amina buys a paper for the house, and us that know our letters get a chance to thumb through it. At our staff meal, she’ll sometimes read aloud so that them that ain’t got their letters know what’s what in the world.”

  Tom nodded thoughtfully, his gaze flicking to her.

  When she and Tom stepped back into the darkened hallway, Tom asked, “What of those guests who will not go quietly to their rest? Do they threaten you with exposure?”

  “No one will speak of us, lest they tarnish their own reputations. And anyone who gets obstreperous here . . . well, one of our gents supplements his income with prizefighting, and the other grew up the middle of eight children.”

  “Ah.” Tom’s lips curved. “I was the elder, and the heir. It was my job to look out for my sister. She pestered me as little sisters do—always running after me and demanding I allow her to join in whatever I was about—but she was reluctant to smash her fist into my face. So I joined a pugilism academy to ensure I underwent the experience.”

  She donned a sorrowful expression. “You have endured a life of deprivation.”

  “Indeed, madam, I am much to be pitied.” The corners of his eyes crinkled.

  Intimacy wove between them. Part of her wanted to shrink back and remain protected, but he drew her ever forward, into his natural warmth.

  “There must be more,” he added.

  Through her lashes, she gazed askance at him, her heart thumping. She couldn’t stop herself from saying breathlessly, “There is always more.”

  Someone cleared their throat. Lucia spun around to see Kitty standing nearby, wearing a pained expression.

  A flush rose to Lucia’s cheeks. She needed to remain businesslike and detached with Tom, and here she was, flirting outrageously.

  “Apologies for interrupting.” Kitty edged closer. “There’s a predicament in the kitchen that requires your attendance.”

  “I’ll be there presently,” she said briskly. Straightening, she followed Kitty down the corridor. To her surprise, Tom was close at her heels.

  “I mean to see everything,” he said when she threw him an inquisitive look.

  In short order, they were belowstairs where the relative quiet above seemed a remote memory. Staff members rushed back and forth with trays, some empty, some bearing assortments of cakes and sweetmeats. The kitchen itself swarmed with activity as Jenny the cook and her assistants stirred pots, tended fires, and topped confections with candied nuts and flowers.

  “Kitty spoke of a quandary,” she said to Jenny.

  The cook threw up her hands in exasperation. “I was counting on a second
cone of sugar, but Sue went into the larder and came back with this.” She held up a brownish lump the size of a child’s fist. “Mice.”

  “Why did no one see this sooner?” Lucia heard the edge in her voice. “We could have provisioned accordingly.”

  Sue hung her head. “Begging your pardon, madam. It were my fault when Cook told me to check the sugar this morn, and I was stupid and told her without looking that we was fine.” A tear rolled down the girl’s cheek and dropped to the floor.

  Some of Lucia’s anger dropped away. “Go back into the larder and see how much honey we’ve got. Bring out whatever you can find.”

  Sue dashed off, then returned a moment later carrying a large crock.

  “I brought it, madam.” She approached Lucia, who directed her to the cook.

  “Jenny, is there enough to serve as substitute for tonight?”

  The cook lifted the crock’s lid and inspected its contents. “Should be.”

  “Tomorrow, Sue,” Lucia gravely said to the girl, “we shall have a discussion, you and I.”

  Sue blanched. “Going to sack me?”

  “Your position’s secure,” Lucia said, her tone even, “but that doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”

  “Aye, madam.”

  “Now back to work,” Lucia reminded her.

  The girl curtsied before hurrying to her station and picking up a knife to chop walnuts.

  Seeing that there was nothing that required her further attention, Lucia motioned to Tom to follow her. Together, they climbed a back staircase.

  As she held the railing, his hand stayed hers. Sparks shot up her arm and spread through her. She turned. She stood on a higher step and had the rare vantage of looking down on him. A shaft of light fell across his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze went all the way to her marrow.

  “Most employers would’ve dismissed her,” he said lowly.

  “Sue’s got three young brothers she’s trying to keep from the workhouse, and her regular wages from the pastry shop barely feed them. I sack her, that’s a week of rent she can’t make.”

  “Not many would take that into consideration,” he murmured.

  “The club is my business,” she said softly, “but the staff’s my family.”

  “They are not your blood.”

  Her chest ached with a swell of affection. “They mean so much more to me—if they’re loyal and work hard. But I don’t tolerate anyone who won’t give it their best. Likewise if they betray our guests’ trust.”

  There had been a bloke last year who’d spoken to a vicar about one of the guests, and she’d sacked him without remorse.

  She leveled her gaze with Tom’s, and she didn’t try to hide the emotion throbbing in her voice. “This establishment employs a staff of twenty, not including the musicians. They all have additional employment, but I pay generously for their discretion and industry. Perhaps they’d survive without their wages from the club, but London’s costly, and a supplement from me means they can raise their families away from the filth and crime of Whitechapel.”

  She shuddered as she remembered the cold, artificial dusk that darkened Berner Street and Gravel Lane.

  Escape had only come when Mrs. Chalke had brought her to the bawdy house near Covent Garden, where there was enough to eat and a warm bed free from vermin.

  “Think on that,” she said urgently, “before you decide whether or not to close the club.”

  His brow lowered, and his jaw firmed, but he didn’t speak.

  There was one final card to play in this game. Pray God it was the right one. “I’ve a final request to make of you before you make your decision.” She held his gaze. “Tomorrow, at three in the afternoon, meet me in the rooms above The Green Oak gin house.”

  “No idea where that is,” he admitted.

  A wry smile curved her lips. “Why would you? It’s in Bethnal Green.”

  “Not a part of town I know well. But is it safe for you to go there?”

  She warmed from his concern, however misplaced. “I’ll be fine. But,” she went on in a warning tone, “I advise you to leave your ducal carriage at home and use a more unremarkable vehicle. And perhaps bribe your groom for his clothes.”

  “Noted.” His voice was businesslike, but his eyes filled with heat. “Tomorrow, then.”

  Their gazes held. Desire rose up between them, crackling and alive. She could lose herself in it, let herself be burned alive by the passion that was never more than a moment away. It held a seductive allure, to forget everything and dwell only in the realm of the senses.

  She had to deny herself this. She’d had her heart broken three times, as she’d said to him. Each time, she’d picked up the pieces and put it back together again.

  Yet she knew that if he shattered her heart, the damage would be too great, and it would never be whole again.

  Chapter 11

  “You sure you want to stop here, gov?”

  From his seat atop the two-wheeled hackney cab, the driver eyed the exterior of The Green Oak gin house with distinct disfavor.

  “This is my destination.” Tom climbed down from the vehicle and gave the driver his fare.

  The cabman quickly pocketed the coin, though his gaze was fixed on the cluster of threadbare men gathered outside the gin house. “I ain’t waiting for you here.”

  “You needn’t.” Tom wasn’t afraid, but he remained vigilant. Even in his groom’s clothes, with the ducal signet ring left at home, he stood out here.

  Some members of Tom’s class enjoyed touring the city’s rougher areas. From their perches of privilege, they observed the people living in direst need, as though gawking at animals in a zoological garden. Acquaintances confessed to Tom that it gave them a thrill to court danger, such as the possibility of robbery or assault committed by a desperate resident of East London. Then, at the end of the night, the wealthy elite could return to Mayfair, secure in their comforts.

  Tom never joined their number. He’d no interest in gleefully studying the impoverished for his own entertainment. Other thrills had appealed to him more—opera dancers, pugilism matches, knife-throwing competitions—and so the ramshackle street on which he now stood was largely unknown to him.

  “If you’re still breathing,” the driver said, “you’ll find me at the well near Fenchurch and Leadenhall Streets.”

  “My aim is to remain alive,” Tom answered drily, “so I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The cabman flicked the reins, and the vehicle drove away, leaving Tom standing on the curb outside The Green Oak.

  He glanced up and down the street. A handful of shops faced the narrow lane, but dilapidated tenements made up the majority of buildings, their rough brick facades on the verge of toppling apart. The street itself wasn’t paved, and mud spattered the shoes and bare feet of the people ambling down it. From a front step, a woman with a child on her hip stared at him cautiously. A handful of children in tattered scraps of fabric played with a wad of rags tied into a semblance of a football.

  Heaviness pushed down on Tom’s chest. The air here seemed thicker, grayer, choking with hopelessness.

  Mayfair was very far away.

  Why had Lucia brought him to this place? The Orchid Club was miles to the west, far from here, so she’d have no business in this part of the city.

  A door stood just beside the entrance to the gin house. He approached and pushed it open, revealing a rickety set of stairs climbing upward. The humid, earthy scent of human habitation filled the staircase. The smell had the heavy ripeness of too many people in too small a space. Yet Lucia had said he was to meet her in the rooms upstairs, so he climbed the steps. They protested loudly beneath his boots.

  At the top of the stairs stood a corridor, with several doors ajar. He walked gingerly down the hallway, peering behind each door. In one cramped room, a woman sat on the floor, surrounded by a mountain of shirts. She didn’t look up from her needlework. Another narrow room held a man and a thin dog sitting close to a stove that
emitted black smoke.

  The dog didn’t lift its head, while the man glanced up and looked at Tom with red-rimmed eyes. “What you want, nob?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” Tom answered neutrally.

  “Ain’t nobody here worth looking for,” the man said wearily. “Unless you mean herself.”

  “Herself?” Tom raised an eyebrow.

  “The dark-eyed mort. Always carrying a basket o’ something when she visits, but it ain’t holding food, on account of me asking for a bite and she said what she brung couldn’t be eaten.” A smile appeared on his weathered face. “Next time, she brung me an eel pie.”

  From what he was learning of her, that sounded precisely like Lucia. “Where can I find her?”

  The man tilted his head to indicate the next room. “If you see her, tell her I wants a pork pie next. But I’ll take another eel if she ain’t got pork.”

  “I’ll be certain to let her know.” Tom touched the brim of his hat and moved down the corridor to the last open door.

  He paused when he heard Lucia’s voice.

  “Try again, Letty. Don’t worry if you can’t get the loop just right.”

  “But I want it to look like yours,” a young girl said, her East London accent prominent and her voice tight with frustration.

  “It will, but be patient with yourself. It took me a month to get it right.”

  “Awright.” The girl didn’t sound convinced.

  Curious, Tom rapped his knuckles on the door. When Lucia bid him enter, he nudged the door open, unsure what he’d find.

  Ash-colored light from grimy windows surrounded Lucia as she bent over a girl sitting at a tiny desk, a sheet of paper spread in front of the child. The girl held a piece of charcoal, and it was clear that she’d been practicing how to cross her t’s. More girls, aged somewhere between seven and twelve, wore frayed, ill-fitting clothes and sat at small desks crammed into the room. The gray walls were covered with plaster cracked into spiderwebs. One lamp burned, pushing back the gloom, and other girls within the chamber used it to illuminate the hornbooks they studied. The basket in the center of the room held a few slim volumes as well as more hornbooks.