Page 19 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)

nineteen

Six months later

B EING A CRIMINAL was easy. One needed only a lot of imagination and not many scruples. The difficult part was to pay attention not to get caught.

From the moment Christopher had seen Elizabeth again, he’d lost some of his focus on the job and become sloppy, which meant risking a brush with the peelers. Also, the fact he spent every waking hour working or boxing didn’t help sharpen his mind.

The intense activity did nothing to remove Elizabeth from his daily thoughts and nocturnal nightmares. She would be Pearce’s bride.

Maybe that was for the best. No, sod it. It was for the worst. Pearce would never make her happy. The bloody duke was so worried about his own arse that he couldn’t make himself happy, least of all someone else.

Just to complete that pile of shite, Christopher had sent Finn to the Earl of Lincoln’s house to quietly contact Elizabeth. The lad was so charming and young that people easily talked to him.

Christopher had promised he wouldn’t bother her since his being a criminal and her being a lady complicated the situation. But after having seen her and because he was a selfish bastard, he’d wanted to see her again, be with her, and he was tired of denying it.

Sod Pearce. Sod the whole world. He wanted to be with her in whatever way she would allow.

Or so he’d thought.

His research had been wasted time. Apparently, she was visiting her sister in the country, supposed to return after a few months. She and Pearce might celebrate their wedding there.

Bloody fantastic. He guessed Pearce would visit her often, take long walks with her, kiss her … the thought was sheer torture, and his mind enjoyed inflicting him pain.

Maybe Elizabeth had realised that seeing each other would be a mistake, and she’d decided to leave London to stay away from him. If that was the case, she’d done the right thing, and he wouldn’t bother her. But he didn’t have to like the situation.

Christopher yawned loudly as he returned home from the piers. Bloody smuggling was getting increasingly difficult, and the coppers were greedy bastards. Always asking for more bribes while his rivals kept trying to dethrone him.

The moment he entered the palace, Jane—the woman who was the housekeeper, cook, secretary, and everything in between—ran towards him, holding up her apron. Darko trotted next to her but reached him first.

“Mate.” Christopher gave his dog a hug as usual. Regardless of how tired he was, he always had time and energy for Darko.

Black fur rained around. It didn’t matter how many times Christopher groomed the hound, more fur would come off.

“Guv, Guv.” Jane shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“What is it?”

“Someone came here today, looking for you.”

“Coppers?”

“No. A man in a shiny suit.” She handed him a piece of paper. “He said this message was for you, private for you.”

He unfolded the piece of paper and snorted. Pearce had sent his footman to the royal palace because he demanded to see him immediately at a nearby address.

Yes, of course, immediately. He would fly there. He’d run there at breakneck speed. No worries. Just wait and see.

“Did the man say anything else?” he asked.

“Only that it was very urgent. He came three times to see if you’d returned. He was quite insistent.”

“Great. It must be important.” He crumpled the piece of paper and lobbed it, missing a pot of geranium by an inch. Bad luck.

Jane snatched the paper ball from the floor. “With due respect, Guv, but you should go.”

“I’ve just returned from the piers.”

“We don’t want to attract attention, do we?” She unfolded the piece of paper and folded it again neatly to stash it into his coat pocket. “We don’t want a ducal footman?—”

“You read the message.”

“—coming here asking questions. That would lead to more questions, and we don’t want that.”

“Damn.”

“Good lad,” Jane said, although he wasn’t sure if she was referring to him or Darko since the dog licked her hand.

Bloody Pearce.

Christopher marched out again, cursing under his breath.

If anything, he wanted to ask Pearce how he’d found him. Not that Christopher’s address was a secret, but a duke didn’t dwell in an area like Whitechapel.

He grunted and scoffed all the way. At least the place Pearce had chosen wasn’t far. The house was a decent building, likely one of Pearce’s many properties. Perhaps that was the house where Pearce had used to meet Sarah.

Christopher barely knocked before the footman he’d seen months ago in Grafton House opened the door.

“Blackwood. This way.” The footman kept his distance, casting him a wary glance.

“Our last encounter has left its mark,” he said.

But the chap lacked any sense of humour and didn’t reply.

The footman opened the door to a sitting room. “Your Grace, Blackwood.”

“Finally,” Pearce said.

The footman held the door open for Christopher, shooting him a glare Christopher returned. The door was shut with a thud behind him.

Pearce had dispensed with his usual expensive clothes for a more practical suit, something Father would have done when visiting Christopher and his mother.

“What took you so long?” Pearce asked.

“Goodbye, Pearce. Wish you the best. Actually, no, I don’t.” He moved towards the door, but Pearce stepped in front of him. His expression genuinely pained.

“Why do you want to destroy me?” Again, honesty rang out in Pearce’s voice.

Of all the questions Christopher expected, that one didn’t make any sense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You took her from me just to prove what? That everyone favours you, and no one would choose me.”

“You’re barking mad.” He brushed past Pearce. “Why did you tell me to come here?”

Pearce closed a hand on Christopher’s arm, showing a strong grip that warranted some concern. “I’m here for Elizabeth.”

That caught his full attention. “What does Elizabeth have to do with anything? And weren’t you talking about me proving something? You don’t make any sense.”

“She’s your lover, and together, you decided to humiliate me.”

Christopher barked out a laugh. The idea was too ridiculous. “What type of opium have you been smoking? I tell you, opium is not a good choice. It turns your brain into a pulp and makes it bleed.”

Pearce got uncomfortably close. “Having Father’s affection wasn’t enough for you. You had to steal Elizabeth from me.”

Christopher scowled. “That’s enough. This joke isn’t funny. I haven’t seen Elizabeth in a long time.”

“Liar. Someone saw you two together.”

He shrugged, not wanting to confirm anything and put Elizabeth in danger.

Pearce seemed undecided between anger and pain. “Where’s she? I need to talk to her.”

“What do you mean by that?” He put a hand on the knob but paused. He was about to say that Elizabeth was visiting her sister in the country, but he wasn’t supposed to know that. “What have you done to Elizabeth?”

“I didn’t do anything. Her father kicked her out six months ago after we discovered she was your mistress.”

“What?” Christopher roared. He came face-to-face with Pearce without even realising it. In his haste, he didn’t mention that Elizabeth wasn’t his mistress. “Did you hurt her?”

Pearce’s harsh mask fell for a moment, revealing only a sad, lonely man. “She hurt me . After her parents and I confronted her, she denied being your mistress. Her father disowned her and threw her out. I gave her a chance to redeem herself. If she told me the truth, I would have forgiven her, but she chose to leave her house to be with you.”

“Bollocks. Where is she?”

“I have no bloody idea,” Pearce gritted out. “That’s why I asked you.” The deep worry-lines on his forehead smoothed. “I thought she would have come to me after a couple of weeks of living on her own, but she didn’t. I wanted her punished, yes, but now I wonder where she is. Her mother told me she’d received a few letters from Elizabeth, but she’d burned all of them without opening them. Silly woman. Now I can’t find her. I’m worried.”

So was Christopher. “Hell.” He paced. “I haven’t seen her. I’m not lying.”

Pearce rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. She lied to me. She tricked me. And I fell for it like an idiot.”

“She isn’t my mistress, you bloody twat.”

“But you and Elizabeth were together during the Great Blizzard, weren’t you?” Pearce recovered his ducal composure. “You were in your mother’s cottage.”

Well, lying was pointless. “Yes, we were together.” He expected a new outburst from Pearce, a shout, a crass word, but nothing.

Pearce paled like a man bleeding from a lethal wound. He lowered his gaze, which was a first. The duke never looked away from his opponent. There was something eerie in his silence. “I’d hoped it wasn’t true.”

“Pearce …” Christopher didn’t know what to say. He’d never been in the position of comforting his brother, but the pain was palpable.

“Go,” Pearce whispered.

Saying he was sorry was only a waste of time.

Time that he should employ to search for Elizabeth.