Page 1 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
Prologue
London
Winter 1841
Ettie Trewlove was accustomed to the echo of babies wailing. After all, she had four, but these haunting cries came from beyond her thin wooden door. Waiting for the harsh knock that would call her forth, she looked at her darling boys, lined up in their tiny bed, asleep, and wondered how she would manage if she took on another. The few meager coins placed in her palm wouldn’t be enough to feed and clothe the newest one for long. It never was.
“No more,” she whispered. “No more.”
She had to be strong and turn this one away, no matter that it broke her heart doing so, no matter that she was possibly condemning the child to a worse fate.
But the knock never sounded, yet the keening continued ringing in her ears. Slowly, ever so slowly, she approached the door—the frigid whistling wind slipping past its edges—released the latch, opened it, and gazed out. Big fat snowflakes floated down from the heavens, coating everything in pristine white that would soon turn black, including the wicker basket on her doorstep and the red-faced child within it, whose bare arms flailed ineffectually at the cold, the injustice, the harshness of life.
Stepping out, Ettie glanced up and down the dismal street, not even a streetlamp to aid in her quest, only faint light feathering out from a window here and there. Not a soul to be seen, no one scurrying away. Whoever had deposited this bairn on her stoop had made a hasty retreat, but then humiliation seldom had anyone lingering in her presence.
“Not even decent enough to leave a few pennies behind,” she grumbled as she bent down, lifted the basket into her arms, and carried it, along with its precious bundle, into the protective shelter that waited inside. She set it on the table and studied the little one, who continued to bellow indignantly.
The covering was too thin to provide any sort of protection. Moving it aside, she saw that she’d been brought a girl. The child wore no clothing, no nappy. By the looks of her, she was only a few hours old. Life in the rookeries was neither kind nor safe for a lass.
Cradling the babe as though she were delicate porcelain, Ettie Trewlove eased into the rocker before the hearth where a few lumps of coal released heat insufficient to warm most of the room. When she’d become a widow a little over three years ago, she’d needed some means to provide for herself. A woman she knew had boasted about the lucrative practice of caring for the well-to-do’s by-blows. Foundling homes wouldn’t take those conceived in sin, born of shame. Neither would workhouses. What was to be done with them when their very presence was a mark of disgrace?
But she could no longer bring herself to cast aside the innocents as many did, which was the reason she had four boys dependent on her. And now this little one.
She might not have much in the way of creature comforts to offer the child, but she did have love. She prayed it would be enough.
Chapter 1
Whitechapel
Mid-August 1871
He died because of a damned timepiece.
Antony Coventry, the ninth Duke of Thornley, took what comfort he could from knowing word of his idiocy would go to the grave with him.
Although at that particular moment, any sort of comfort was difficult to come by. The ruffians were indeed rough, two of them tugging off his boots, another his jacket, while the fourth struggled to unhook the watch chain from his waistcoat button. Odd thing that the thief was now taking such care when only moments before he’d landed a blow to the side of Thorne’s head that had left him temporarily senseless.
Which might have resulted in his decision to stand his ground over the watch.
Without much of a fuss he’d handed over his purse and signet ring. He wasn’t a fool. Four to one odds weren’t good. Money and rings could be replaced. The punch to his temple had come about because he hadn’t surrendered the items quickly enough for the ringleader’s satisfaction.
“We want the timepiece faster,” the lout had stated with a sneer.
The timepiece. It had been handed down through four generations. The engraved crest on the cover had been worn thin from one duke after another rubbing and worrying his thumb over it when faced with a difficult decision. He’d been ten and five when his father, on his deathbed, in a moment of rare lucidity, had placed it against his palm and folded his fingers over it. “Your legacy. Guard it well. Make me proud.”
So to the oafs surrounding him in the dark mews with the fog swirling about, he’d announced, “I fear, gentlemen, I’ve handed over all I intend. The watch stays with me.”
He might have answered differently had he seen the knives earlier. No, he bloody well would not have. They’d gotten him in the thigh, the side, the shoulder, the arm. The blows from hard knuckles and booted feet that had followed when he dropped to his knees had taken him down completely, left him lying there in the dirt and grime, feeling his warm blood soaking through what remained of his clothing and turning cold. The edges of his vision had long been darkening until all he could see were the grubby hands closing around the treasured watch.
“Got it!” the bastard cried.
“No!” screamed through the pulsing thrum rushing between his ears. Must have screamed through his mouth as well because the thief widened his eyes just as Thorne’s tightly balled fist, backed by whatever lingering strength remained to him, landed a solid punch to the miscreant’s jaw. The satisfying crunch of bone cracking echoed through the night just before another knife slid through skin and meat and muscle—
“Oi! What the devil are you lot up to?”
The men froze as the demanding shout reverberated around them, bouncing off the walls of the surrounding buildings.
“Christ, it’s Gil. Let’s get the bloody ’ell outta ’ere,” the leader muttered as though his jaw was no longer properly hinged.
