Page 10 of The Duke and Lady Scandal (Princes of London #1)

These riverside haunts were familiar to Drake.

Too familiar.

Though it had been years, the memories were still as sharp as the wind that whipped the sails of ships being loaded and unloaded in the London docks.

He’d worked in a factory in Southwark at thirteen. At fifteen, he’d looked for work at the docks not a stone’s throw away on the other side of the river. It had been brutal labor—with employment secured for only a day’s duration. Each morning, one had to compete to be chosen, but the odds were often in his favor. Even at fifteen, he’d been tall and muscular and strong, and he’d been selected for work frequently enough to feed and lodge all of them—himself, Helen, and George.

And then, after the heated argument he would always regret, his younger brother had come to the docks too. But George had never spoken to the foreman Drake had directed him to. George wasn’t interested in seeking honest work. The Thames-side gang that his brother found his way into was a dangerous, desperate lot—picking the pockets of drunk sailors or filching goods from warehouses and ships along the river.

When George had been fool enough to steal from the gang, it had been the last mistake his brother ever made.

Drake couldn’t untangle his own folly from his brother’s dreadful choices. Anger, guilt, and grief were tied up in a knot, and coming back to this place did nothing but twist the pain.

But he needed to speak to Demming. He needed to know why he had parked himself outside of Princes of London, and what connection, if any, the thief had to the man who’d come into Alexandra’s shop. He knew exactly where he’d find Demming.

Dusk had only begun to settle over the city, but The Anchor Pub was already bustling. It was a beacon in the fog and had been for centuries. The odds were good that Demming was nestled up inside. The man was even known to take up residence in the pub’s upper rooms at times.

The greatest danger for Drake was that he’d be recognized. He hadn’t worked this area as a constable or foot patrolman, but there had been cases during his early days as a detective that brought him into contact with those who considered Southwark their territory.

One couldn’t do this sort of work without making enemies. He and Demming had met over the years when the thief was brought into the station where he worked, but as far as Drake knew, Demming had no reason to loathe him, no special grudge to bear against him. And Demming certainly had no reason to know Ben had been in the back room of the Princes’ antique shop all afternoon.

Once he stepped inside The Anchor public house, he was grateful for the busyness of the place. One could hide among the crowd, but a man of Demming’s size and boisterous nature couldn’t hide for long.

Not ten minutes after finding a table in the corner to tuck himself into, Drake recognized one of Demming’s known associates. Ichabod Kean matched Demming for size and ruthlessness, and not long after Drake noticed him, the man slammed his glass on the table and made his way out of the pub.

Drake debated whether to follow. Kean might lead him to Demming, or Drake could wait instead to see if the two returned together. But he wasn’t in a waiting mood. Before giving the barmaid time to come over and ask what he wanted to drink, he stood and made his way out of the pub again. Somehow, though he’d been inside for only a quarter of an hour, the skies had grown impossibly darker, and a thick fog clung to the ground.

Luckily, Kean was a friendly sort and had run into some associates the minute he exited the pub. He stood with the men in jovial conversation, hunching together against the wind off the river, and breaking out into laughter now and then. Drake made his way around the opposite side of the building. The technique hadn’t worked earlier with Demming, but he hoped he could come up behind Kean, wait, and watch for where he went next.

After a few more shared laughs, the men headed off together, just as Drake hoped. He suspected they’d make their way to one of the gaming hells or perhaps one of the dens where they could bare-knuckle box, and those were just the sort of places a man like Demming could be found.

He followed the trio as closely as he dared. All of them seemed in high spirits and were perhaps full of spirits. Kean and another man stumbled a bit as they walked, weaving as if whatever they had consumed at The Anchor was already taking effect.

To Drake’s surprise, they cut through the main road and ducked into an abandoned building. He stood debating whether to follow the men inside or wait until they emerged. The absence of Demming unsettled him. He couldn’t help wondering if he was in the wrong place. Demming might be standing outside of Miss Prince’s home, continuing his watchfulness there.

He waited a good twenty minutes, chafing his hands against the evening’s chill, watching for movement inside and around the building. A dim light had been lit in the building’s upper story, and something told him Demming was inside. The decision to enter might be foolhardy, since the men inside outnumbered him. But he had to find Demming. If he wasn’t with them, they could direct him to the man.

His revolver sat heavy in his pocket, and he hoped he would not have to use it or even threaten to.

This was Demming’s territory. Surely, a man seeking him here wouldn’t be entirely out of the ordinary.

On the ground floor, he found the building all but pitch-black inside. He used his hands to guide himself along the wall until his eyes adjusted. That’s when he noticed a single window high on the opposite wall that allowed a bit of moonlight to leak in.

The building had once been a factory of some sort, though all the machinery now sat derelict.

Footsteps crunched on gravel to his left, and Ben spun toward the sound, body tensed.

Light burst out of the darkness, blinding him, and he lifted an arm against the glare.

“Expected a bit more of you than this, Drake.”

The low, gruff voice was exactly as he remembered Demming’s.

“Just wanted a word with you, Jack.”

Ben blinked as his eyes adjusted and he could make out the shape of the man behind the bullseye lantern. He sensed the nearness of other bodies in the darkness too. He guessed it was the three men he’d followed who stood in the shadows.

“A word, is it? Just the one?”

At his taunt, one of the other men laughed, allowing Ben to gauge that he was but a few feet away.

“More than one, I’m afraid,”

Ben told him. “I need to speak to you about your presence on Moulton Street today.”

“Not in the mood for being questioned.”

Demming grunted and signaled at one of the men. “Take him.”

An arm thick as a tree trunk wrapped itself around Drake’s neck. He thrust an elbow back into the man’s belly.

“Get ’is hands,”

the man behind him shouted.

Ben shoved up to break the man’s hold on his neck, but his release was only momentary. Before he could fully break free, the arm lashed around him again and the thug only squeezed tighter. So tight he couldn’t catch his breath.

Another man emerged from the darkness, jerking one of Drake’s hands into a loop of rope.

Ben swung wildly to catch the man with a blow, but he ducked agilely and caught his other hand, wrapping it with the rough binding. The knot he tied was as tight as the hold on his neck.

Once the man in front of him nodded, the one behind him loosened his hold a fraction.

Ben gulped in air.

They’d tied his hands in front, and he calculated how he might reach for his revolver.

As if reading his mind, Demming stepped closer and reached into Ben’s empty pocket and then the other, pulling the revolver out by its barrel.

“Seems you ’ad more than talk in mind, detective.”

Demming stared at Ben with a menace that felt deep, personal. “Tie the bastard to the gears.”

Ben had more than a couple inches of height on Demming’s men, but they outweighed him in combined brawn, and the one behind him dragged him as if he weighed nothing at all.

Together, the two men slid a chain around his middle. Ben fought to keep his arms free, but they forced them down and under the chain. The hard, unforgiving wedge of metal at his back felt as if it would leave a permanent dent.

“Consider carefully whether you want to do this, Demming. Assaulting a Met detective isn’t something you want added to your record, is it?”

“Oh, I’ve thought of this moment awhile, I ’ave. Bleedin’ dreamed of it.”

“Why?”

“Forgot ’im already, ’ave you?”

The beast at his back alternately tightened and loosened his hold on Drake’s neck, as if it was some sick game.

“Who?”

he managed, though his voice had gone hoarse.

Demming drew close, a fearsome glare on his bearded face. “Amos Howe.”

Drake’s mind had gone fuzzy, his thoughts scattered pieces he fought to assemble. Howe in that empty townhouse in Bedford Square. The unanswered questions about M. Haverstock handing him a report detailing Howe’s death. All of it swirled in his brain.

“You knew Howe?”

Drake willed the scraps of information to assemble into solid facts.

“?’E was my brother, and you got ’is throat slit.”

“I’m sorry.”

Drake meant it with utter sincerity. Howe wasn’t a great man or perhaps even a good one, but he’d done the right thing in the end.

He thought he’d learned a great deal about Howe during the investigation, but he’d never known he was related to Jack Demming.

Demming spat. “To ’ell with your sympathy. Can’t bring me brother back.”

Demming drew back and punched Ben in the stomach.

He hadn’t braced for the blow, and it reverberated to his spine. His body attempted to curl in on itself, but the behemoth at his back held tight to his neck and shoulders.

“Tell me why you were on Moulton Street,”

Ben rasped.

They might beat him, torture him, toss him in the Thames, but he at least needed to know the answer to that single question. He needed to know how to keep Alexandra safe.

“I ’ad my reasons. Maybe I was waitin’ on you.”

Demming scoffed. “Then that crazy little bitch came at me like a terrier. Nipping at me ’eels.”

Ben closed his eyes, thankful Demming had been there for him. Even if he found Alexandra’s audacious determination to confront the thief maddening, he admired her bravery. She was extraordinary.

“Do you know Holcroft?”

Ben had no intention of volunteering details about the attempted robbery, but any connections he could gather would help.

“Never ’eard of ’im. Enough talk.”

Demming stepped back toward the shadows, then bent to strike a match and light his pipe. He sucked on the thing, generating a cloud of pungent smoke.

He finally looked up at Ben. Then he shifted his gaze past Ben to the men surrounding him.

“Do your worst, boys.”

Southwark at night, drenched in fog, was a kind of dark Allie had never experienced.

Little tremors raced across her skin when the hansom driver departed and she stood alone, listening to the lapping sound of the Thames, trying to distinguish the nature of the stew of smells that emanated from the water and ships’ cargo.

She’d told the driver to drop her near the bridge. A pub near the bridge—that’s what Drake had called Demming’s favorite haunt.

And, sure enough, she noted one corner of a building glowed with light and life. A few men stood outside arguing even as two more passed them to enter its doors. The Anchor. She could read the sign painted in deep red letters even through the night’s haze of soot and smoke.

She’d never been to Southwark before. Dominic had, and Eve too. They’d set out on journeys from here or met shipments containing antiquities they’d acquired for the shop. In the past, their father had even rented a warehouse nearby to store the relics he’d acquired on his expeditions, some of which would be shipped ahead before he made his trip home.

Allie never had a reason to come, though she’d begged to visit once. Her parents were setting off on a trip to the East, and she’d wanted to join her siblings to see them off. But she’d only just recovered from one of the colds that plagued her as a child and was considered too fragile to make the journey to the docks.

Fragile little Allie. Always left behind.

That thought made her glad she’d come tonight, no matter how angry the inspector would be with her. That same nagging insistence in her middle still told her that she needed to find him, help him if she could.

She headed toward the pub. In the fog, all the sounds were muffled. Bits of conversation. Men’s voices carried to her on the breeze. Underneath it all, the sound of the water lapping against the docks and boat hulls was strangely lulling, making the night seem less ominous. The men milling about mostly paid her no notice as they went about their business. She was shocked to see so many working even at this hour.

Lanterns hung on posts, and there were barrels with fires lit that a few workers gathered around to warm themselves, but the gaslights were few and far between. Though where the lantern light ended, The Anchor’s glow led the way.

She’d worn a black dress left over from the year of mourning her father, thinking it might make her less noticeable. But the moment she stepped into The Anchor, she noted that the only other women in the pub were garbed in vivid-colored gowns. She stood out like a crow would if it landed on a branch of canaries.

Most of the pub’s patrons, however, were men, and she felt their perusal as she made her way toward the bar.

“Hello, sir.”

“What can I do for you, miss?”

The publican wore the same assessing look as every other man in the pub, though his expression soon softened as if she’d passed muster somehow.

“Would it be terribly strange to ask you for tea?”

The older man laughed, his eyes creasing in genuine amusement. “Would be strange but not unheard of. The missus is in the kitchen this evening and makes an excellent brew, so you’re in for a treat.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Food?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Allie had scanned the room when she walked in but took a moment to do so again. She knew detectives sometimes disguised themselves, but she’d never yet been in the same room with Inspector Drake and not felt his presence keenly.

He wasn’t here. But had he been?

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh, aye? And who might that be, miss?”

She felt the urge to overexplain and stifled it. “Drake.”

She said the single word more quietly than any she’d spoken to the man so far.

He immediately shot a look toward a corner table and then the other end of the bar, where a barmaid was loading her tray.

“If you’re asking after the man I know, he was here not an hour past.”

As he wiped the counter, he stepped closer. “Came and went quickly.”

“Went where?”

“?’Fraid I can’t help you there, miss. Never spoke a word to him as he never stopped to take any refreshment at all.”

If Drake came and went quickly, perhaps he’d seen Demming and pursued him. Or somehow realized he’d find the man elsewhere.

“Do you know a man named Demming?”

“Aye, I surely do, but he’s not a man you want to know.”

Allie believed him, but she had to ask. “Where can I find him?”

The barman drew in a long breath and sighed. “A tenacious lady, I see.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Demming won’t have gone far. Holes up in a warehouse nearby or visits a gambling den a few lanes south.”

“Thank you.”

Allie dug a coin from her pocket and placed it on the bar, even though she’d have to forgo the cup of tea.

“Here’s advice you’ve not asked for,”

the barman called as she started toward the door.

Allie turned back.

The man’s expression had gone grim. “Don’t go looking for trouble, miss.”

If only he knew that she was seeking the one man who’d no doubt repeat a similar sentiment the moment she found him.

She gave The Anchor’s publican a nod, then stepped out into the night.

Clouds had gathered, dimming the moonlight to a mere glimmer that outlined the shapes of buildings and people.

The sensible part of her yearned to find a cab, head back across the river, and get warm in front of the fire Lottie had no doubt laid in her bedroom. But a far different feeling was louder—the need to find Inspector Drake.

So she walked south, deeper into this part of London she’d never visited before. To say she was lost was an understatement. Beyond Bankside, the streets were often nothing more than alleyways between warehouses.

When she passed through a covered alleyway, the darkness all but consumed her. She reached one hand out to use the wall as a steadying guide and waved the other in front of her, lest she crash into someone coming the opposite way.

After a few shuffling steps, her foot struck something firm, and she pitched forward just as the object shifted.

“Damnation,”

a man’s voice grumbled, followed by a groan of pain.

Then hands were on her, one grasping her arm, the other her hip as the man rose before her. Stumbling, he caught himself on the wall and then released her.

“Drake.”

Allie knew. Even in the darkness, she knew she’d found him. She recognized the timbre of his voice, the starch and spice scent of him. The enormous, broad-shouldered shape of him.

She lifted a hand, placed it on his chest, and was relieved to feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. She slid her hand higher, found the hard line of his jaw, and skimmed her fingers along the stubbled edge.

“I found you,”

she said on a warm rush of satisfaction. She’d found him, and that seemed the most important thing she’d done in a long while.

His fingers slid along the line of her throat. “Is it really you?”

Before she could answer, he leaned in and nuzzled her cheek, grazing his lips all the way to her jaw. “Flowers,”

he mumbled. “You always smell of flowers.”

Then he jerked back, though he kept one large, warm hand braced on her shoulder.

“Damned stubborn woman. You shouldn’t be here,”

he hissed. “I asked a constable to see you home.”

“He did, and then I thought I should come find you.”

“I do not . . .”

He hissed as he attempted to straighten, and she noticed that he kept one arm wrapped around his middle. “Require your help, Miss Prince.”

His voice was deeper, raspier than usual.

“I’ve heard that before,”

she told him as she reached for him gently, certain he was injured, judging by the labored gusts of his breath. “Let me help you,”

she said softly, urging him to relent. “Please.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

But he let her get an arm around him and position herself beside him. “My God, woman. Do you ever do what you’re told?”

“It may surprise you to know that, yes, I usually do. All my life, actually.”

He grunted at that. “I’m dubious as to the veracity of that statement.”

“Well, I’m horrendous at lying, so you should believe me.”

“So, it’s only since you met me that you’ve decided to become intractable?”

Allie smiled in the darkness, but she doubted he could see her. “I suppose you bring it out in me.”

“Wonderful.”

He let out a grunt of pain as he straightened and drew her toward the mouth of the alley where she’d entered. She felt the unsteadiness of his gait. He was limping, and his breath wheezed in his chest.

Once they were out of the cloister of the covered space, she caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight and gasped.

“What happened to you?”

“Retribution.”

“Wait here.”

She led him to a low retaining wall, and he seemed shockingly content to slump against it. “I’ll find us a cab.”

The moment she made to step away, he reached for her, gripping her upper arm. “You’re not going anywhere in these streets without me.”

Allie came back to stand before him, resisting the urge to point out that she’d come here without him, and he was in no state to take on any additional riverside criminals even if one did approach. He held tight to her arm and kept his head bowed.

“We need to get out of here.”

Under a fall of dark hair he lifted his gaze to look at her. “Together.”

In the dim light, she spotted the dark stain of blood near his lip and a thicker trickle close to his eye.

“Mercy, how many were there?”

He emitted a sound that sounded suspiciously like a raspy chuckle.

“Four but only three delivered the beating.”

She moved to stand beside him again, then took his hand and hooked his arm around her neck.

He didn’t resist and let her nestle close. The heat of his body warmed her instantly, and when she slid an arm underneath his coat and tucked it around his waist, he groaned as if something hurt him there too.

Together, they made their way toward the bridge and soon secured a hansom. When it came time to climb in, Drake disentangled himself and insisted on offering her a hand.

“What’s your address?”

For a moment, Allie panicked. “I’m not leaving you here. You said we were leaving together.”

“I can catch another.”

“No.”

She’d come this far, and she wasn’t leaving him wounded and alone in this place. “Please come with me.”

He wiped at his lip with the back of his hand and held her gaze. “Stubborn and incorrigible.”

“Call me anything you like, Inspector. Just get in.”

Finally relenting, he called an address up to the driver and climbed in beside her. She’d traveled in plenty of hansom cabs with her siblings and with Jo, and the seat was always cramped, but not like this.

Their bodies were seamed together, and she could not shift without pushing closer to him. As soon as the cab set off, she was glad for the heat of that closeness. But more than that, she was glad to have found him.

Her intuition had been right. She turned to tell him as much, but he’d leaned his head back against the wood. Since the man needed rest, she accomplished the great feat of not asking any further questions as they wound their way toward his home.