Page 17 of To Tame the Wild Rake
This time, they stood to return his bow, and Aldridge let himself into The Duke’s Study. The duke’s desk, a massive object of carved oak, stood in the bay window, its back to the view out over the pleasure gardens that descended from the house to the river.
Aldridge had thought of taking it over; of shifting it at a right angle to the windows so he could enjoy the view while he was working.
He would certainly enjoy the extra space. His own cadet desk, tucked away in a corner near the door, was a quarter of the size. And, as each secretary in turn had pointed out, his father would never return to this room or even to London. Aldridge was duke in all but name, rank, and title.
It was a final step he wasn’t willing to take until he had to. He would take his father’s desk when he inherited his father’s title. Refusing the first was, he knew, a symptom of his reluctance to assume the second. If the doctors were to be trusted, he’d be the Duke of Haverford within the next twelve months, and probably sooner rather than later.
None of his secretaries or clerks understood. They thought he was lucky. But then, they and the rest of the population of England thought he was the Merry Marquis; envied him his wealth, his position, the hordes of women keen on an illicit relationship, even the maidens panting for a chance to be his duchess.
The reasons people wanted him had nothing to do with him. He could be a donkey on two legs, and they’d still praise him. The woman would still pant to bed him. The men would still court his favour. And if it was bad now, how much worse would it be when he was duke?
He was a title and a position, not a man. Even those who knew him best—even sometimes his own mother--couldn’t see past the marquis, the heir. Just a clever automaton, smartly dressed, with a repertoire of motions and words to fool people into thinking he was a real person. On days like today, when he had given the one lady he wanted to attract yet another reason to despise him, when he’d been unable even to protect a boy who apparently bore his blood, he wondered if they were right.
He gave a short laugh. How the rest of the world would mock and marvel to know he was feeling sorry for himself. A bath and then a sleep, and he would be able to face another day.
He collected the letters from his desk, and left by the door into the hall that led to the main house in one direction and the Heir’s Wing in the other.
8
The Beast was in a rage all the more potent for being suppressed as long as he had to be in front of customers. His men had searched all night, but the boy Tony was nowhere to be found, and no one admitted to seeing him.
The searchers brought back many reports about the intruders, and the two whores that had run off with them. They’d taken off on those odd-shaped horses the Winshires bred. At first, the Beast had assumed Tony was in the carriage they had with them, but several reports insisted that the escaped females were the only occupants.
Beyond a doubt, the boy had gone out the window. The glass was broken and the door was still locked. But if the intruders helped him, why wasn’t he with them?
The guard said he’d not heard the breaking window. The guard was an idiot. He let himself be distracted and overwhelmed by Aldridge—atonclothes horse, a pretty boy, an overbred mummy’s boy who had never done a lick of work in his life.
Aldridge. Here he was again, sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted.
Wharton had been looking for someone like Tony ever since he lost the lovely Gren. His latest pet was a Grenford get, beyond a doubt, but all the Grenford males were so randy it could have been the father or either of the brothers. Or perhaps just a by-blow from an earlier generation.
Tony either didn’t know, or wasn’t saying.
No matter. He was unacknowledged, which meant the notoriously soft-hearted Aldridge didn’t know about him, which meant the Beast could have him without Aldridge’s interference. It was his reward for twenty years of suffering since Gren was taken from him.
The Beast sulked on his throne. He’d refrained from throwing things or screaming at people all night, lest he frighten those whose money was fast replenishing his coffers. Now the edge had gone off his temper, though he was likely to find it again if no one brought him news that allowed him to retrieve his property.
How had Aldridge found out about the boy? He came for Tony; the Beast was certain. He may have left with a couple of harlots, but light-heeled girls were ten a penny, and Aldridge was, in any case, too fastidious for brothels. He didn’t come for the girls.
The Winderfield chit, who was harbouring the boy, must have told him. The Beast glared at the stairs to the upper floor, where his sister reigned. This was her fault, too. She had assured him that Aldridge and the Winderfield female were at loggerheads.
He shouldn’t have trusted her, not after last year, when Aldridge’s mother put all her weight as a duchess behind another Winderfield female. The Beast hated the Winderfields, too. Most of what followed was entirely their fault. They dared to bring their foreign troops to attack him, and instead of objecting to such a clear breach of the law, that fat freak in Brighton deputed his own troops to support them!
That fiasco had ended with Wharton having to once again change his name and start again. He had lost several lieutenants and a reputation he’d taken years to build. For that, the Winderfields would pay.
Being no fool, the Beast had long ago realised the value of holding his assets and investments under more than one identity. He had several that had no connection to activities the law frowned on. He and his sister had been able to hide while he built a new base. It had taken time, and he’d needed to shelve his plans for those who had opposed him.
No longer. The Winderfields had taken Tony out of the slums, away from the Beast. Then, when he retrieved what should be his, they had come into his territory to steal the boy back. The Marquis of Aldridge had dared to invade his home, make off with two of his harlots, and at least provide a distraction so Tony could escape. It was time for revenge.
“Master?” Harry the Scar approached, bowing. Harry the Scar was currently chief of his enforcers, having fought his way to that position over the dead body of his predecessor. “We found someone who knows where the boy went last night.” Or, at least, that’s what the man’s dialect meant.
Scar beckoned, and one of the bullies he commanded dragged a woman out of the shadows. “This here bint works at the sawbones’ place off Wintermount Street. The boy got took there.”
The Beast felt a clutch of alarm. “Tony is hurt?”
The woman stood mute until the bully shook her. “Broke ‘is leg, din’t he?” she whined. “Doctors found ‘im in the street and brung ’im in.”
“So.” The Beast stood. Tony would have the best of care, and a broken leg would soon heal. “Fetch him home,” he ordered Scar.
