‘A good evening, mijn vriend?’ De Groot’s eyes were sparkling as he strode into Santiago’s office. ‘You look like shit run over twice!’
Santiago stifled a yawn. ‘The aristocracy party until the sun comes up,’ he muttered, which was true, but not the reason he was so tired.
Last night’s escapade at Somerset House had left him reeling in more ways than one. Tiffany had brought a statue to life and then a massive cauldron—but more importantly, she had held his hand and she had smiled at him.
And then she had fainted and he’d had to carry her home.
Granted, this had been made easier by Mistress Blackmantle and her door magic. Santiago had wanted to carry Tiffany personally to her chambers and see her safely tucked up in bed, but even with his shaky grasp of acceptable behaviour he knew that would not be possible. So he had made his bow and said his goodbyes and walked halfway to Limehouse before he remembered his grandfather’s house on Grosvenor Square.
‘I don’t know why you want to be part of all that,’ said de Groot. ‘A lot of expensive fuss and nonsense. Now, did you hear about the disturbance in the river last night?’
‘No?’ said Santiago, with the level of innocence he usually reserved for customs officials. ‘What happened? The men said there was some minor damage to the boats—was there a storm?’
De Groot shrugged. ‘Could be, could be. But it didn’t affect anywhere else in the city! No wind or rain. Just the river.’
‘Some large creature out of place?’ Santiago suggested, yawning again. ‘A whale, or…’
‘A whale?’ De Groot laughed heartily. ‘Mijn vriend, what an imagination you have!’
When Santiago closed his eyes, he saw the river god standing in the water. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Guv!’ That was Billy, rushing in at ten times the speed anyone needed. He was even faster now he was getting three squares a day and had proper boots on his feet. Santiago was fairly sure he’d grown an inch. ‘I mean … Your Grace.’
He bowed, giggling to himself, and de Groot raised an eyebrow.
‘Grace?’
‘Long story. Yes, Billy?’
‘There’s this fella wants to see you. Did the whole title thing too.’
‘Revenue?’ He was running through a mental list of anything he needed to hide.
‘Don’t fink so. He— Oi! I said wait out there!’
The man standing in the doorway certainly didn’t look like Revenue. He wore a brown coat and good boots, and he was clean-shaven and tall.
But none of that was what made Santiago clutch the arms of his chair and swear.
‘Aye,’ said the man. ‘I thought it might take you like that. Your Grace,’ he added.
De Groot got to his feet. He towered over everyone, this man included. ‘Is there a problem, mijn vriend?’
Santiago scanned the stranger’s face and saw there features he hadn’t seen for decades. The eyes were bluer, the hair sandier, and the jawline narrower. But for all that, this man could have been his father, back from the dead.
He is dead. The Governor of Penang told me personally. The Peerage listed the date. He is dead.
‘De Groot,’ he said, rising and trying to recover his wits. ‘Thank you for your visit. But I must deal with this. Thank you, Billy, please show Señor de Groot out.’
Billy looked unconvinced by this, but he read Santiago’s expression, rolled his eyes and ushered the Dutchman from the room.
‘I will call again later,’ said de Groot, looking between Santiago and the stranger with an odd expression on his face.
‘Yes, yes.’ Santiago waved him away. ‘Shut the door, Billy.’ He knew the boy would be waiting outside with his ear pressed to the keyhole, but it was worth a try.
To the stranger, he offered the chair de Groot had just vacated. A silence fell.
Eventually, the stranger said in a slow, measured accent, ‘Your grandfather, he preferred to speak first.’
‘I am not my grandfather.’
‘No,’ agreed the stranger. He was looking around the office with great interest.
‘You knew him?’
The stranger gave him a very knowing look. ‘I did. He was kind to me, in his way. I owe him my education and position, and I’m very grateful for that.’
Santiago knew what he had to ask; he just couldn’t bring himself to.
‘Your mother?’ he said, a lame sidestep.
The stranger shifted in his chair. ‘Hannah Nettleship. Her father was Squire Nettleship. Well thought of in these—that is, in those parts.’
‘And those parts are?’
‘Yorkshire. East Riding. God’s own country,’ said the stranger with some satisfaction, as if he had personally made it so. ‘His lands ran alongside His Grace’s—that is, your grandfather.’ He paused. ‘Our grandfather.’
And there it was. The family resemblance was no coincidence.
Santiago did not think he much resembled his father, thank God. He took after his mother more strongly, which had always amused his father. ‘Wait until you sally in to claim the Dukedom,’ he’d say. ‘Brown as a heathen, and all that hair. It ain’t English, you know.’
But this man… Well, they said the firstborn resembled the father the most, and that was what this man was, after all. His father’s firstborn, Santiago’s older brother, and the reason the Marquess of Shorevale, heir to the Duke of St James, had been forced to flee the country all those years ago.
And if he hadn’t, then Santiago wouldn’t be here. Legitimately claiming the dukedom. Was that what this man wanted? To lay his own claim?
Did Santiago want him to?
He stood up abruptly. ‘We cannot have this conversation here. I need ale.’
His brother—his brother!—shrugged in a laconic sort of way, and followed Santiago out of the warehouse, along the road, and into a tavern where the pies were at least edible. He ordered a couple of flagons of ale, and the first one went down so fast it didn’t touch the sides.
‘Perhaps some brandy,’ he added to the serving man, whose eyebrows went up. ‘I know you have some; I sold it to you. Bring the bottle.’
‘Is that wise, Your Grace?’ said the man he’d better get used to thinking of as his brother.
‘Probably not,’ said Santiago. ‘And don’t do the grace thing. I’m Mr Santiago around here.’
He nodded. ‘All right, Mr Santiago.’
Having got himself on the outside of a glass of brandy, Santiago felt more inclined to talk. ‘Your mother. Is she still with us?’
‘I’m afraid she died at my birth. I was raised by my grandparents.’
‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be, they were lovely people.’
That startled a smile out of Santiago. ‘And you never knew my—our—father?’
‘No. He was long gone before my birth.’ He cocked his head. ‘My grandfather said His Grace could probably have sorted it all out, if it had just been the duel. Leniency for high spirits and all that. But there were enough other … er, misdemeanours to be take into account.’
Santiago sighed. ‘I can believe that.’ He drank some ale. ‘I haven’t asked your name.’
‘So you haven’t.’
Santiago raised his eyebrows, and the other man smiled slightly. ‘William. William Nettleship.’
‘Santiago.’
William nodded in a considered manner. ‘Spanish for St James. I heard you were named after your father.’
‘I was.’ Santiago did not elaborate, and William did not press him.
The rain in Sao Paulo. The bread he never got to eat. And his name, the only thing that was his at all.
‘They say you’re from Peru or somewhere,’ said the man with his father’s face.
‘Chile.’
‘I thought it was hot.’ But William seemed to know he was joking. ‘And now you’re back to claim the inheritance.’
Ah. ‘I am the legal heir,’ said Santiago. He had the documents to prove it. His father had taken a twisted pleasure in sending notarised copies of them back to England, so that the old duke would know his heir was utterly out of his reach.
William nodded. ‘Aye. Aye. Whereas your father disclaimed all knowledge of my mother, killed her brother in a duel, and fled the country before my birth. There’s little legitimacy in that.’
He said it without rancour. Santiago still had to ask.
It wasn’t that he’d wanted to be the duke in the first place. He’d always known it was coming, especially since that day he’d heard of his father’s death. He’d known one day he’d have to go home to a country he’d never seen, and take responsibility for a needlessly huge estate, complete with crumbling castle and hundreds, if not thousands of tenants. The properties all over England. The lands in Ireland and in the West Indies, neither of which he was comfortable with. The many and varied business interests, from canals to factories.
He just wanted to sail ships and smuggle goods and get away with it.
But smugglers did not get to dance with mermaid-eyed sirens.
He asked his brother, ‘Do you wish to challenge me over it?’ and found he was actually tense for the answer. Not that William could challenge him. But…
William snorted into his ale. ‘Challenge thee? Nay, lad.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘I wouldn’t be duke for all the tea in China.’
Santiago tried to hide his relief. ‘Actually Indian exports of tea are more— never mind. You have no desire to be the duke?’
‘None at all. Made a misery of your grandfather. Mind you, that’s because he insisted on overseeing everything personally, himself. Too much for one man, my Grandpa Nettleship always said. Other men delegate. And I’m glad they do, for I had a nice position of it with the Earl of Ackermouth.’
‘What was your position?’
‘I was his steward. A considerable estate, although nothing to yours.’
‘But you have left that position?’
William nodded, and poured them both a brandy. ‘I did. And your next question, Mr Santiago, will be for why?’
Santiago allowed that this was so.
‘I admit I was chancing my hand. I am not a gambling man by habit, sir, but this was a risk. I heard that you had come to claim your title and decided to present myself to you, both as your brother and as a man who knows how to handle a large estate in Yorkshire.’
This was unexpected. And possibly the answer to his prayers. ‘You wish me to employ you as my steward?’
William considered this. ‘I wish to enquire if you are happy with your current stewardship and offer my services.’
‘And if I am happy with my current stewardship?’
William said drily, ‘Then my opinion of you goes down, sir, because you shouldn’t be. Fellow was only good for following His Grace’s orders. Can’t stand on his own two feet. If you don’t wish to oversee him every day, you’ll regret keeping him on.’
Santiago sat back on the wooden settle, the brandy making itself known to his system. It was warm in the tavern, and the variety of fragrances verged on the less pleasant, but he liked taverns. He liked the honesty of them. People went about much the same business here as they did in Lady Tiffany’s ballrooms, but they did it with a lot less pretence.
He glanced over at the whores in their rouge and scanty dresses, pouting at all comers. Did Tiffany feel like that, when she was trussed up in some frilled abomination and sent off to dance with a sweaty nobleman twice her age? At least these women only had to deal with their culls for half an hour or so at a time. Tiffany would be sold to the highest bidder for the rest of her life.
The thought made him cold with rage.
‘If they see you ordering brandy, they’ll charge you twice as much,’ said William mildly, following his gaze, and Santiago realised he’d been gazing at the wenches without even seeing them. By now, his father would undoubtedly have ordered a couple of them over, even—especially—if he had company. Even if that company was his own son.
But Santiago was not his father.
He reached into his jacket and brought out his cigar case. William declined the one he was offered, but didn’t seem to mind Santiago lighting up.
‘How do I know you aren’t going to swindle me?’ he said. ‘Run down the estate and try to stage a coup?’
‘You don’t.’ William took a sip of ale. ‘But the coup would be pointless. Even if you were dead in your grave, sir, I’d not inherit a single square foot of the estate, and as for the title, it’d have to go to the nearest legitimate male relative.’
Santiago nodded. ‘I looked him up,’ he said around his cigar. ‘A cousin many times removed, known for his gambling debts.’
‘And I’ve no desire to work for one of those. I’ve proper references, should you wish to see them.’
Santiago would like to see them. He would be derelict in his duty not to. And Tiffany’s words about his responsibilities rang in his ears. There is no such thing as ‘just a title’.
‘I shall have to give notice to the current steward,’ he warned. ‘And I will be checking your references.’
‘As is right and proper.’ A smile played around William’s mouth. ‘And if I am not a scoundrel and I know how to do my job?’
‘Then I believe you will have a new position managing Castle Aymers.’ He frowned. ‘Is the village really called Aymers Chevres?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ William checked the ale tankard and waved for another. ‘Aymers being from the Anglo-Saxon, meaning a swamp island—which it’s easy to believe, the house being on a hill and the land requiring careful drainage—and Chevres from the Normans, there being a goat featuring prominently on the ancient arms.’
‘A goat?’ said Santiago. He’d thought the creature—now squashed into the corner of a crowded shield—was a deformed unicorn.
‘Aye. Means persistence and strength. I don’t know about you, sir, but I could murder a pie. My shout.’
‘Nonsense, I have more money than I know what to do with. Landlord! Drinks for everyone.’
As a cheer went up, William said, ‘Well, that’s one way to get them to like you.’
‘It’s never failed me yet,’ agreed Santiago. ‘To your health, my brother!’
* * *
Tiffany woke late, feeling as if she had suffered the headache she’d feigned. For a moment she thought she’d had an exceptionally vivid dream about Father Thames, and then she stretched and felt the ache in her back and her knees as she’d knelt on the ground to draw the cauldron. I drew a cauldron the size of a carriage. In front of everyone.
Well, not everyone, but the Duke had been there. The Duke, who she had known as Mr Santiago. He might not have outright lied to her, but lying by omission was still a terrible thing to do! Why wouldn’t he have told her? Did he think she’d be angling for his hand in marriage?
‘Hah!’ she said out loud, trying not to remember the imprint of said hand in hers as they ran.
A scratch at the door heralded Morris. ‘My lady? Are you awake?’
She was offered tea and toast, but was still sitting by the fire in her wrapper when Elinor burst in.
‘Theophania! What a triumph!’
Tiffany chewed an unwisely large bite of toast and gave her sister-in-law an enquiring look.
‘The Duke! Smaller bites, dear. Chewing is unladylike. He seemed quite taken with you. Did you see him, Morris, when he brought Lady Theophania home last night?’
‘Yes, my lady. Only from a distance though.’
‘Is he not a well-made man? Rather darker in the complexion than I should prefer but one can’t have everything, and your colouring should cancel that out.’
‘Cancel it out?’ said Tiffany. She had been told her whole life that she was a colourless little thing, with her pale hair and insipid eyes. Was Elinor finally discovering a purpose for it?
‘With the children. Your son will be the next duke! Think of that.’
The future closed in around Tiffany like a hand on her throat. Marriage to a member of the Ton, bundled off to some country estate to have babies, and then a lifetime of getting them all married off.
Last night I brought a statue to life and helped heal an entire waterway and warded the whole River Thames.
Tiffany pressed a hand to her face. What would he do with that information now? He’d already threatened to blackmail her if she didn’t help him. Now he had a whole display of witchcraft to tell people about! What else was he going to ask of her?
Her hand in marriage?
No.
Aunt Esme didn’t have a husband. Neither did Nora. And the two of them strode about the place doing precisely as they liked. Nora cut her hair short and swore like a sailor. Aunt Esme wore crimson gowns and spoke to dukes as if she was their equal.
What could Tiffany do, if she had that freedom?
‘I have sent an invitation to the house party. We shall have the very best suite prepared for him. Did he perhaps mention if he enjoys fishing?’
‘Fishing?’ said Tiffany, baffled. A country house party, with Santiago. The Duke. Him. Striding around the place doing sporting and hunting things with the other men, getting all dishevelled in that way he had that she should not enjoy, making all the other grown men look like little boys.
This would be torture. Could she feign a headache for the whole week? Not that she didn’t long to leave London, and she did want to get back to Churlish Green to enquire after her childhood friend Henry and his family, but at what price? Four whole days of the Duke occupying not just her thoughts, but her house?
‘The sprigged muslin with the peach flounces, I think, Morris,’ Elinor was saying. ‘It is the newest and most à la mode.’
‘For what occasion?’ said Tiffany, who didn’t really like that dress much.
‘Why, for afternoon calls! Everyone will want to speak to you today, Theophania. The duke himself will no doubt be calling, and everyone else will be green with envy that you are the only one he danced with. And he brought you home!’
‘Properly chaperoned,’ Tiffany added quickly, before this turned into the sort of rumour that ended with her walking down the aisle. Receiving visitors after a ball was always a tedious task, and she didn’t need to add extra gossip to the mill. ‘Aunt Esme and … and her maid were also with us.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Strange looking creature, her maid. Has she had lice?’
‘Er, I don’t think so,’ said Tiffany. Given the efficiency with which they had cured Mr San— the Duke’s wounds after he was attacked on that beach, she didn’t think health issues were something that plagued the household. Why, it seemed Madhu could cure somebody with the correct blend of tea. ‘I think it looks chic. Like a Frenchwoman.’
Elinor sniffed. ‘Why anyone would want to appear French is beyond me. Come on, up you get. There is not much time to waste and your hair was not put in rags last night.’
‘I am sure you have your preparations to make,’ Tiffany said, and thankfully Elinor was excited enough about hosting the Duke that she bustled off to harass someone else.
Tiffany turned immediately to Morris. ‘Not the sprigged muslin,’ she said firmly. ‘I can’t stand it.’
‘But Lady Cornforth said…’ Morris began, peering at the door to make sure it was definitely closed. ‘It isn’t my favourite either,’ she admitted.
Tiffany stood up, and tried to ignore the soreness in her feet. Her dancing slippers had not been intended for racing about after river gods. There had been blood on her stockings when Morris had peeled them off her last night.
She hobbled to the clothes press and said, ‘Where is the sprigged muslin?’
Morris located it quickly in a drawer. Tiffany shook it out, and as the maid was explaining that it would need to be ironed, Tiffany put her foot on one of the horrible flounces and yanked the dress upwards. There was a loud rip.
‘Oh dear, what a shame,’ she said.
‘I could sew—’
Tiffany grinned and tore the skirt in half up to the knee.
Morris gasped and giggled behind her hand. ‘My lady!’
‘Such a shame. Perhaps you can do something with it, Morris. For yourself.’ The maid could get a few bob for a dress like this if she mended it carefully. ‘Or give it to the poor. Meanwhile, alas, I cannot wear it and so…’ She hunted through the drawers for something more to her liking, and came up with a duck-egg blue dress that she had always felt flattered her eyes. Elinor didn’t like the dress, and if Tiffany thought about why she remembered that she’d chosen the fabric herself.
‘This will have to do, I suppose,’ she said theatrically, and Morris giggled again. ‘Now, could you possibly fetch me something for my feet, please? And while you’re at it, I do think I would feel an awful lot better for something medicinal in my tea. Possibly brandy.’
Morris was smiling as she went away, and Tiffany thought that perhaps, today might not be a bad day after all.
* * *
A few pints of ale and a pie turned into several more pints of ale and half a bottle of brandy, and by the time Santiago suggested to his now dearly beloved half-brother that he had some claret in the warehouse, they were both listing quite badly to starboard. And to port. And in all directions, really. The street was swaying like the deck of a ship.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have that claret,’ said William, slapping himself on the cheek.
‘You want more brandy instead?’ said Santiago. ‘Good plan.’
He slung his arm about his brother’s shoulders and they stumbled in the vague direction of Santiago’s yard. The afternoon had disappeared somehow, sped up like an overwound watch, and now most of the street was in shadow.
‘Thing is though… The thing is,’ Santiago said, ‘I never had a brother, ’cos my parents hated each other. Hated. My mother went into a convent. That’s how much they hated each other.’
‘Amazing they had you, then,’ said William.
‘Sí, but that, lo que pasa es que, is that they did it to spite my grandfather. Your grand— Our grandfather. Because, I mean. Look at me.’
He spread his hands, nearly falling over in the process.
‘You are a very handsome man,’ said William.
‘Is not what I meant, but thanks. I mean I’m all … Soy todo Español. Sí?’
‘You said, right,’ William said, ‘you said you weren’t Spanish. You’re from, whassit. Chilly place. That’s not chilly.’
‘Some of it’s very chilly. Icebergs and…’ Santiago tried to think of the word for the big slabs of ice on the mountains. ‘…the like. But no, thing is, actually, my mother’s like this Incan princess. No. Other one. Mapuche.’
‘Is she?’
‘S’what they say. S’nonsense obviously, cos her father was el Conde de Mozzarella de … Tango.’ No, that wasn’t quite right. ‘I will remember soon. Why’s the aristocristicity have such long names?’
‘I suppose it’s summat to do on cold nights,’ said William, and the two of them burst out laughing.
‘Your … Grace?’ said a hesitant voice, and he swung his head around muzzily to see a blurred figure addressing him. Slight, neat—probably, under all that blurring—polite.
‘Robinson? What the devil you doing here?’
‘I came to see if Your Grace wished to be dressed for the theatre. I see … that is perhaps not the case?’
‘Theatre? I don’t… Do I have a ticket?’
‘You have a box, sir. By long-standing tradition. There is a farce, and then a tragedy, and I believe some country dancing.’
Santiago shook his head, and the street shook with it. ‘No. Can’t stand a farce. No. English humour. S’weird.’
‘As you say, Your Grace. Shall I have the carriage sent round, sir?’
‘What? No. I c’n walk.’
‘Not sure you can,’ murmured William.
‘Robinson! Have you met my brother? I have a brother! William, este es mi ayuda de cámara, Robinson.’ He’d probably messed up that introduction somehow. Tiffany’s lessons blurred in his head.
‘Sir.’ Robinson gave a neat bow. William gave a sort of salute.
‘Robinson. You’re the one who makes him look like a gentleman?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m not a sir, lad. Just a common or garden mister.’
‘I wish I was a common or garden mister,’ said Santiago wistfully.
‘Will you be requiring my help to get back to the warehouse, Your Grace?’ said Robinson, who was probably a foot or two shorter than Santiago and surely weighed about as much as a cat.
‘No no no,’ said Santiago, waving a hand airily. ‘No, you go on home, my lad. Take the evening off! Go to the theatre. I have a box, you know.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ said Robinson, and watched them weave past down the narrow street.
‘He’s a good lad, that Robinson,’ Santiago said, as they strolled—well, perhaps stumbled a little—along.
‘Certainly seems it,’ said William.
‘Can’t understand why he’d not got a better position.’
‘You are a duke,’ pointed out his brother.
‘Weeeellll,’ said Santiago expansively. ‘Only just. I’d’ve, I’d’ve, I’d’ve thought a fellow of his accomplissiments—’ That was a hard word to say. Santiago tried out a couple of variations, and none of them seemed right.
‘It’s a mystery,’ agreed William, and then frowned. ‘Whassat?’
‘Whass what?’
William turned, which meant Santiago turned too, and there was a group of men, stevedores by the look of it, approaching a smaller figure. The smaller figure was backing away, holding up its hands in an appeasing manner.
‘Is that Robinson?’ Santiago said, squinting.
One of the stevedores let out a nasty chuckle.
‘He’s got no money,’ Santiago called. ‘Not a penny. Have you, lad?’
‘That’s no lad,’ said one of the stevedores, leering unpleasantly.
‘Eh? No, you’re right, he’s not a lad; he’s my valet.’
‘Your Grace,’ murmured William urgently.
‘No, not to you, I’m Santiago, sí? He’s my valet,’ said Santiago, straightening himself up and trying not to sway. It had been ages since he’d punched anyone. Months at least. It was always very satisfying when they deserved it.
‘Oh, is that so?’ said the stevedores, who presumably weren’t ones who worked for him, at least not often. He hoped not anyway. He was probably going to have to beat them up and that was bad when it came to hiring journeymen.
‘Sí. Yes. It is.’ He was already moving closer. His mind seemed to sharpen up a bit at the prospect of violence.
Dukes didn’t brawl. But Santiago, who had grown up on mean streets and rough harbours and smuggling ships—he bloody well brawled.
‘Then this little lad has been lying to you!’ roared one of the big men, grabbing Robinson by his impeccable waistcoat and lifting him off the floor.
‘Oh, bugger,’ sighed William. He was already rolling up his sleeves. Santiago beamed and took off his coat. He attempted to hang it on a stack of crates. He failed.
‘Please, I don’t want to cause any trouble,’ said Robinson.
‘Then you shouldn’t be walking around dressed like a—’
The man who’d been speaking got cut off by Santiago’s fist. He let go of Robinson, swore, and swung at Santiago, who ducked and wove probably a bit more than he intended to.
‘Vamos!’ he shouted. ‘Come on!’
Then someone smacked him facedown into the dirt.