Page 100 of The Duke's Dream
William scanned the faces, searching for Rodrick.
"Dark Menace! Dark Menace!"
William followed the onlookers' attention to the ring's center. There, stripped to the waist, stood Rodrick, his bare chest gleaming under the gaslight.
When did Rodrick become a pugilist? The crowd booed as a grotesque figure entered the ring. At least three stones heavier, the brute cracked his neck, jumping from side to side. Dark Menace? Rodrick would be a bloody pulp after this. William hoped the spy could still spirit a man to the continent without his teeth.
The bell sounded.
Rodrick lunged forward. He jabbed, ducked, and weaved, landing punch after punch. The brute staggered, trying to block the assault. Rodrick pressed on, his fists a blur. He struck with precision—a jab to the ribs, a hook to the jaw. The opponent wobbled, his defenses crumbling.
William watched, torn between awe and revulsion, as Rodrick went feral without breaking a sweat. Why would a peer of the realm choose to expose his inner beast?
Rodrick delivered a crushing blow that sent his opponent to the ground. The crowd went wild, their chants reaching a fever pitch.
Stunned, William waited as Rodrick left the ring, now all cool reserve and nonchalance, making his way among the spectators, receiving kisses from loose women and handshakes from hard men.
When Rodrick came near him, William lifted a brow. "The Dark Menace?"
Rodrick's eyes flashed. "Albemarle. I would offer tea, but the drink of choice here is gin."
William braced himself. No point in circling around the inevitable. "I need your help."
Rodrick smiled. "Do you, now? I did, too. Twenty years ago."
"Help? What you wanted was an accomplice in stabbing our friend to death."
"One day, Will, you will understand what happened in that lake. In my line of trade, we learn that truth lies in the eyes of the beholder."
William steeled his patience. "I thought it was beauty."
"That, too. Speak, then. I'm curious about what brought the Silent Sovereign to this shady side of town." He pointed to a secluded area to the left of the ring.
A few rickety tables lay scattered around an empty bar. A single server cleaned the floor.
William took a seat. "Thornley will accuse Farley of sodomy. I spoke to the writer, but he is obstinate. I need you to help me take him out of the country—passage on a ship, visas, passport, everything."
Rodrick straddled the chair, his gaze raking over William with lazy amusement. "Why are you so interested in helping the writer?”
William brushed his chest, feeling the constant ache whenever he was far from Helene. How could he allow a man to be punished for pursuing his passion—a crime that he felt guilty himself?
"Despite my political position, I try to keep my conscience clean.”
Rodrick smirked. “They say he is charming…"
Trust Rodrick Montfort to twist everything into something sordid. “Will you help or not?"
"No," Rodrick said. "Was that all?"
"Is it because of his predilections? A man should not be judged by—"
"I don't fucking care who Farley fucks. I just don't see why I should go through the trouble. Visas and passports are hard to get these days, with something called the war going on… And crossing France's borders? Impossible."
"Not for you." He hated the man, but there was no better spy in Europe. Rodrick could extract a prisoner from the enemy camp with the same ease he could eliminate a threat from beneath Napoleon's nose.
"As much as I enjoy flattery, the answer is still no."
"I will pay you."
