From the outside, the building appeared like any other run-down pile in this blighted spot—a former mansion cut up into dozens of dwellings, most no more than a single room, with a shifting population of groups and individuals whose ability to pay the rent depended on vice and crime, much of it in the service of the man known as the Duke of Devil’s Kitchen; the man they were here to meet.
James and his party had left their horses on the more savoury side of Westminster Abbey, before following the messenger the Duke had sent— a hard-faced youth with cold eyes. Their guide answered Jeyhun’s attempts at questions with a sneer and silence, leading them on into the middle of this nest of thieves and prostitutes.
He stopped at the doorstep of this unprepossessing building and addressed James. “Just you, Duke says. Your men stay here.” At least, that was the interpretation James dragged from the syllables that, at first sound, seemed an unknown language.
James raised a brow. “No.”
The guide was adamant. “Just you, or no meeting.”
Jeyhun led his men in unsheathing their weapons, a scimitar in one hand and a knife in the other, except for the two who strung an arrow to their short bows. James nodded his agreement. No way was he entering the crime lord’s den alone. “We leave.” He stopped, though, for a last word with the guide. “Tell your master it is to be war between him and the King of the Mountains, then.”
The boy’s mask of insolence and indifference slipped, panic showing for a moment in his eyes. “Wait!”
Without another word, he opened the door just wide enough to slip through it. James heard bolts slide into place.
“We wait?” Jeyhun asked in Turkmen. James nodded, more a movement of his eyebrows than his chin. His eyes, like those of all his men, were busy cataloguing every denizen of what might prove to be a trap: painted women with scanty bodices and empty eyes, swaggering men in tight trousers and bright neckerchiefs, scrawny barefoot children, so used to the cold they no longer shivered.
None of them approached the small group of warriors. Just as well. James and his men were well equipped to fight even against superior force, at least for long enough to allow the arrival of the larger group of armsmen and hirelings waiting for the summons of Jeyhun’s horn in the better neighbourhood a few streets beyond this fetid labyrinth. James would rather have the Duke’s co-operation, but he’d come ready to destroy the man’s hold over this neighbourhood, if the Duke would not negotiate.
Perhaps the confidence of the warriors transmitted some of the fate that menaced the inhabitants, for they began to fade back into their hovels. Some of women disappeared first, slipping away one by one, one or two calling children to their sides. Then a few of the men, and more and more, until, by the time the door opened again, the area around James and his party was empty.
The new messenger was much older, and spoke a brand of English easier for James to understand. “The Duke says three of you.”
“Six,” James countered. “Three to stay outside the room where your master and I meet. If he has more than the same number with him, we leave.”
The messenger blinked, and then shut the door again.
Another wait, but finally the man reopened the door and stepped silently to one side for James to enter.
Inside, the place was unexpected, having been restored to much of its former glory. Indeed, by the furnishings and appointments alone, James might have thought himself in an aristocratic mansion in Mayfair.
Their escort stopped on the first floor, to knock on a large ornately carved door. The drawing room, it would have been when this was a salubrious address. Waved inside, with Jeyhun and two of the armsmen at his heels, he found it was now more of a throne room.
A man in an ornately embroidered banyan over skin-tight moleskin trousers lolled on a chair set on a dais at one end of the rectangular room, one leg propped on the arm with the foot swinging. Two hulking brutes flanked the dais, neither any smaller than their master, though their physical presence faded in comparison with his. Some of the man’s impact came from the intelligence in the cold eyes; some from the indefinable air of menace, of violence held barely in check, that radiated from him.
James allowed himself to be seen examining and dismissing the two henchmen and then raising an eyebrow at the slender boys, little more than children, who sat huddled on the steps to the dais. They were clothed in loose silken shirts and baggy silk-velvet pantaloons. The cosmetics colouring their eyes, cheeks, and lips screamed their function in this place. Poor lads.
James tapped his leg in a signal to Jeyhun, who said, in English, “More than three, prince. We leave?”
The Duke, and it must be he, spoke. “You fear my pets, Lord Elfingham?” Even these few words suggested the informers were right when they said this villain had lofty origins. The sneering voice was high-pitched and nasal, but decidedly aristocratic in its vowels and crisp consonants.
James raised as a single eyebrow in the man’s direction then ignored him, replying to Jeyhun. “So honour requires. Our host has not kept his word.”
“Stop!” The Duke shrieked. James didn’t turn his head, but took another pace towards the door.
“I make the rules. I have the power,” the Duke insisted, “but I choose to send the boys away. Run along, little ones.”
James turned to look. The Duke was flicking his hands for all the world as though he was herding chickens. One by one, the three children stood, bowed to their master, and sidled from the room, threading a nervous line between James and his men on the one side, and the Duke’s bruisers on the other, clearly frightened of both.
“I could have had you killed,” the Duke grumbled, “and the men outside. I could have taken the money.”
“Perhaps. But then there would be no more.” James gestured for the armsman with the small chest to lay it on the ground a few feet from the edge of the dais.
“My prince is a hard man to kill,” Jeyhun observed. “This is a blessing from Allah upon would-be assassins, for retribution would not end with those he and his loyal men took with them.”
James didn’t try to resist his smile, but he didn’t belabour the point. “This is the half payment we discussed with your emissary. You agree to the terms?”
The armsman had lifted the lid and the Duke was leaning forward, his eyes avid. Again, the informers had been correct: showy jewels were the way to what this disgusting rogue had left of a heart—in this case, treasure liberated from a pirate who’d mistaken their ship for a sacrificial lamb as they sailed through corsair-infested waters on their way to England.
Taken from one murdering thief to pay to another. James choked back his disgust. The man had demanded this payment of trumpery nonsense in return for information about the attacks on Sutton and for remaining neutral in the confrontation with Haverford. Bargaining with such a one stuck in James’s craw, but, as Jeyhun reminded him repeatedly, fighting a war on multiple fronts was never wise.
He caught Jeyhun watching, and read the young warrior’s message in his sardonic eye. Play the hand, James. We can discuss it later.
The Duke spoke to one of his bullies and the man hurried from the room. “I will have these assessed,” he told James. “If they are real, we have a deal.”
Later, James reported to his father; not just what the crime lord had told him, but how James felt about entering into an alliance with such a repugnant specimen of humanity. Sutton shrugged. “We have paid him for information and for staying out of our affairs. It is necessary, Jamie. But I do not despair. If he will cheat Haverford, he will cheat us, and then you can, with honour, squash him like the slug he is.”
James caught Jeyhun’s eye and quirked a smile. “That’s what Jeyhun said.”
“So.” The earl steepled his fingers, tapping his mouth with the extended forefingers as he ordered his thoughts. “To summarise, gentlemen. The man who calls himself the Duke of Devil’s Acre says he has only recently come to power, but that his people confirm that his predecessor, a man named Smite, carried out a number of jobs for Haverford in his time on top of the dung heap.” He raised a brow in question, and James nodded. That was correct.
“The so-called duke supplied the bruisers who attacked my coach,” Sutton continued, “but had no part in the inn fire.”
“Correct. He pointed out that Kent is not part of his territory, Father.” James tended to believe that one claim, at least. “I think, though, we can assume that the author of the fire is the same man as the paymaster for the assault.”
The earl frowned, tapping his fingers again. “Our cousin, Weasel.” He straightened, placing both hands palm down on his desk. The King of the Mountain ready to hand down a decision.
“James,” he said, “find Weasel Winderfield and invite him to visit us here. Take Jeyhun with you. If Weasel demurs, find a way to bring him without attracting attention. Yousef, send someone to Winds’ Gate to prepare a set of secure rooms. We will keep our erring cousin where he can do no mischief until after the Privileges Committee has ruled.”
Sophia left the three-day meeting at the Duchess of Haverford’s manor in Buckinghamshire with pages of lists. The other two ladies who were her collaborators in spearheading the house party this Christmas had at least as much to do. More, even. Cecilia was to order the supplies needed for the event, including all the equipment for a kitchen designed to please the temperamental French chef they’d lured from London for the occasion. Grace was in charge of the guest lists—not just keeping track of invitations and responses, but matching the responses to the size, type, and status of the bedchambers. Despite the size of the place, finding suitable accommodation for all the guests and their servants was going to be a challenge.
Sophia’s main role in the next few weeks was making sure that the guests would have sufficient to do. She’d been up into the attics, down into the cellars, and out to every outbuilding on the estate, looking at what might be turned to entertainment purposes, and what she would need to bring in. New packs of cards, certainly. Pall mall sets might be over ambitious, given the time of year, but skates were a real possibility.
She filled more pages with notes on the coach trip from Buckinghamshire to the house party that Felicity and Hythe attended in Oxfordshire. The letters she had to write to start deliveries on their way would need to wait until she was not in a shifting, lurching carriage. Usually, she travelled at much slower speeds—not from choice, but because her maid Theo was wretched in a carriage.
For this short excursion, she had sent Theodosia with Felicity, and taken another maid with her. Betty was a good traveller, so they could travel as fast as the coachman thought safe. Indeed, it was still early afternoon when the carriage turned in through the gates of the estate of the Earl and Countess of Aylesbury, where the party was taking place. “We have made very good time, Betty, even with the need to stop part way to change the horses,” she commented to the maid.
Betty offered her usual reply to any attempt at conversation. “Yes, m’lady.”
“So lovely that you are here, Lady Sophia,” Lady Aylesbury greeted her. “What a charming girl your sister is; quite the Queen bee with all the young gentlemen swarming around her, but so unaffected and kind.”
As was usual with her, the lady leapt from topic to topic, barely waiting for a response before darting on to the next point to occur to her butterfly mind. Chattering on about the various guests, she conducted Sophia to a comfortable bedchamber. “I’ve put you next to Felicity, dear. I shall leave you to rest. Should I leave you to rest? I can send up tea, and you can come down when you feel up to it.”
“I am well, Lady Aylesbury,” Sophia insisted. “I’ve only been on the road for four hours, and a wash and perhaps a change into a tea gown will be all I need to put me in fine form. Ah. And here is Theo with my wash water.”
Lady Aylesbury stayed several more minutes, talking about the events she had planned and speculating on romances she saw developing between her guests. “As for your sister— Ah. But here she is!”
Felicity looked around the open door then hurried inside. “Sophia! I am so glad you are here.” She shot a glance at Lady Aylesbury, and pressed her lips together. She had something she wouldn’t say in front of their gossipy hostess.
Lady Aylesbury didn’t notice her hesitation. “I was just about to tell Lady Sophia about your suitor. He is very handsome, is he not?”
“He is not my—” Felicity’s protest was ignored, as Lady Aylesbury kept talking.
“He is perfectly respectable; the Duke of Winshire’s eldest grandson. He is accepted everywhere. Perhaps not a suitable parti for you, Lady Felicity, but quite the gentleman.”
Lord Elfingham was here? And courting Felicity?
“I have not failed in my duty, Lady Sophia. He has not been permitted to be alone with your sister, and so you can tell Lord Hythe. Two other couples were with them on their stroll this afternoon.”
Felicity spoke rapidly while Lady Aylesbury paused for a breath. “We went to see the folly. Lord Elfingham is not courting me, Sophia.”
“Hah!” Lady Aylesbury snorted. “Then why is he now closeted with your brother?”
Hythe was pacing backwards and forwards across the study he had commandeered, pointing out the unsuitability of any match between the unsullied and august blood of the Belvoirs and one of Sutton’s foreign-born offspring. Had James the heart for it, he would have been amused by the young lord’s earnest efforts to reject James without offering a direct insult.
In the three stiflingly boring days James been at Lady Aylesbury’s house party, the only bright spots had been the occasional conversation with Lady Sophia’s little sister. Those had been few and far between, with the lady’s brother, forced to civil behaviour in the presence of their fellow guests, glowering at him whenever he dared to speak to or even smile at the younger lady.
Only the knowledge that Lady Sophia was expected to join them prevented him from making his excuses and leaving. Then, today, he had to go and spoil his own plans by walking back with Lady Felicity from the folly on the far side of the woods.
How Lord Hythe thought his mere presence would sully the girl, only the Heavens Above knew. They were in the company of four other people, and surely it was clear even to an idiot that Lady Felicity was not the Belvoir sister he yearned after.
James had no choice except to make his intentions clear, though the letter he had just received from London, commanding his attendance, would have forced his hand in any case. The duke was dying. The family was being summoned to London, which should be safe enough with Weasel locked away and Haverford defanged.
The family needed him to marry a strong woman, one with family ties to half the peerage of this land to which they somehow belonged, though he had only first seen it eight months ago. His foreign blood and upbringing meant he needed a wife who was English beyond question, and English nobility to her fingertips, but James would never marry for that reason alone.
James needed to marry Sophia; had needed to since he first saw her in a village street. And then he found she had all the connections his family could desire. Surely their love was fated?
“My intentions are everything honourable, my lord,” he insisted. “I can assure you, we have every reason to be confident that my place as my father’s legitimate eldest son will be confirmed.”
“And if not?” Hythe thumped one fist into the other hand. “Will you drag my poor sister off to some oriental midden?”
With difficulty, James managed not to react to Hythe’s anger or his ignorant words. He would instead credit the young lord with concern for his sister. “I plan to spend the rest of my life in England, serving the Duchy of Winshire and the King’s Realm. I hope to do so with your sister at my side as my wife and my lady.”
Hythe turned brick red. “Over my dead body,” he shouted, taking a pace towards James, his hands in fists by his side. “My sister doesn’t want anything to do with you. Approach her again, and I shall have you beaten like a dog.”
James held onto his temper by a thread and tried to reason with the man, but he finally had to give up. Jeyhun was waiting for him in the bedchamber they had been allocated. James’s face must have told the tale, for his friend’s comment was barely a question. “Lord Hythe was not reasonable?”
James shook his head. “We need to leave, Jeyhun, but first I must write a note for Lady Sophia.” He searched the small desk for paper and ink, and sat down to cut a better nib on the quill.
The young warrior nodded as he pulled their bags from the dressing room and began taking items from the large clothespress, efficiently rolling them to minimise the space they would take up. “Lady Sophia has arrived, prince. She and her sister are closeted in her room.”
Perhaps James could wait until the lady emerged so he could make his farewells in person. Hah! He was a besotted fool. “Pack enough for a week’s ride, Jeyhun, and send the rest on to London. We are travelling to York where Aunt Grace and the cousins are visiting friends, to escort them back to London.”
He finished his note, and went in search of his hostess, while Jeyhun carried the bags down to the stables to fetch their horses.
Lady Aylesbury exclaimed over his intention to leave. “Ah! But I suppose the Earl of Hythe has not been open to your courtship. So sad.”
James was startled. How did Lady Aylesbury know he had spoken to Hythe about Lady Sophia? Had Hythe said something? “I leave by my father’s command, Lady Aylesbury.”
She chattered on about his trip, and the best inns between here and York, and how Lady Felicity would miss his company. He hardly heard her, as he watched the door, waiting for Lady Sophia to appear.
The lady might be a twittering rattlepate, but she was not a fool. She saw where his mind went. “The Belvoir ladies are not coming down, Lord Elfingham. They and Hythe are having tea upstairs. I believe Lady Sophia has the headache, and who can wonder at it? Such a bustle! She has been in Buckinghamshire, you know, at Hollystone Hall, preparing for the duchess’s house party. I have heard there will be more than two hundred guests, and Lady Sophia is one of the hostesses. Oh, but I shouldn’t mention it, should I, given the differences between your sire and the Haverfords?”
The duchess’s house party? The germ of an idea sparked in his mind. The duke has been dying all year. What can a few days matter, more or less? Also, by the time he’d been to York and back to Buckinghamshire, Lady Sophia would have had time to think about his courtship, for surely Hythe would tell her he’d asked for permission to pay his addresses? Perhaps not exactly that, but I told the young pup that I hoped to make his sister my wife.
Lady Aylesbury was tracing the family line of the Belvoirs all the way back to the Norman Conquest, to some rogue who had married a highborn Saxon heiress. “An excellent match for you, my lord, given your…” she trailed off, swallowing the last, no doubt insulting, words.
“She herself is a treasure beyond price for any man, never mind her family,” James told her, and Lady Aylesbury blushed as if the compliment had been intended for her and declared him a romantic and utterly charming.
Jeyhun would be waiting. “May I ask, Lady Aylesbury, that you give my lady a note? Just a polite farewell. Nothing untoward.” He handed the folded and sealed letter into her hands, Lady S. Belvoir written in the flourishing hand he’d learned in the schoolroom.
She turned it over, as if uncertain. “I suppose… I shall give it to Lady Sophia,” she decided.
“If you would be so good.” James bowed, and thanked the lady for her hospitality. The sooner he left, the sooner he could arrive at this Hollystone Hall. Aunt Grace would know where it was. His mind full of plans, he hurried outside to join Jeyhun and the horses.