Page 2 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)

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Y OU’RE NO ONE, Christopher .

Christopher had lost count of how many times he’d heard that. Everyone around him seemed eager to remind him who he was and wasn’t. Especially his half-brother Pearce. ‘ You’re no one ’ was Pearce’s motto, repeated religiously twice a day. The only good thing about the constant repetition was that the insult lost its meaning the more Christopher heard it.

After he strode out of the library, leaving an astonished Elizabeth behind, he didn’t know where to go. Mr. Weston had told him to wait in the library. He’d be angry to learn that Christopher had disobeyed him. Good.

The Earl of Lincoln’s country house was just like the duke’s country house—ridiculously big, cold, and filled with useless items no one liked but that were supposed to impress guests no one cared about.

He wondered where his bedroom would be. If they were going to give him a proper bedroom and not the barn, that is.

Elizabeth and the older woman came out of the library and hurried away. Elizabeth shot a fleeting glance at him, her cheeks reddening. He returned the glance.

He might be the bastard son of a duke, recently expelled from the prestigious Eton, but he’d never sneaked into a room to eavesdrop on … no, actually, he had. Several times. He and Elizabeth had something in common.

He stopped in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the grounds. Beyond the manicured flowerbeds, trimmed hedges, and the wall surrounding the house, the moorlands stretched out for miles with those tufts of grass stubborn enough to defy the wind, the cold, and the rocks. He felt an immediate kinship with those plants.

“Christopher.” And here it came, dear Mr. Weston. He always made Christopher’s name sound like a hiss. “I told you to wait in the library.”

“Shall I meet the earl now?”

Mr. Weston brought two fingers on his temples as if he were exhausted. That made two of them.

“Would you please do as you’re told for once? Follow me.” Mr. Weston glowered at him. “The earl and countess agreed to let you stay here. Do not make them regret their decision and don’t take advantage of their generosity.”

Generosity? The earl and countess were too scared to defy the mighty Duke of Grafton—a war hero, successful investor, and one of the queen’s favourites.

Mr. Weston’s scowl vanished when he stepped into the warm sitting room.

Christopher glanced at the door opening to the library where Elizabeth had eavesdropped on the conversation about him. There was something intimate about that, a sort of bond between them.

She was the essence of autumn with her glossy chestnut hair, rich brown eyes, and dark red gown. Pretty much the opposite of her parents, who were the essence of winter with their almost matching blue clothes, blond hair, and frosty expressions.

Mr. Weston cleared his throat.

Christopher bowed to the earl and countess without enthusiasm. “Lady Lincoln, Lord Lincoln. Thank you for your kind hospitality.”

If they could detect the sarcasm in his voice, he didn’t give a damn.

To his credit, Lord Lincoln didn’t look disgusted. “The duke is an old friend of mine. We were in the army together. My wife and I are more than happy to have you here.”

“On the condition,” the countess said, “that you avoid contact with the household, family members, and the locals when possible.”

The translation was: don’t talk to us, don’t talk to anyone in our family, don’t glance our way, and just pretend you don’t exist.

He’d heard variations of those rules quite often. But the alternative was to be sent to Grafton House in London, and it was the least appealing option. Also, it was potentially dangerous. The duke’s wife would strangle him with her pearl necklace if she saw him. He’d rather be mistreated in the country than in London. At least Dartmoor had plenty of fresh air.

He offered a shallow bow of his head. “I’ll do my best to be non-existent.”

The countess frowned, but Mr. Weston shot him a glare.

“I understand the reason you were expelled from Eton is thievery,” the earl said.

The reason was more complicated than thievery; it had to do with Pearce being an ass and his determination to get his disgraceful half-brother as far away as possible from him. A lie had been all that Pearce had needed. The headmaster’s prejudice against Christopher had done the rest. Christopher had professed his innocence with no result.

“So you stole from another student,” the countess said.

“Technically, no, my lady. My dear brother, Pearce, whom you surely had tea with many times, wanted to get rid of me and thought accusing me of stealing from him would get me expelled. He was right, of course. The headmaster didn’t even bother to ask for my version of the incident. Who was to be trusted? The prim son of a duke, or a bastard who officially doesn’t exist? Decisions, decisions.”

The earl and the countess looked horrified.

“Christopher,” Mr. Weston said. “Mind your language.”

He shrugged. “A bastard by any other name would stink as smelly.”

The countess gasped.

“Enough!” Mr. Weston straightened to his full height, failing to intimidate Christopher. “You’ll show respect while in this house.”

He had always to show respect, but curiously enough, he never received it.

Mr. Weston clenched his fists before stepping back, likely pondering if slapping him in front of the earl and the countess was a good idea. Not that Christopher minded one way or another. He was used to being beaten.

“You’ll stay here until the duke orders otherwise,” Mr. Weston said in case Christopher was thick enough not to have grasped that.

Interestingly, no one used the words ‘your father’ in front of him, only a generic ‘the duke.’

“I thought so.” He brushed off a piece of dirt from his jacket.

“Apologies, my lord, my lady.” Mr. Weston bowed again.

The earl clasped his hands behind his back, regaining his composure. “Let’s try to go through this moment together without causing any further inconvenience for the duke.”

Of course. Heaven forbid the duke had to experience even the smallest of inconveniences. Meanwhile, his illegitimate son could be shipped across the country like an unwanted parcel.

Never mind. Christopher would leave Spencer Hall in a matter of hours, a day at most.

He guessed no one would miss him.

* * *

After a rather boring afternoon during which Elizabeth had learnt more about mediaeval Tuscany but nothing about Christopher, she went down to the dining room for dinner.

Her evening gown left her shoulders almost bare, causing her to tremble. Perhaps the weather was still too cold for such a light gown.

She checked every corner for Christopher, hoping to exchange a word with him before dinner. But nothing. He’d vanished. After he’d left the library, Miss Martin had dragged her to the schoolroom and hadn’t let her out for another couple of hours. Every question unrelated to the Guelphs and Ghibellines had been ignored.

But she’d see him at dinner. Surely her parents would want to dine with a relative of the Duke of Grafton and introduce him to her properly.

Before stepping into the dining room, she straightened her skirt and tugged at her satin gigot sleeves. She didn’t care about making an impression on Christopher, but he’d been so unorthodox to her that she wanted to show him she wasn’t upset by his behaviour. Although she was. But that was the point of being a lady—to always be composed, even in front of rude people.

And she did want to impress him a little. The winter was so long and boring at Spencer Hall that she longed for a companion who didn’t blather about centuries-old wars.

Her hopes were crushed when she entered the dining room and spotted only her parents talking in hushed tones in front of the warm hearth. With her older brothers and sisters married and away, her family had become depressively small and quiet.

“Darling.” Father flashed a quick smile upon seeing her.

“Father, Mother.”

George, the footman, held out a chair for her.

She couldn’t bring up Christopher because, officially, she hadn’t met him, but she could talk about the carriage.

A few glances were exchanged between her parents as they sat at the table and the soup was served.

“I noticed a carriage coming up the drive this morning,” she said, taking a small spoonful of soup. “Did we receive a visitor?”

Mother put her hand on Father’s. “We should tell her.”

Father nodded at the butler, and the servants left the room, closing the double doors behind them.

Despite Elizabeth knowing about Christopher, her anxiety spiked. “What is it?”

“We have a guest,” Mother said. “His name is Christopher Blackwood.”

“Blackwood? But I—” She coughed in her fist. “Sorry, Mother.”

Father leant closer. “What I’m going to tell you is not to be disclosed to anyone. Christopher is the Duke of Grafton’s son, a child born without benefit of clergy. And …” He paused. “His mother was a fallen woman.”

“Charles.” Mother huffed. “You didn’t need to tell her that detail.”

“Oh.” An illegitimate son. That explained the familiarity with which everyone treated him. “Why is he here?”

Mother raised her eyebrows. “The duke was generous enough to send Christopher to Eton. Unfortunately, his generosity wasn’t repaid in kind. Christopher was expelled from the school after repeatedly breaking the rules.” She paused before adding, “He stole from another student. The headmaster couldn’t ignore that.”

Elizabeth stopped eating the soup. She’d been in the same room with the illegitimate son of a duke and a criminal. How exciting!

“Christopher will stay here until the duke decides his future,” Father said. “Meanwhile, you won’t have anything to do with him.”

Mother gave a serious nod. “He’s staying in the guest wing. We won’t see him anywhere in the house. You will not talk to him, and, of course, you won’t talk about him with anyone, not even the servants. Should you see him, you’ll ignore his presence and pretend he doesn’t exist.”

Elizabeth sipped her glass of water, trying to find the right words to express her disapproval of such behaviour. “I understand the need for discretion, but he’s our guest, and we’re treating him like a plague-ridden prisoner.”

Mother huffed. “Nonsense. We simply don’t want to get involved in any rumours about this unfortunate affair.”

So Christopher was only an unfortunate affair?

Mother continued, “We must think about our reputation as well. We couldn’t refuse the duke’s request for help, but we aren’t going to become associated in his horrible affairs.”

Father nodded. “Had we been in our house in London, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have agreed to keep Christopher with us. Too risky.”

She refrained from making a comment. Her encounter with Christopher had been brief and rather upsetting, but she couldn’t deny feeling sorry for him. He wasn’t an unfortunate affair only because he was born out of wedlock, and he had feelings that could be hurt.

Surely having a chat with him wouldn’t cause any trouble. Her parents didn’t need to know. But she would show Christopher not every member of her family considered him a disgrace to be ashamed of.