Page 5 of My One and Only Duke
“They aren’t safe here. The whores try to protect them, and if the girl has a parent or older sibling with her, she’ll fare better, but your door is locked at night in part for your safety, Mr. Wentworth. In the dark, the guilty and the innocent are indistinguishable.”
A convicted killer should know that.
“Excellent point. How long does your father usually tarry among his flock?”
Mr. Wentworth wanted his privacy. Jane would have resented being sent on her way, but he was facing death. How did anybody remain sane under that burden?
“Papa is much too enthusiastic about his calling. I’m to visit with the women, but this late in the week, we’re down to some regular offenders, and they prefer to be left in peace.” The women had been polite about it, but they’d shooed Jane off, warning her to mind where she stepped.
Mr. Wentworth took a sip of his ale. The tankard was appropriate for that large hand, though he likely knew his way around a tea service too.
“Tell me, Miss Winston: Do you honestly prefer to remain here among the lost souls when you could be enjoying London’s fresh air, such as it is, and your liberty? I account myself impressed.”
Jane finished the last of her bread and cheese. The meal had fortified her. One could be hungry and bilious at the same time—a recent revelation.
“Your window has bars,” Jane said. “Some of us live behind bars invisible to the eye.”
“Profound, but the only way I will be freed of these bars is on the end of a rope. Achieving your own liberty is likely a less fraught undertaking. What do you suppose has happened to Ned?”
His gaze held worry for the child, despite a casual tone.
“Young Edward is sitting in a corner, his eyes glazing over, every particle of his body longing to fidget, while Reverend Winston maunders on about sin, salvation, and scripture. Every time Papa pauses to take a breath—which occurs about twice an hour—Ned will attempt to say, ‘Excuse me, sir,’ and Papa will ignore him, talk over him, or shush him.”
“Would you care for more bread and cheese?”
Jane consulted her belly, which was calm for the first time in days. “I’d best wait a bit. I can fetch Papa.”
Mr. Wentworth put a hand over Jane’s wrist when she would have risen. “A little preaching won’t hurt the boy. Stay and tell me how I’m to get him out of this place.”
His grip was light. Jane was being asked to help a child whom society had discarded as unworthy of notice. She’d aided four other children, three girls and a boy, all of whom had disappeared back into the stews as if snatched by the fairies.
“This scheme must go right the first time,” Jane said, lowering her voice. “Ned must do his bit perfectly, and you can’t tell a soul. Not your favorite guard, not the kindliest of the wardens, not the charwoman who sneaks you a cigar, and especially not the whores. Absolute discretion, Mr. Wentworth.”
She’d almost said he must be as silent as the grave, and he seemed to realize her near-slip.
He patted her wrist and withdrew his hand. “I am a banker, a successful banker despite my present circumstances. My discretion eclipses even that available in the confessional. Not a soul will know.”
Mr. Wentworth smiled, mostly with his eyes. His gaze conveyed the intimacy of conspirators intent on a delightful prank, and when he looked at Jane like that, she could not believe he’d taken a life.
Though he likely had. Killers did not announce their vile deeds on street corners and then go sniveling and slinking into the nearest alleys.
Jane explained which charwoman to approach, how the straw bedding in the common area was changed, what Ned needed to say to be identified as the child whose freedom had been purchased. Mr. Wentworth listened, he asked a few questions—how was the money handled, how soon could this be accomplished—and all the while, Jane was plagued by a question of her own.
What sort of condemned killer troubled over the fate of a boy he’d just met, was no relation to, and had no reason to help?
* * *
“We’ve found him! Sir, we’ve found him at last!”
Mr. Thaddeus Dodson set down his quizzing glass. “Must you find him so loudly, Timmons?”
The clerk was tall, graying, and thin as a coachman’s whip. Dodson had never seen Timmons perturbed, much less aquiver with excitement. Quivering was frowned on at the College of Arms and dignity much respected.
“But after three years, sir, three years, of searching and searching…We have a legitimate heir to the Duke of Walden. A legitimate male heir and a younger brother and two sisters of childbearing years.”
Beyond the door to the pursuivant’s office, the other clerks bent over their documents, though their pens were still. An heir was a victory for them all, a spare gilded the victory, and sisters of childbearing age spoke to underlying titles being preserved through the heirs general.
Three feathers in the cap of the College. Of course the clerks were proud.
