Page 1 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)

one

Dartmoor, 1891

E LIZABETH WAS TIRED of being told she lacked focus and was easily distracted because she was perfectly capable of concentrating on her history class without—hey! Was that a carriage?

She craned her neck to take a better look at the driveway.

“Elizabeth.” The sharp tone of her governess’s voice jolted her. “Would you please listen? Why do you always get distracted when we study history?”

“I’m following every word you say, Miss Martin. But see, a travelling carriage has just arrived.” She pointed to the window overlooking the front yard where a dark carriage was approaching.

Miss Martin didn’t share her interest. She didn’t even glance outside. “What was I talking about before you got distracted?”

Elizabeth went through her notes filled with ink stains and blobs of wax. History, unlike mathematics, was a messy affair. People did irrational things for questionable reasons. No logic at all.

“The war between the Guelphs and Gibberish …”

“Ghibellines.” Miss Martin narrowed her eyes behind her round glasses. “History is an essential subject. You can’t study only what you like, and I seriously doubt that algebra will be of any importance in the life of an earl’s daughter. I’m a forty-year-old governess, and I’ve never needed algebra.”

“Of course you have. Measuring ingredients for a recipe is all about ratios, proportions, and other algebric concepts.”

“As I was saying.” Miss Martin straightened her glasses. “The Guelphs?—”

The noise of the carriage stopping in front of the house distracted Elizabeth again.

“Did you hear that? Please, Miss Martin, may I go and see who’s arrived?” she said. “I need to stretch my legs as well.”

She’d been locked into the schoolroom with her governess for hours, listening to the story of a twelfth-century conflict in Tuscany she wasn’t sure she cared about. Now, that was a subject she would never need in her life.

Miss Martin exhaled, lowering the hefty history book. “You might take a break for ten minutes.”

“Thank you, miss.”

Elizabeth didn’t need to hear more. She scraped her chair backwards and made a dash for the door. Being the daughter of an earl included enough rules and restrictions to exhaust her sometimes. It would be wonderful if she could study only what she found fascinating or spend more time outdoors.

She slowed down at the end of the long hallway and paused in a dark corner at the top of the sweeping stairs from where she could see the entry hall.

A cold gust of wind swept up the first floor when the front door was opened, causing her skin to pebble. The weather in Dartmoor didn’t seem to care that the winter was ending. The scent of wet soil and the pungent smell of the moorland thickened the air.

She crouched and peeked through the balusters as two men in dark travel coats entered. One wore a tall hat, but the younger one wore his unfashionably long, pale-blond hair loose on his shoulders. She’d seen hair of that colour, so blond to seem silver, only on the Duke of Grafton, her father’s friend.

The young man walked with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat with a swagger and a sullen look gentlemen didn’t usually have. He cast a disinterested glance around, clenching his jaw.

After the men’s entrance, there was a flurry of activity from the servants, with loud voices and hurrying footsteps. Then Mother arrived at the entry hall, followed by the butler and housekeeper.

The older man removed his tall hat and bowed to Mother before handing her a letter. Elizabeth shifted her position to hear what they were saying, but only indistinct mutters reached her. Mother nodded a few times while the blond young man’s face remained tense.

Mother’s chest rose and fell quickly as she kept throwing glances at him.

He looked up and found Elizabeth as if her stare had warned him of her presence. Their gazes locked. If his hair was the colour of silver, his eyes were the colour of an ancient glacier and just as cold. The cheeky stranger stared straight at her in a challenging fashion that made her feel like an intruder ... in her own house!

Another shiver went down her neck, and she moved back from the balusters.

When the two men and Mother walked up the stairs, she rushed to her bedroom lest Mother catch her spying.

A young man with silver hair and cold eyes, here at Spencer Hall. She didn’t know what to make of that. The clock on the top of the chests of drawers informed her ten minutes had passed since she left the schoolroom, but she had no intention of returning to the Guelphs and Ghibellines’s fight without learning more about the guests.

She inched the door open and listened.

“... follow me,” Mother said.

Elizabeth slid out of her room and searched the corridor.

Mother and the small group stopped in front of the sitting room sandwiched between Father’s personal study and the library.

Elizabeth waited in her bedroom for a few moments before coming out again.

“Elizabeth?” Miss Martin called from the other side of the corridor.

She sped up and slid inside the dimly lit library. Miss Martin’s voice came muffled through the thick door once she shut it. The library was connected to the sitting room through a second door. Careful not to hit the table and chairs, she tiptoed across the room and pressed her ear on the wooden door.

“... His Grace is aware he’s putting you in a difficult situation,” the man said, “but it’s an emergency, and this arrangement won’t last long.”

“We understand.” That was Father. “Christopher can stay here, of course. You may reassure His Grace.”

“Charles,” Mother said. “Perhaps we should consider an alternative before making a decision.”

“No.” Father’s reply didn’t leave room for a debate. “William knows he can count on me. I won’t disappoint him.”

William, yes, it was the Duke of Grafton. And that hair! Christopher had to be the duke’s son. Or perhaps a relative. The name of the duke’s son was Pearce. She’d never heard of Christopher, and Pearce was the duke’s only son.

Her parents lowered their voices, and she couldn’t grasp any words.

“My lord,” the man continued. “His Grace kindly requests your absolute discretion on the matter.”

“Absolutely,” Mother said. “Besides, here in Spencer Hall, we rarely see any visitors.”

None. Absolutely no one ever came to Spencer Hall in winter. Or summer. Or ever.

“Thank you, my lord, my lady.” The relief in the man’s voice was loud. “His Grace told me you have complete freedom in how you wish to deal with the boy. Your comfort is of utmost importance to His Grace.”

The rest of the conversation was a quick exchange of half-whispered words she didn’t understand. Pity. Her parents would tell her only a fraction of the chat, if none at all. She straightened and smoothed down her skirt. Miss Martin was going to punish her if she didn’t return to the schoolroom soon.

She turned around and gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth. Christopher, the very young man whose presence was being discussed in the next room, was sitting on the armchair, his chin resting on his fist and his long legs crossed at the knee, looking like a bored king.

“Anything interesting?” he asked in a deep voice that matched his harsh features.

“I didn’t hear you coming.”

“I was already here in that corner when you sneaked inside, and I didn’t think it was polite to point out my presence.”

How embarrassing. “Who are you? Christopher?” Surely she was allowed to ask that, given the circumstances. “The Duke of Graft?—”

“Shush.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “I didn’t hear what Mr. Weston said to your parents, but I’m sure he mentioned the importance of being discreet,” he dramatically whispered the last words.

She pointed a finger at the sitting room. “Why aren’t you with my parents and Mr. Weston?”

“They asked me to leave and wait here, so they could talk about me in private. I guess it’s more polite than talking about me in front of me as if I weren’t there.”

“May I ask why you’re here?”

He reclined his head, exposing his strong neck and Adam’s apple. “What’s your name?”

She was about to tell him he shouldn’t answer a question with another question when it occurred to her he was still sitting while she was standing, but he would stand up when he learnt who she was, wouldn’t he? Although he couldn’t have mistaken her for a maid. But Mother always said to be polite, no matter what.

“I’m Lady Elizabeth, the daughter of the Earl of Lincoln.” She bowed her head just to show him how to be civil.

He didn’t look impressed. “I doubt we’re going to see each other again, Elizabeth. There’s no point in introducing myself, and you already know my name.”

A heated flush flamed her face. The cheek of him! Where to start? He’d addressed her by her Christian name, hadn’t stood up, and hadn’t acknowledged her nod with any form of greeting.

“Why would you say that?” she said in a clipped tone without addressing him properly. Served him right.

“Your parents will do their level best to keep me away from you. Nothing personal. They’ll likely keep me away from everyone.”

Well, she found that intriguing despite herself. “Why?”

He stood up, the dark coat flowing down his legs. With those broad shoulders and that ruthless face, he had a future as a highwayman.

“Don’t worry. I have a hunch that I’m not going to stay here for long.”

“You make no sense.”

“I hear that a lot.”

Her next observation of his behaviour was cut off by Miss Martin flinging the door open.

“Elizabeth.” She shifted her gaze from Christopher to her. “What’s happening here? Who are you, sir?”

Christopher shook his coat, causing pieces of dry mud to fall onto the carpet. “No one. Officially, I don’t exist.”

He brushed past Elizabeth and left the room, leaving behind a trail of astonishment.