Page 50 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)
Through the ringing in his ears, Dorian sucked in a breath and clutched at his arm, wincing.
A figure separated from the shadows.
A huge man, bearded and menacing, made a beckoning movement. “Ye’ll need stitches with that, lad.”
Paralyzed, Dorian snapped, “Who are you?”
“I go by… Sterling ,” the man muttered. “And you are a strong one, aren’t ye? Any other lily-livered lump would have dropped his coins and run, but not you. Unlike the others, you are willfully daft. But… also courageous. You don’t last long in this world if you aren’t.”
Straightening, Dorian asked, “Last… in what?”
“The job I am about to offer you,” Sterling said darkly. “One that will change your life. See, boy, I sense something in you, something dark and scalding, rippling to break free. You fought those men without the faintest plan to save your own skin.”
“You are wrong,” Dorian growled, “I did it solely for that.”
“Oh, look at that,” Sterling laughed oddly.
“You have a heart. You could have easily killed two of them, but you didn’t.
All the more reason why I want to take you under my wing.
Even with that foolish moral code, you would do better than the cold-hearted blackguards who litter these streets like rats. ”
Dorian furrowed his brows. “What do you want from me?”
“Right now? Only to get you stitched up. But after that, I am giving you the chance to reap all they have stolen from you,” Sterling replied. “If you stand by me, you become a name they shall whisper of in darkness. You will survive, and one day, you will make them all pay.”
The offer felt too good to be true, but thinking of his father in a cot, barely surviving on a dram of laudanum, and only when Dorian could afford it, instead of the full care he should be getting, rankled him. Not to mention knowing his thieving uncle was out there flaunting stolen wealth.
Dorian promised inwardly to get justice for himself and his father.
He squared his shoulders. “When do I start?”
“Let’s get you stitched up and then we can talk,” Sterling murmured. “I’d imagine you’d want to take care of your old man too.”
Frowning, Dorian asked, “How do you know about that?”
“This is your first lesson, boy,” Sterling chuckled, “When you aim to be the lord of the streets, you’d best know everyone in them.”
The weak rays of dawn led Dorian down the overgrown lane and took him to a small cottage, seemingly abandoned, as its garden was overgrown and there were no signs of inhabitation.
Some bushes had grown so mighty that their roots protruded into the path, so he stepped onto the stretch of lawn and walked as silently as a cat.
Pushing at the door, he stopped in the kitchen to rest the fruit down, then went to the back room and found his father still abed. The man, barely three-and-fifty, looked near death’s door.
The pale, peppery spots on his cheeks, his thinning hair, and deep lines down his face, all made the fearsome, imperious Duke of Wolfthorne a far cry from who he once was.
“Father,” Dorian said quietly as he stoked the fire. “Are you awake?”
No sign came from the older man, but his chest rose and fell evenly, telling Dorian that he was alive.
Lips pressed tight, he left the room and went to the kitchen to warm up the last of the stew on the fire pit. He did not want to leave his father before he ate something, but Dorian needed to work that night.
For the last year since his father had lost his fortune and station— stolen, it was stolen , Dorian reminded himself—he’d hired himself out to be one of the sweep’s ‘apprentices’ as a climbing boy and had begun to live a nightmare of coal and dust.
He’d cleaned stinking, suffocating stacks from dusk until dawn; but studiously refused to do what the other sweeps did; leave windows cracked so they could crawl back in and snag candlesticks and silverware to pawn for half-pennies and a bob.
He’d proven himself to be fast and clever, letting his work speak for itself while standing aside as the other sweeps got hauled in by the constables.
“Father,” Dorian said, carrying the bowl back into the room. “Please, wake. I need to tell you something important.”
Weakly, Barnabas Beaumont forced his eyes open, “Who—who are you?”
Holding back a grimace, Dorian viciously hated the confusion and lunacy that plagued his father at times. He waited until the haze faded and recognition settled in his father’s eyes.
“Son,” Barnabas’s voice was weak. “I did not see you for a moment there.”
“I know, Father,” Dorian said, while coming closer to rest the bowl on the table. Reaching under the man’s back, he gently eased him up to sit on the headboard. “You need to eat something, but I need to tell you, I may have found a way out of here and for you to get the care you need.”
His father gaped at him. “What? How? What do you mean?”
“I found a patron who is going to take me under his wing,” Dorian said, knowing he could not divulge the truth that he would be working for a crime lord in the underworld. “He is going to pay and give you the medicine and proper food you need to heal.”
Barnabas accepted the bowl and tried to feed himself, but his fingers were not steady. It was painful watching the once powerful man struggle to do something so simple. Eventually, Dorian took over, spooned him the broth, helped him to the washroom, and then dressed him in travelling clothes.
“Who is this man?” His father croaked.
“The Viscount of Carrington,” Dorian replied, looking over his shoulder as two men stepped into the room. “These men are going to take you to a house with a nursemaid, and you’ll be cared for there.”
Barnabas’s eyes misted over as he turned to Dorian. “I am so sorry I failed you, my son. You should not have to go through such lengths for me.”
“You have not failed me, nor will you ever fail me,” Dorian said, as he stepped away from the men to help his father to the carriage. “Believe me, Papa, I will retrieve everything we have lost, and then some.”
I will survive. One day, I’ll be strong. Then I’ll make all who stole from us pay.