Page 8 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 8

" E nsure nothing is forgotten, Fisher."

Colin did not bother counting how many times he had already issued the command. If he had, the number would be most unflattering to his own nerves.

"When have you ever known me to forget anything, Your Grace? Your afternoon with Lady Anna shall go as planned," Fisher said as he folded a shirt and placed it on a neat pile.

"Oh, I do not know…" Colin tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. "Only for the entirety of our acquaintance."

Fisher let out a short laugh. "And yet, I remain miraculously employed."

"Yes, it is a wonder, is it not? One might argue that I am the true mastermind here, considering I must perpetually remind you to perform your own duties," Colin sighed in exaggerated despair. He leaned against the dressing table, affecting the air of a man burdened with far too much responsibility.

"Ah, but that is why you keep me. Not only am I the finest valet in London, but I grant you the rare pleasure of believing you manage me. A most benevolent gift on my part, I daresay."

Colin gave him a long, unimpressed look. "You truly do take liberties, don't you?"

Fisher grinned. "If I did not, Your Grace, you would be insufferably bored."

Colin let out a bark of laughter. "You are dangerously close to testing that theory."

"Oh?" Fisher cocked his head, feigning innocence. "And what would you do? Dismiss me? Find another valet?" He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "No, never. You cannot possibly function without me."

"Tempting fate, are we?" Colin cocked an eyebrow.

Fisher grinned. "I should like to think of it as a calculated risk."

They both laughed, and Fisher held up Colin's cravat. "Shall we?" At Colin's nod, he stepped forward to tie it. "Speaking of luck, Your Grace…"

"Yes?" Colin waited for him to continue, but his valet appeared to hesitate, piquing his curiosity further. "If you are about to suggest something absurd, do recall that I am in no mood to be trifled with today."

"Nothing of the sort." Fisher's shoulders relaxed, and he continued. "All of society is positively enthralled with Your Grace's good fortune. Why, I daresay they are already wagering on your success."

"Success?"

"Oh, indeed." Fisher nodded solemnly. "There are those who believe you may be the one—the only one—capable of taming the Wild Spinster." He paused, then added quickly, "Their words, not mine."

"Preposterous."

"Quite so," Fisher agreed, finishing the last knot and stepping back to admire his work. "I mean, when has a rake ever done the taming? We all know the situation is the reverse. Perhaps you have been miscast in their little drama, Your Grace."

Colin shot him a narrow-eyed look, though amusement tugged at the corners of his lips. "You are growing dangerously comfortable, Fisher."

"Why, Your Grace," Fisher laughed, "I exist to serve, but I do take great pride in my secondary duty as court jester."

"Remind me to reduce your wages," Colin let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in indulgent exasperation.

"Oh, but then how should I afford the latest editions of the London Gazette?" Fisher lamented. "Speaking of which—" He quickly produced a folded sheet of newsprint from the nearby dresser. "I took the liberty of acquiring this morning's gossip rag for your amusement."

Colin eyed the proffered paper as though it might burst into flames. "You know I care nothing for such idle nonsense."

Fisher merely grinned. "Then you had best start caring now, Your Grace. All of London is speaking of you and your Wild Spinster."

Colin snatched it. The moment his gaze moved over the inked words, he let out a breath. Fisher had, for once, not exaggerated. Society's insufferable penchant for speculation had turned five outings into something far more outrageous. And he had a feeling Anna would not be pleased.

"And they print these absurdities every morning?" Colin asked, casting the offending paper aside.

"Oh, indeed, Your Grace," Fisher nodded. "And now that I know of your growing interest, I shall make certain to procure a copy for you daily." He straightened, as if struck by inspiration. "Even if you lack the time to read it, I shall read it on your behalf and recite all relevant details at breakfast."

"God help me." Colin pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Such devotion ought to warrant an increase in my wages, wouldn't you agree, Your Grace?"

Colin shot him a flat look. "It might, were I inclined to reward meddling . "

"Ah, but is it meddling when it is done in your best interest?" Fisher asked, folding a garment. "Society will talk, Your Grace. You may as well be informed."

"If only you performed your actual duties with such diligence," Colin said, shaking his head.

Fisher laughed but wisely returned to his work, smoothing out a waistcoat with meticulous precision.

Satisfied that his valet was, at least momentarily, occupied, Colin turned his thoughts back to his plans. He ran through the details of his first outing once more in his mind and smiled. Anna should love this.

He marched out of the dressing room. "I shall be attending to some business this afternoon."

Fisher, now arranging his boots, nodded. "Very well, Your Grace."

A knock sounded at the bedchamber door as he was approaching it. "Enter," he called.

The butler, Wilson, walked in, holding what appeared to be a note on a silver platter. He bowed. "A message for you, Your Grace."

Colin did not need to be told from whom the note was as he picked it up. He unfolded the parchment, and read:

The Flying Crow. This afternoon. Come alone. Dress accordingly. You must look nothing like a duke.

—R.M

Colin released a breath. This was a demand, not a request. Who is this man to order me?

He turned on his heel and strode to the dressing room where Fisher was still folding clothes.

"Fisher, do I own anything that could pass for plain clothes?"

Fisher straightened, and his eyes narrowed in assessment. "Plain, Your Grace? If you mean understated, yet of the finest quality, certainly."

Colin shook his head. "No. I mean clothes that would make me unremarkable in the East End."

Fisher's eyes widened. "Might I enquire as to why such a request is necessary?"

"I am uncertain myself."

Fisher's frown deepened, but he nodded. "If it is true plainness you seek, then I believe Robinson, the footman, is close to your size. His garments would be better suited."

Colin gave a curt nod. "Fetch them."

Minutes later, Fisher returned, carrying a bundle of clothing—a coarse linen shirt, worn breeches, and a dusty brown coat that had seen far better days.

"Perfect," he murmured.

Fisher watched in silence as Colin changed, donning the garments that stripped him of his any hint of his station. He turned to the mirror, raking a hand through his sandy hair until it was completely disheveled.

"You hardly look yourself," Fisher observed, arms crossed.

"That is the point."

Colin then crossed his bedchamber to a bureau, where he pulled open a drawer. His jaw clenched as he retrieved a pistol.

Fisher stiffened. "Your Grace?—"

"If anything happens to me," Colin interrupted, tucking the weapon into his coat, "find a man named Roderick in Whitechapel."

Fisher's eyes shadowed. "That does not inspire confidence, Your Grace."

Colin met his valet's eyes. "Then pray fate favors us all."

With that, he departed from the manor.

Colin stepped into the Flying Crow, and his gaze swept the establishment, noting the hunched figures nursing their drinks and the occasional dart of wary eyes in his direction.

The barman stood behind the counter, wiping a glass with a rag that had long since seen better days. Their eyes met, and without a word, he lifted a hand and pointed toward a shadowed corner of the room.

Colin followed the gesture and saw him—a hefty man seated alone at a battered table. When the man rose, Colin noted that they were of similar height, but where Colin was lean muscle, with a body that had been honed by years of boxing and fencing, this man was all brawn. His fists were like anvils, his shoulders broad enough to eclipse the candlelight behind him. A black eye stood out against his ruddy complexion, and this heightened Colin's suspicions.

The man inclined his head, then gestured to the chair opposite him. A silent invitation—or command. Who knows?

Colin approached, careful to school his features into one of disinterest, though every fiber of him was taut with awareness. He sat, his movements deliberate, his posture deceptively relaxed. If this is a game, then I am ready.

A moment later, the barman approached, eyeing Colin expectantly. "What'll it be?"

"Nothing," Colin replied coolly. The last thing he needed was a drink dulling his senses when every instinct warned him to remain on high alert.

The barman gave a lazy shrug and walked away, leaving Colin alone with the stranger. He turned his attention back to the man. "Are you Roderick?"

The man nodded. "Roderick Millard," he confirmed. "But in these parts, I'm known as Stone."

Colin arched a brow and let his eyes move over him again. "Fitting." He waited for the man to elaborate, but Roderick offered nothing more. Taciturn, then. Wonderful.

Colin leaned forward slightly. "You've sent for me. Ordered me, if we are being precise. So, tell me; what is it that you want? What do you know about my father?"

Roderick's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "The matter concerning your late father requires discretion. That's why I told you to come as you did."

Colin's wariness deepened. "What matter?"

Roderick's black eyes were inscrutable pools, and Colin's gut clenched. "Not my place to say. I'm just the messenger."

Colin let out a sharp breath, his hands curling underneath the table. "This is growing tiresome."

"You nobles… always expecting answers at your convenience." Roderick let out a humorless chuckle. "Spend more time among our folk, and you might learn a thing or two about patience."

"Is that so?" Colin's jaw ticked.

"Aye." Roderick leaned back in his chair, arms folding over his broad chest. "But you're here, so I'll give you what I can say. The one who wants to talk to you is a woman. Name's Lydia. She's the one with the information."

Colin's gaze sharpened. "And how, exactly, does Lydia know my father?"

Roderick lifted a hand, the palms facing Colin. "I'm just the messenger, Your Grace."

Colin sighed. His patience was waning, but his curiosity deepened. "Very well." He pushed back his chair and stood. "Take me to Lydia."