A Dangerous Temptation (Bow Street Brides Book 5) Page 3

  She dearly wished he’d stop calling her that. For most women it was a title to strive towards, but for Amelia it had always represented something to avoid at all costs. “I told you I’m not a duchess.”

  They turned into the circular drive. Adjusting the collar of his coat, Kent opened the door.

  “Thanks for the ride…Duchess.” His gaze lingered purposefully on her breasts and her face bloomed with color when she realized the double-entendre. Flashing a grin – the first she’d seen – he leapt out of the carriage and landed in a graceful crouch on the side of the lane.

  Infuriated to think he might have the last word, Amelia whirled around in her seat and scrambled to open the back window.

  “It’s Lady Amelia to you!” she called out, cupping her hands around her mouth so her voice could be heard above the noise of the horse’s hooves striking the ground and the jingling creak of their harnesses.

  Unfortunately, it proved to be a fruitless endeavor. With the exception of a swirl of dust brought on by the carriage’s wheels, the lane was completely empty. Kent, devil that he was, had appeared out of thin air…and now he’d disappeared into it, as well.

  Bluidy hell.

  Shaken to his very core, Tobias entered the first pub he came across and sat at the far end of the bar. Thumping his fist on the gleaming hardwood, he held up two fingers and nodded at a bottle of whiskey sitting on a shelf above the bartender’s head.

  He drank both shots in quick succession and considered having a third, but settled for a pint of ale instead.

  “Rough morning?” the bartender asked, flipping a rag over his shoulder.

  “Aye,” Tobias muttered into his tankard. “Ye could say that.”

  It had been a rough day, night, and morning. This time yesterday he’d been convinced he was, at long last, going to get the vengeance he desperately sought. After disappearing for nearly three years (long enough that Tobias had begun to hope he was dead), The Slasher had resurfaced and killed a prostitute before fixating on a young blonde seamstress by the name of Lilly James. She’d managed to escape his first two attacks – to their knowledge the only woman to have done so – and had agreed to use herself as bait in an attempt to lure him out into the open.

  The plan had worked. At least until The Slasher had been shot in the shoulder and crashed through a window. By some dark miracle he’d managed to escape, and even though the Runners had spent all night combing through every back alley in London they hadn’t been able to find the bastard.

  Kent closed his eyes, the ale souring in his mouth as he thought of how close he’d been to finally making Hannah’s murderer pay for his crimes.

  Five years he’d been chasing that monster.

  Five years, and if he’d had another five minutes he might have caught him.

  Timing, he thought viciously.

  It always came back to bluidy timing.

  If Hannah had crossed the street a minute later all those years ago, The Slasher might never have seen her. If Tobias had left the docks a few minutes earlier, he might have saved her. Then he’d be at home with his beloved instead of drinking to her memory.

  How was it the past five years had gone by in the blink of an eye and also been the longest he’d ever experienced? They’d seen him go from a husband to a widow. From a man with dreams to a man burdened by death. From a dock worker to a Bow Street Runner.

  So many of those years were blurred by drink and the madness that came from grief, but Tobias still remembered the day he’d stormed into Bow Street headquarters. It had been exactly one week since he’d cradled his wife’s blood-soaked body in his arms. Half drunk and filled with rage, he had stood on the other side of the magistrate’s desk with a knife clenched in his fist and threatened to slice him gullet to gut if he didn’t bring him the head of Hannah’s murderer on a silver bluidy platter.

  The magistrate should have thrown Tobias in Newgate.

  Anyone is his position would have.

  Instead John Fielding had hired him.

  “We need men like you,” John had said quietly, undeterred by the blade pointing at his chest. Well past middle-aged and on the brink of retirement, he’d taken over Bow Street after his older brother, Henry Fielding, had died three years prior. “Men willing to put their lives on the line to protect the innocent. When I leave I want to know that what my brother started will continue.”

  Tobias, stunned by the offer, had stared blankly at John. “I’m only a poor Irishman with a dead wife. I don’t know anything about being a Runner.”

  “There’s not much to know, to be honest. This isn’t the Queen’s Guard. Most of my men come from poor backgrounds. They’ve grown up in the rookeries or close enough to them to know their stench. It’s what makes them – and you – perfect for this line of work. You have quick reflexes, Kent. Quick enough to have gotten past the guard downstairs. And you’re bold. Bold enough to pull a knife on me, of all people.” He’d lifted a gray brow. “I’d be well within my rights to shoot you here and now.”

  Though it shamed Tobias to recall it after the fact, he’d almost asked John to do just that.

  “I just want the man who killed Hannah found.” His grip had tightened around the knife before he’d put it away. “And I want to see him suffer. Slowly.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” John had said sincerely. “That was a nasty piece of business. The worst I’ve seen in all my years on Bow Street. And I’ve seen a lot. But that’s what makes you perfect for this position.”

  “Because my wife was murdered?” Tobias said harshly.

  John had met his gaze without blinking. “Because you have nothing left to lose.”

  Tobias started the very next day. Just as John had predicted, he’d been perfectly suited to be a Runner. Aside from his fearlessness and quick reflexes, he was smart, determined, and he saw a piece of Hannah in the face of every woman and child he helped save. It made each case bitterly personal, but that was what made him good. It was what he kept sharp when better men than he left to find a job where the air didn’t stink of death and decay.

  Not every case began with a dead body. A lot of them – most of them, come to think of it – involved nothing more serious than a stolen necklace. Over the past six months there had been a rare string of burglaries in Grosvenor Square. Priceless brooches, diamond bracelets, engraved cufflinks…all stolen in the dead of the night.

  Tobias wondered if Lady Amelia Tattershall had had anything stolen. Raising his glass, he took a long, brooding sip as his thoughts shifted to the beautiful blonde with the large blue eyes framed by the longest, thickest lashes he’d ever seen.

  Her name didn’t suit her.

  Amelia Tattershall was too prim and proper for the wanton temptress that had ridden his cock like a jockey in the Queen Anne Stakes. Duchess fit her far better, and his mouth curved in a humorless smile as he recalled the way those blue eyes had flashed whenever he’d used it.

  She had a temper on her, his Duchess.

  Except she wasn’t his.

  Scowling, Tobias drained the pint and gestured for another. His drinking had steadily increased since The Slasher had reappeared. It was the only thing that silenced the demons within him, and he wanted nothing more than to get foxed, stagger home to his empty flat, and sleep until either his head stopped pounding or he forgot the taste of Amelia’s lips. Whichever came first.

  Unfortunately it seemed Lord Grant Hargrave had other ideas.

  Tobias knew who had entered the pub without looking up from his ale. Every Runner walked in their own distinct manner and he could identify each one just by the sound of their footsteps.

  Their captain, Owen Steel, always traveled with purpose. The common born son of a baker, he’d served in the military with distinction and had since made a name for himself as a hard, but fair leader of the Bow Street Runners, stepping in after John Fielding retired.

  The brothers, Ian and Colin Ferguson, walked as differently as they looked. Colin, the large
r and more laid-back of the two, preferred to stroll while Ian, lean as a whip and twice as serious, had no patience for dawdling.

  Ronan Hawke may have been the biggest Runner – and the biggest man Tobias had ever seen – but he was, shockingly, the quietest. A brute of few words and light feet, you’d never know he was standing right next to you until it was too late.

  Then there was Felix Spencer, a thief turned Runner who walked like a damn cat. To say the two men did not get along would have been the bluidy understatement of the century. Unconsciously flexing his jaw which had been turned black and blue by Spencer’s fist on more than one occasion, Tobias glared sideways at Grant as he pulled out a stool and sat down.

  “A bit early to be drowning yourself in a pint, isn’t it?” Grant asked, nodding towards the pewter tankard Tobias held clenched between his hands.

  Tall and impeccably dressed, Bow Street’s second-in-command cut a striking figure that demanded attention wherever he went. The son of a duke, he was the only Runner with a title and the wealthiest among them by far. Tobias shouldn’t have liked him on principle, but he’d been grudgingly won over by Grant’s hard work ethic and their mutual hate for Felix Spencer.

  Not to say that he actually liked Grant.

  Tobias didn’t like anyone.

  But of all the Runners he disliked him the least.

  “What are ye doing here?” he grunted.

  Grant drummed his fingers on the edge of the bar. “The better question is, what are you doing here? This isn’t your usual sort of establishment.”

  For the first time Tobias lifted his head and took note of his surroundings. Grant was right. This wasn’t his usual sort of establishment. It was clean, for one thing. And the ale didn’t taste like piss for another. But it had been nearby, and he’d been badly in need of a drink. Speaking of which…

  Tossing back the rest of his ale, he slid the empty tankard across the bar. “Another.”

  “Ignore him,” Grant instructed the bartender. “He’s done drinking.”

  “What the devil are ye doing?” Tobias scowled.

  “Saving you from one hell of a headache.”

  “Maybe I want a bluidy headache.”

  “I’ve no doubt you do,” Grant replied. “But we don’t always get what we want.”

  Tobias snorted. “Ye think I don’t know that, mate?”

  Grant was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry we didn’t get him, Kent. We will next time.”

  “I don’t want there to be a goddamned next time!” he snarled, slamming his fist down with such force that the bottles of whiskey above the bartender’s head clanked together. “How many women has he slaughtered? Ten? Twelve? And those are just the ones we know about.”

  “We got closer to him than we ever have before–” Grant began.

  “Closer isn’t good enough. Closer isn’t going to stop him from killing again.”

  Closer isn’t going to bring Hannah back.

  As the old familiar claws of grief and madness threatened to tear into his flesh, Tobias abruptly stood up. He’d fought against his demons for too long and too hard to succumb to the fanged bastards now. When The Slasher was dead then (and only then) would he give in to the darkness and the madness that laid in wait, lurking in the wings, eager to devour him whole. Until then he would continue to battle for his soul, for it was the only thing standing between him and the abyss.

  “What do ye know about Lady Amelia Tattershall?” he asked, wanting – needing – to change the subject. The Slasher had already infiltrated his nightmares. If he thought about the monster every waking minute of the day he feared that he really would go mad.

  “Tattershall?” Grant asked. “What about her?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of her.” Tobias gave an irritated hitch of his shoulder. “You nabobs all travel in the same circles, don’t ye? Blonde hair. Blue eyes. About this tall.” He held his hand up to the middle of his chest. “Lives in a fancy mansion on Fairchild Street, next to the park.”

  “Just because my father is a duke doesn’t mean I know every bloody aristocrat in London.” It was a note of irritation for Grant that he was perpetually stuck between two vastly different worlds. The ton, which he’d been born into, and Bow Street, which he’d chosen.

  Tobias lifted a brow. “But you do know of her.”

  “Yes, I know of her. Everyone knows of the Tattersall’s. They’re a very old, very prestigious family. Her parents are the Duke and Duchess of Webley.” Grant’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why do you want to know about her?”

  “No reason,” Tobias said evasively.

  “Is she in danger?”

  Aye, he thought silently. But not the sort ye think.

  “Her carriage struck me this morning in Hyde Park.”

  “You were run over by a carriage? Good God, man. Let’s get you to a doctor.”

  “Struck,” Tobias clarified. “Not run over. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? There wouldn’t be any harm in–”

  “I said I’m bluidy well fine,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Grant held up his hands. “Accepting help from time to time doesn’t mean you’re weak, Kent. It just means you’re human.”

  But that’s where he was wrong. Because Tobias was weak.

  If he’d been strong…if he’d been strong Hannah never would have died.

  As a husband, it had been his job to protect her.

  His most important job.

  His only job.

  And he’d failed.

  Over the past five years, the weight of that failure had worn him down to the marrow. Like an ox that had been burdened by a heavy cart for too long, it was the only thing he knew. Without it…without it he wouldn’t know what to do. Without it he wouldn’t know who he was.

  Vengeance was his driving purpose. It was the only thing he had left.

  He needed it like he needed air to breathe.

  And food to eat.

  And whiskey to drink.

  To hell with Grant, he thought silently. If he wanted to drown himself in the bottom of a bottle it was his right to do so, and damn anyone who told him otherwise. Throwing down a handful of coins that comprised his entire week’s salary, he reached across the bar and grabbed a full decanter.

  “Kent,” Grant began, temple creasing with concern, “what are you–”

  “Sod off.” Taking a swig of the whiskey before tucking it under his arm, Tobias stalked out of the pub.

  “Well?” Owen asked, looking up from his mountain of paperwork as Hargrave entered his office and closed the door behind him. An imposing figure, he had dark brown hair that was beginning to gray at the temples and piercing blue eyes that could cut like a knife. “How is he?”

  “Not in a good way.” Slipping out of his jacket, Grant made himself comfortable in one of the leather chairs facing the captain’s desk. Brothers-in-arms, the two men had known each other since they’d both fought on the bloody battlefields of France. It was Grant who had convinced Owen to become a Runner and despite his friend’s initial reluctance he’d taken to it like a damn duck to water, his calm, controlled demeanor making him the perfect leader for Bow Street’s unruly collection of lords, rogues, and thieves. “But when is he ever?”

  “Do you think he would benefit from some time away?”

  Grant snorted. “This is the only life he knows. Take it away from him, and he’d drink himself to death before the end of the week.”

  “His drinking has become a subject of concern.” Frowning, Owen set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. “As of late he’s been drunk more often than he’s been sober.”

  “He’s Irish,” Grant grinned. Then his grin faded. “But you’re right. It’s something to keep an eye on. If it starts to interfere with his work…”

  “If it starts to interfere with his work then he’s done,” Owen said flatly. “Kent is one of our best men, but with the Peelers crawling up our arses we can’t afford to make any
mistakes.”

  For years the Bow Street Runners had been the only organized force patrolling London’s streets. Then, about four years ago, the Metropolitan Police had formed. Funded by the crown, they consisted of nearly one hundred men in matching blue uniforms and the most ridiculous top hats Grant had ever seen. Their founder, Sir Robert Peel, did not like competition and was determined to make Bow Street a thing of the past. Which meant Owen was right. If the Runners wanted to continue to exist simultaneously with the Peelers, they needed to tread carefully.

  “He wants to find The Slasher,” he said. “Can you blame him?”

  “No, of course not. What happened to Mrs. Kent…” Owen’s gaze flicked to the small picture frame he kept on the edge of his desk. It was a portrait of his wife Scarlett, a lovely blonde with laughing gray eyes and a mischievous smile. Childhood sweethearts, Scarlett and Owen had encountered more than a few obstacles on their way to wedded bliss, the least of which had been murder, attempted murder, and a barn fire. But in less than month they would celebrate their one-year anniversary and Grant had never seen his friend happier.

  “I can’t imagine what I would do if The Slasher touched a hair on Scarlett’s head,” Owen said quietly. “I want to find the bastard just as much as Kent does. But there’s one difference.”

  “And what’s that?” Grant asked, lifting a brow.

  “I’m not willing to burn the city to the ground to do it.”

  Chapter Three

  “I look like a peacock.” Staring at herself in the full-length mirror, Amelia gave an experimental flap of her arms. “When a lord asks to place his name on my card I won’t know whether to smile or chirp.”

  “You do not look like a peacock.” Visibly exasperated, Vanessa Tattershall, Duchess of Webley, met her daughter’s gaze in the mirror’s silvery reflection and frowned. A petite woman with a countenance given to sternness, Vanessa had been a Great Beauty in her day and that beauty was still evident in her vivid blue eyes, ivory complexion, and gleaming brown hair she had her lady’s maid brush precisely one-hundred times every night before bed.