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Chapter Fourteen

“ D oes your wife know about your trips to London and back?”

“Theodore,” Spencer warned quietly, as if that would deter his friend.

“I am simply curious. If I were her, I would wonder where my husband rushes off all the time.”

“And I am grateful you are not her,” Spencer muttered.

Theodore waved a dismissive hand. “After all, it is your honeymoon. You should be ravishing her in your bed, no? You should be showering her with affection, whispering words of adoration by candlelight, raining kisses on?—”

“I will not ask you again to stop enquiring about my marriage.”

Theodore merely grinned at him and gave a shrug, merrily walking down the street.

They were merely a part of the crowd—two men in a horde of them—blending into the bustle of London’s East End.

The narrow street reeked of fish and smoke, lined with warehouses, taverns, and merchant stalls, the distant clamor of dockworkers ringing in the air as they made their way toward the river.

Spencer had left early that morning after an incredibly awkward breakfast where he could not meet Eleanor’s gaze.

Eleanor.

Not Duchess anymore. Not since he had uttered her name as he kissed her. And now he did not know how to act, how to recover from what he had done. The confession he had made while he kneeled before her, aching and wanting.

“I do not know how else to want you.”

“No,” he finally said. “I have not told her about the trips.”

“Do you not think you should?”

“No. I think I should focus on what is going in and out of Southgate Dockyard because I know for certain that it is not medical supplies.”

“Indeed,” Theodore agreed, his voice dropping to a low rumble.

“I spoke with one of the physicians—Dr. Moseley—who often services the homes of nobility. Earls and viscounts, mostly. However, he reported that medical supplies do not often pass through that particular dockyard. He could not confirm what usually does, but he said that most medical and office supplies often go through Northward Dockyard.”

“A chink in the very tight cover the two men have,” Spencer mused as they neared Southgate.

It was a fenced-in area, overhangs of steel shadowing corners and warehouses stacked alongside one another. Jetties and short piers extended into the Thames, and moored fishing vessels swayed with the current further down.

Southgate was mostly empty, one of the many dockyards likely reserved for bigger merchant and transportation ships. But a group of men hung around the office, papers in hand.

By the looks of their uniforms, there was a shipping officer, a captain, and a carriage driver. Another man stood with them, his uniform unidentifiable.

An overseer from the ship, perhaps?

Spencer eyed him from the shadows.

“Here, come into the office,” the shipping officer instructed, nodding toward the open door. “I can have the files finalized.”

The gentlemen went in, and Spencer seized the chance to slink around the fence’s opening and enter Southgate properly, Theodore on near-silent feet right behind him.

“The journey went well, I trust,” the officer said cheerfully.

There was nothing out of the ordinary. No sinister underlying meanings. Nothing strange. Nothing that struck Spencer as odd.

“It went as perfectly as expected,” the captain answered, smiling. Spencer could see his confident stance through the dirty, smudged glass of the office. “There was a choppy spell somewhere near Spain, but it was nothing serious.”

“Did any of the cargo get damaged?”

That was the carriage driver. Spencer’s eyes flicked to him. The man sounded nervous.

Spencer jerked his head for Theodore to follow him closer to the office, keeping low and to the shadows.

“He sounds nervous,” he whispered, nodding toward the driver.

“It is not odd,” Theodore muttered. “He will likely meet the person waiting on the other end. It will be him explaining any damages before letters of explanation are offered. He could be worried about himself.”

Spencer nodded.

Perhaps the driver saw it as his responsibility if this shipment was indeed the women Eleanor had told him about. He believed her, but he needed concrete proof.

“Nothing got damaged,” the overseer cut in, his tone smooth and authoritative. “I checked the cargo myself. Not a bandage or salve out of place.”

They play the game well .

But it was the driver Spencer kept coming back to. Why would he be so nervous if the salve or bandages were ruined?

Steep cost, yes, but that won’t be cut from his wages.

“Good,” the driver said. “Good. Because we don’t want any trouble with the master.”

“There is no trouble,” the captain assured him. “Your family owns a whole fleet of carriages in the city, yes?”

“They do, Captain Griffin. We operate under the Renshaw name. No trusted company more than the Renshaws. And if you want my services around London again, just write ahead. Jack Renshaw’s the name.”

“Noted,” the captain said. “After all, we all work together to ensure a smooth delivery for the… doctors of London.”

Jack Renshaw.

Spencer paused. It was possible the captain didn’t know what he was transporting. And if the overseer had specified items, he might also be witnessing the cover that Follet and Belgrave had. After all, they could risk too many variables being involved in this operation.

Once the overseer or captain left the dockyard, they could say anything to anyone.

No, they’d want to keep an eye on the men in the city first. The lower-downs.

Spencer’s eyes went back to the driver. They had to watch the Jack Renshaws of the city.

“Him,” he muttered quietly. “That is who will know more than the others.”

“How do you know?”

“The captain and overseer will leave London. The driver will not. He is the go-between, the bridge between people coming in for the business from overseas and the final destination—back and forth. He will see more names, more captains, more overseers, than anybody. That is who we will question first.”

Theodore nodded, and Spencer gestured for him to follow as they left the dockyard. Once again, they melted into the crowd.

Spencer was acutely aware of eyes watching him, but he shook off the paranoia. Everybody always stared. He had a hideous scar running from his temple to his jaw—why would they not stare?

Eleanor does not.

But he swore he did not care about her opinion.

No. No, he had to focus. He had borne enough humiliation for not being able to stand up for himself at Lord Heswall’s dinner party the other night.

“When you return to Everdawn, I will look into the Renshaws discreetly,” Theodore said as they rounded a corner. “See just how big their reach is through the city and if they dabble in any specific transportation.”

“Good,” Spencer muttered, but then frowned. “Who said I am returning to Everdawn?”

“I did. Your wife must miss you.”

Spencer pointedly ignored him and continued walking.

Theodore caught up to him quickly. “You know I am right,” he insisted.

“I can assure you that my wife does not even notice my absence,” Spencer countered. “She will be—” He broke off before he mentioned her love of gardening and baking. He shook his head. “She is fine. I will stay in London.”

“You will return to your home and have breakfast with her tomorrow morning,” Theodore declared, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer glared at him.

“I am not afraid to order you about. You are my friend before you are a duke, and friends can do this. Go home, Spencer. You did not marry the woman just to leave her alone in that very big house of yours.”

Spencer sighed. Theodore was right, and he hated to admit it.

And, if he was being honest with himself, he missed Eleanor.

He missed how he would never know from one day to the next if she would be humming as she labored in a way a duchess should not, or if she would unleash a temper that cut into him as much as his did her.

“Fine,” he relented. “But let’s meet up here in three days to talk to Mr. Renshaw. He is bound to have some information for us.”

Theodore nodded sharply. “In the meantime, will you?—”

“No more questions about her,” Spencer all but growled, stalking off to the sound of his friend’s laughter.

Theodore always knew how to get under his skin.

“Do you truly not know where my husband goes off to?” Eleanor asked, trying to keep a whine out of her tone as she paced her bedroom.

It had been three days since the Duke had kissed her in the drawing room. Three days since she had slipped into the greenhouse and let herself give in to… well, give in to him.

The Duke.

Spencer.

And now he was avoiding her, disappearing for hours upon hours, sometimes even a night at a time. Her thoughts morphed into worry, her stomach twisting and turning.

Frances watched her, looking somewhat confused and worried. Perhaps she thought her mistress would snap at her.

“I do not, Your Grace. He is very private. If anyone should know his whereabouts, it is you.”

“Well, it must be very private if even his wife cannot know,” Eleanor huffed, almost to herself.

Part of her wondered where he was and what he was doing, and the other part was glad for the reprieve.

If he was not there, then she would not be wracked with anticipation, waiting for him to round a corner or throw her off-guard with that disarming, amused smile of his when he found her doing something unusual.

And as much as she didn’t miss him, she had grown used to his presence.

She had come to two conclusions. The first was that he was avoiding her because of their kiss. Perhaps he worried he had crossed her boundaries. Perhaps he didn’t know how to communicate after such a bold act.

There were a thousand different possibilities, because a man who was supposedly so in control would not have run after a kiss.

The second conclusion was that he was digging into Lord Belgrave and Lord Follet, purposefully keeping her at arms’ length, out of the investigation.