Page 3 of The Duke and Lady Scandal (Princes of London #1)

Scotland Yard

Drake strode down the hall toward his superior’s office with confidence in the work he’d done and certainty that he would finally be rewarded.

He had sacrificed sleep and meals and any semblance of a life to focus entirely on the blackmail scheme and the tangled, messy business of a prince’s peccadillos. If the payoff came today, it would all have been worth it.

He’d entered the force with nothing more than empty pockets and a hunger to lift himself and his sister out of the nightmare fate had dealt them, but he was never content as a foot patrolman. Rising through the ranks had always been his goal.

Hell, he might aim higher than chief inspector one day. But for now, it was the title and role he’d sought for years, and he’d savor it. The youngest man to ever rise to such a rank, just as he’d been one of the youngest to rise to detective inspector.

He considered what he’d say when Haverstock offered him the promotion. Among colleagues, Drake tried to show only stoicism and self-control. Displays of emotion were nothing but a distraction in police work, and in the special cases that Haverstock handpicked him for, he couldn’t afford distractions of any kind.

But the chief constable would expect gratitude.

Thank you, sir seemed too little. It’s damned well time was far too honest. I will not disappoint you, sir was, he knew, what Haverstock truly wished to hear. The older man had taken Drake under his wing, mentoring but also leveraging him. He used him for the cases requiring the most discretion. Cases that might require him to maneuver carefully along the bounds of the law, and even step over them if needs must.

Haverstock understood how far a man would go for ambition, and he’d been waving this promotion under Drake’s nose for years.

But this case had gone beyond what had ever been asked of him. Hellish weeks without proper sleep. False leads. Last night and into the small hours of the morning, after working on Howe for a week, the thief had led him to a boardinghouse. A violent confrontation with another of M’s minions ended with the discovery under the floorboards of letters purportedly written by the prince and one photograph that was undoubtedly of the queen’s heir in a state the Crown would never wish the public to see.

It seemed the blackmail itself had been thwarted, but M had not been identified or apprehended. And that rankled so much that Drake had taken to grinding his teeth until his jaw ached.

Like any detective, he loathed loose threads.

At the door of Haverstock’s office in the deepest recesses of the New Scotland Yard building, Drake took a moment to right himself. He’d had only a moment to tidy after the night’s events, but it would have to be enough.

Haverstock had demanded to be updated immediately. So Drake strode into his superior’s office and handed the white-haired man a report he’d just typed himself, pecking away at the too-tiny keys through bleary eyes, and the documents found in the rooming house.

He stood, as he always did, with his shoulders as square as the window frame. He ignored his aching muscles and bruised knuckles and clasped his hands behind his back. He was well practiced at this ritual of standing tall and silent, waiting for the older man to cast judgement on the work he’d done.

His superiors might quibble with his methods, but he always did his damnedest to get results. For Drake, no other option was worth considering. He’d failed monumentally in his past, so he couldn’t stomach anything but success now.

And Haverstock knew it. Drake was tagged for delicate cases because he’d proven his loyalty and discretion. Only the blackmail case had caused him to doubt the older man’s decisions.

Which was why the elusive M and the drive to catch the man would keep him awake at night. He’d find him, and he’d use whatever means were required. That’s what separated Drake from those he competed with for promotion and favor.

The chief constable had been seconded to Special Branch and relished the work of protecting the realm and the family that sat at the top of it. Drake preferred his work with Scotland Yard, solving crimes against everyday citizens of London, but the damnable, half-resolved blackmail matter was the case that would bring him the promotion he craved.

“Come in, Drake.”

The snow-haired man took the report and began to peruse it immediately.

“Hmmm,”

Haverstock murmured, one wrinkled finger tracing the typed lines.

Years ago, such a sound might have shaken Drake’s certainty, causing his gut to twist. Today, he was exhausted and ready for the formalities of this briefing to be finished so that he could begin planning how to take on his new role.

“You continue to impress me, Drake,”

the old man finally said and looked up at him.

“Pleased to hear that, sir.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t preen. Didn’t allow the flare of pride he felt to soften his stance or allow himself to rest for a single moment on the commendation.

“I shall inform the relevant parties that the threat has been eliminated.”

He tapped the pages in front of him. “And we’re certain that all the blackmailer’s proof has been found and destroyed? That there are no copies extant?”

“As certain as we can be, sir. Using my informant’s details, I found the photo and the two letters, which is all the blackmail letters ever referred to. My further questioning of Howe was vigorous enough that I believe he’s told us all.”

“Very good.”

He spared the photograph and letters little more than a disgusted glance before swiveling in his chair and tossing the lot onto the fire blazing in the grate. “Thank God, that distasteful matter is at an end without tarnishing the Crown and the royal family.”

“Not at an end, sir. There’s still the matter of M. I will find him.”

He felt the truth of it, even if he didn’t yet know where to look for the man next. Still, he’d solved every one of his cases in a decade-long career. He’d solve this one too. “You know I won’t stop until the last thread is tied up.”

“I suspect the man lost his nerve and will shrink back into obscurity after his failure to cause real harm to the prince. You’ve done well.”

Haverstock allowed a rare smile. “You never fail me, do you, son?”

“Never.”

At the word son, a stab of old fury skewered into his gut. He fisted the hands he still held behind his back. Memories tried to push their way into his mind.

Breathe. Just breathe. He fought back the panic that reared up when he allowed his mind to wander those old paths. The past was cold and done. There was no life in it. Only his future mattered. Only the accomplishments he meant to stack up, only the power he hoped to wield by rising as high as Haverstock’s title one day. Hell, maybe higher.

And Haverstock meant well.

God knew he wasn’t that man who used to call Drake son when he’d done no more for the privilege than bed his mother and eat their food and take up space in their too-small lodging room. Fool, vermin, a waste of space—the vile man’s favored condemnations were always followed by a strike or a kick for emphasis.

Until the day Drake had grown taller and stronger than his mother’s paramour. Until the day he’d taken his siblings away from that dingy room and never returned.

His true father was a phantom. A thing of myth and wild stories his mother had conjured to give his child’s mind something to latch onto. She’d claimed he was a nobleman—a duke—though Drake had never believed it. Yet sometimes he’d used it, a kind of currency to garner respect, though just as often it had backfired into ridicule.

As a green recruit on the force, he’d told a mate the story and had been nicknamed Duke ever since. At first as a form of ribbing, but now, after his peers had seen what he could do and how relentless he was about doing it, the moniker was only ever used familiarly. Respectfully.

Not by Haverstock, of course. The man relished rank above all else. The implication that Drake held a duke’s blood in his veins would make it harder to treat him paternally, to feel the full weight of his power and superiority.

So Drake allowed the occasional son in their conversations, and endured the man’s delusion that he would court his daughter one day. He’d do a great deal to climb the ranks to sit where Haverstock did, but using a young lady as a pawn held no appeal.

“I know what you’re aiming for, Drake. But I can’t offer it to you.”

Haverstock seemed to note the muscle that tightened Drake’s jaw and lifted a finger in the air. “Yet.”

“When?”

“Soon, Drake. Soon. Your day will come. Stanhope will move up by year’s end. That will leave one slot for a chief inspector.”

Haverstock danced enticingly over the words while his gaze remained glued on Drake.

The man saw him as a tool. Tempered with praise and honed by ambition. He knew the older man understood he played a balancing act between giving him a bit of power and always holding something back. He wanted to keep him hungry so that he’d work harder to prove himself, and yet the game couldn’t drag out too long.

A starving hound eventually bit back.

“I’m counting on soon, sir,”

Drake told him, then shifted his stance, assuming he’d be dismissed so he could get a bloody hour of sleep, if he was lucky, in his office chair before the others arrived for work.

“Join us for dinner on Saturday evening, Drake. We’ll be attending a party hosted by Lord Wellingdon. He’s long been a proponent of child labor laws and is now pressing that working-class housing law I know you’re keen on. Mrs. Haverstock and Lavinia would be pleased to see you.”

Drake had heard of Wellingdon. Like his sister, he kept an eye on any laws and policies meant to help those who struggled, as they had in their youth, to keep a roof over their heads and their bellies full. He and Helen and their younger brother, George, had worked long hours when they should have been enjoying childhood.

“I would like to meet Lord Wellingdon. Thank you for the invitation. What time shall I arrive?”

Haverstock waved his hand in the air, almost dismissively. “Whenever your day here is done and you’ve tidied yourself. If you arrive at our home early, more time for you and Lavinia to speak awhile before we depart.”

“Very good.”

Drake nodded and lifted a brow. “Anything else, sir?”

Haverstock reached out and laid a hand over a document on his desk. “There is one last thing. I thought you’d wish to know.”

He flipped what Drake recognized as a handwritten police report. “Howe was found a few hours ago.”

“That’s not possible.”

His mind ran through the memory of his last encounter with the man. “He was going to leave London.”

Drake had given his reluctant informant the funds for a train ticket himself, though he thought it best not to tell Haverstock that part. The chief would see it as weakness.

“Well, he didn’t do so soon enough, it seems.”

Drake snatched up the paper, scanning quickly over the neatly printed words. A cold chill froze his blood, and then a boiling fury rushed in to replace it.

Howe had been found in the East End. At one of the brothels he favored. And he’d had his throat cut, just as he’d warned Drake would happen if he revealed M’s identity. But he hadn’t. Howe had provided clues that allowed Drake to find the blackmail materials, and yet the thief had steadfastly refused to give away the mastermind behind it all.

And he’d been terrified once Drake released him.

“I realize the man was a useful informant, but I didn’t know you’d be so affected.”

Haverstock watched him with an assessing frown.

“I saw the man alive hours ago. Bit of a shock, sir. Nothing more.”

Haverstock seemed satisfied with that reply and settled back into his chair.

Drake lifted the report regarding Howe. “I’ll take this and add it to the case file.”

Haverstock waved as if glad to be rid of it.

“That will be all, Drake. Won’t be long before Ransome and the others get in.”

Drake strode back to his desk, intending to use the few moments before the office filled to close his eyes. His chair groaned as he dropped into it, and he let out a sigh as he lifted his boot heels onto the edge of his desk. Leaning back, he let the worn leather catch his head and closed his eyes. But he couldn’t find true rest.

He regretted Howe’s death. The man would steal your wallet as soon as look at you, but he’d never killed anyone, as far as Drake knew.

He’d given him funds to leave London because he’d believed Howe’s claim that M would come after him as soon as the plan was thwarted. Why the hell had he bothered with a brothel rather than getting himself on a train as he’d vowed to do?

The conversation in Haverstock’s office played in his mind too, and he gritted his teeth.

Soon. The word had sounded more like a taunt than a promise. He loathed being a puppet pulled along by Haverstock’s strings. If he could maneuver past the man, he would, though he suspected the chief constable could thwart any such attempt.

The chief had him exactly where he wanted him, but the bit was starting to rankle.

One thing was certain. He wasn’t going to court the man’s daughter.

Indeed, he had no time for romancing anyone. He had a criminal mastermind to find, and he sure as hell didn’t need any distractions in his life.