Compromising The Duke's Daughter
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He despaired of his daughter’s impetuousness, but he grudgingly admired her, too, for her independence and benevolence. But from what he’d heard from Dorothea, and he believed it to be the truth, his travelling coach had been almost overrun with beggars threatening robbery and violence. And as a responsible parent he must punish his daughter’s bad behaviour.
The door opened and the butler, looking stern, ushered Philip Rook into the room.
Joan guessed that poor Pip had felt the rough side of Tobias Bartlett’s tongue; the youth looked terrified to be summoned into his eminent employer’s presence for the very first time. In the past the lad had merely seen the Duke in the stable yard from beneath the forelock he tugged. Pip’s complexion was alternating between scarlet and white as he stood, Adam’s apple bobbing, waiting to hear his fate.
‘You, Rook, were driving the coach this afternoon that got beset by a mob,’ the Duke stated.
‘I was, your Grace,’ Pip answered faintly, as his master continued to glare at him.
‘Pray why were you doing so and without a footman at least accompanying you?’
Pip licked his lips and blinked a glance Joan’s way.
‘He was doing so at my behest, Papa.’
Dorothea flapped her handkerchief at her brother, nodding vigorously to indicate the extent of the task confronting her to manage his wayward child.
‘And in this way you guessed the escapade might evade my notice, did you?’ the Duke suggested drily.
Joan winced as the barb hit home. Nothing escaped her father’s sharp mind.
‘In fact, had one of the other drivers taken you to St George’s in the East you might have avoided getting lost at all and returned home without me being aware of any of it.’
Joan’s blush deepened at the hint that she was an incompetent schemer.
‘My sister tells me that you were extremely fortunate that one of the locals did the decent thing and steered you out of the rookery before a disaster occurred.’ His Grace was frowning fiercely at his novice driver.
‘He weren’t a local, your Grace, he were Mr Rockleigh.’
The Duke of Thornley had been marching to and fro with his hands clasped behind his back and his head lowered in concentration. Now he halted and pivoted on a heel to gawp at his servant. Joan also stared Pip’s way. She’d not believed for a second that her driver had recognised Drew Rockleigh from that one brief meeting, in the dark, over two years ago.
‘Mr Rockleigh?’ Alfred parroted in utter disbelief. ‘Do you mean Drew Rockleigh?’ The Duke looked to his daughter for a reply.
‘Yes, it was him, Papa,’ Joan answered quietly.
‘You knew that ruffian?’ Dorothea snorted. ‘I believed him to be one of them.’ She flapped a hand in disgust.
‘I believe he is now one of them,’ Joan said with genuine sorrow trembling her voice.
‘You may return to your post, Rook, and you, Sister, may also retire.’
‘I certainly did not know the ruffian was your stepson-in-law’s friend,’ Dorothea avowed while trotting towards the door. ‘I swear I got no proper look at him, Alfred...just his back was to me as he leapt down.’
His Grace hurried his sister on her way with a hand flap, but as Joan also approached the exit he halted her with a curt, ‘You stay, miss. I have much to discuss with you.’
Once the door had been closed the Duke again prowled about, much to his daughter’s relief. Joan had been expecting an immediate dressing down, but it seemed her father was still pondering on the startling news that Luke Wolfson’s best friend had been reduced to such poverty.
‘Did Rockleigh know your identity, Joan?’ Alfred enquired, still pacing.
‘He did, Papa.’
‘Did you talk about what prompted his fall from grace?’
‘No...we exchanged little conversation. It wasn’t the time or place for social niceties.’ Joan kept to herself that Drew Rockleigh had roundly castigated her for being abroad in the vicinity of Ratcliffe Highway.
‘I know some business went bad for him, but never would I have imagined he now frequents a notorious slum.’ The Duke of Thornley sorrowfully shook his head.
‘He seems quite able to take care of himself...but it was horrid meeting him there,’ Joan replied. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, that I put myself and my aunt and Pip in peril. But please don’t ask me to stop helping at the school—’
‘I ask nothing,’ the Duke interrupted. ‘I am telling you categorically that you will never attend that place again. And I shall write personally to your friend Vincent Walters to make it clear that I hold him responsible for imperilling you.’ The Duke’s impassioned speech had turned his complexion florid.
‘You cannot! It’s not the Reverend’s fault that I volunteered my services. And in any case he did impress on me that...’ Joan’s voice tailed away.
‘He did impress on you...what?’ his Grace demanded.
‘He said I shouldn’t undertake anything without your consent,’ Joan admitted sheepishly. She didn’t want Vincent Walters added to the list of people she’d caused to be scolded because of her determination to help those far less fortunate than herself.
The Duke appeared slightly mollified to know that the vicar had acted correctly. ‘I will not write and admonish him, then, if you promise to behave as you should.’ The Duke’s mind returned to the topic most engaging it. ‘Did Rockleigh appear much changed to you?’
‘Oddly...no...it took me only a short while to recognise him. Oh, the elements have browned his skin and bleached his hair. His body seemed broader, more muscled...’ The memory of that naked torso slick with sweat and blood streaks caused Joan to blush. ‘Of course his clothes were very grimy,’ she hastened on. ‘But he appeared quite healthy, apart from some cuts and bruises to his hands and face.’ She noticed her father’s deep frown. ‘He prize fights to pay for his keep, you see,’ she explained.
‘Fights? What...in the street?’ Alfred snorted. He recalled that he had once watched his stepson-in-law and Rockleigh sparring at Gentleman Jim’s gymnasium and thought them evenly matched. Rockleigh had won the bout and gone on to take a fencing match against Luke, too, that afternoon.
‘He pays his way by winning purses, so he said,’ Joan added.
‘I suppose something must be done to help him,’ the Duke rumbled beneath his breath. ‘Not so long ago that fellow did us a great service in keeping you safe and keeping confidential another of your hare-brained jaunts; now he has come to your assistance once more. He deserves a reward and methinks that he will be inclined to accept it this time.’
Joan shot a glance at her father. ‘You offered to reward him last time?’
‘I did, indeed!’ the Duke admitted forcefully. ‘What occurred wasn’t Rockleigh’s fault.’ He harrumphed. ‘I was embarrassed and humbled to learn that I’d wrongly accused him of seducing you, when all the fellow had done was put himself to the trouble of returning you home after you turned up on his doorstep.’
Joan flinched from the reminder of her shameful behaviour and from the memory of her father’s attempt to make Rockleigh marry her. He had refused to have her and in the end there had been no need for a forced marriage because the scandal had never leaked out. Only family and the reluctant bridegroom had ever been privy to what had gone on.
‘I will set an investigator to unearth him and arrange a payment.’ The Duke of Thornley was not simply being philanthropic; his busy mind was weighing up how the possession of a wealthy man’s secrets might corrupt a person down on his luck.
A muttered oath exploded between Alfred’s teeth as he imagined all manner of disastrous consequences following on from that dratted calamity in Wapping. He dismissed his daughter with urgent finger flicks, pondering on whether the vicar or Rockleigh or both of them might present him with a problem.
When she’d been about fifteen Joan had been soft on her best friend’s cousin. Vincent Walters, for his part, had encouraged Lady Joan’s attention more than was decent for a fellow of his calling or station in life, in Alfred’s opinion. His late wife had reassured him that there was nothing to worry about. Girls blossoming into womanhood liked to flirt at such a tender age, she’d told him, because they were fascinated by the new power they had recently acquired over gentlemen. She’d maintained that Vincent was simply being courteous and kind in his mild responses. By then the Duchess had been quite poorly and Alfred had not wanted to worry his wife by overreacting. Privately he had let the Reverend know by glowering look and barbed comment that he wasn’t happy about the situation. In hindsight, Alfred accepted it had amounted to little more than Joan fluttering her eyelashes and the vicar and his relations being entertained to tea more often than was usual. Within a few months his daughter had turned sixteen and had made her come out at her mama’s insistence. The doctor had warned that the Duchess might not survive the coming winter weather and his wife had dearly wanted to see Joan launched into society.
During that glittering Season in town Joan had been plagued by admirers. However, Alfred had made sure that the gentlemen’s clubs had been rife with talk that the Duke of Thornley considered his sixteen-year-old daughter too young to become a wife and wouldn’t countenance a meeting with any suitor for at least two years. But Joan’s girlhood crush on the vicar had mellowed into a friendship even before the leaves on the trees turned to gold that year, and shortly after her beloved mama’s passing had caused a black cloud to descend on the entire Thornley household.
With a sigh, Alfred wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He was quite sure that no renewed infatuation with the vicar had made Joan risk the trip to the East End of London. She was a young woman who was too aware of her privileges and society’s injustices, and would help those less fortunate when an opportunity arose.
Alfred dragged his mind back to the pressing matter of the real or imaginary threat that a different fellow might present to his family.
Drew Rockleigh had it within his power to ruin Lady Joan Morland. Their unexpected meeting today might have jogged the fellow’s memory to the value of the information he held against her. Alfred knew the boxer might even now be pondering making contact with him to quote a price for his continuing silence. He would like to think that conscience and morals would prevent Rockleigh ever stooping so low, but an empty belly could make a sinner out of a saint.
Jerking open a bureau drawer, Alfred found a pen and parchment. He was keen to write to the Pryke Detective Agency to have the matter nipped in the bud rather than wait for it to flourish.
Chapter Three
‘What is this?’
‘It’s a letter, as you can see, sir.’ The fellow sneered the final word. He peered upwards along his bulbous nose at the tall blond fellow whose sun-beaten profile was presented to him. Thadeus Pryke attempted to swipe five biting fingers from his forearm, but found he could not budge the bronzed digits an inch.
‘I can see that it is a letter. Why give it to me?’ The unaddressed parchment, having been examined, was thrust back at the messenger.
‘Because I believe you to be Mr Rockleigh...although I hear you’re known as the Squire round these parts.’ Again Pryke’s top lip curled. ‘My client has asked me to deliver the letter to you.’
‘And your client is?’ Drew Rockleigh stuck a slim cheroot in his mouth, then lit it from a match flaring in his cupped palm.
‘And my client is...my business.’ Thadeus smirked. He was inordinately pleased with himself to have secured such an illustrious patron. He had been an army corporal in his time, before he’d bettered himself and gained employment in his brother’s detective agency. But what he really wanted was to set up in business on his own account.
The Squire’s precise speech and confident manner proclaimed him to be a man of good stock. The steely strength in his grip, taken together with the battle wounds on his knuckles and cheeks, spoke of his employment entertaining the crowds in a makeshift boxing ring that sprang up illicitly in the neighbourhood, then disappeared equally swiftly. Thadeus knew that the purses could reach quite a sum and attracted talented pugilists from far and wide. There were no holds barred with these men and wily assailants used every bodily weapon they possessed, from head to foot, to gain victory.
‘Stay there, while I read it,’ Drew commanded. Taking back the parchment, he stepped clear of a group of rowdies who had been loitering outside the Cock and Hen. He’d been on the point of entering the tavern when Pryke intercepted him a few moments ago.
A laugh grazed his throat as his eyes flitted over the few lines of thick black script.
‘Have you a pencil?’ he enquired of Thadeus, sticking the cheroot back between a set of even white teeth.
The investigator immediately produced one.
Drew scrawled two words across the bottom of the paper, then refolded it and resealed the broken wax with hot ash flicked from his cigar and strong pressure from a calloused thumb. ‘Return it, if you please.’
From beneath a pair of wiry brows Thadeus watched Rockleigh’s impressively broad back as the fellow strode away into the inn, a pretty blonde tavern wench greeting him eagerly at the doorway.
* * *
‘Where is he?’ the Duke of Thornley demanded to know when the detective returned alone. In his note he’d commanded Rockleigh to accompany Thadeus Pryke to meet him and claim his reward.
Alfred had taken the precaution of garbing himself in a sober suit of clothes and hiring a creaky rig to take him to the Eastern Quarter. He had wanted to blend in with the prevalent atmosphere of lower-middle-class aspiration; lawyers and shopkeepers had colonised an area in Cheapside in which Alfred had instructed his driver to stop. The Duke of Thornley had decided that if his daughter were brave enough to journey into the bowels of the Wapping docks to school children, then he must have sufficient backbone to park on the outskirts to pay the man who had ensured her safe passage home to Mayfair.
His young son and heir was away at school and as much as Alfred adored George, he doted equally on his eldest child, trial that Joan was, because she reminded him of the love of his life—her late mother. He would do his utmost to protect Joan from scandal...and in that he hoped—but was not convinced—that he and the boxer were of a single mind.
Thadeus executed a deep bow, his hat secured beneath an arm. Climbing aboard the rig, he closed the door so they might converse in private. Drawing forth the letter, he proffered it. ‘The Squire returned you a message, your Grace.’
‘The Squire?’ Alfred echoed quizzically.
‘Beg pardon, your Grace... I have inadvertently used the fellow’s nickname.’ In fact, Thadeus had intentionally aired the sobriquet in the hope that the Duke would find the boxer risible. The impatience with which his Grace snatched the missive disappointed Thadeus. Whether he was Rockleigh or the Squire, the man was obviously of great importance to Thornley.
Impatiently Alfred broke the seal and gaped at Rockleigh’s answer to his offer of fifty pounds’ compensation for time and trouble expended on his daughter’s behalf. Nothing required was the sum of the man’s response and he hadn’t seen it necessary to add either his gratitude, or his signature.
Alfred slouched back against the upholstery, feeling miffed by the snub. He was a duke with several lesser titles and a number of ancestral estates established in the countryside from Cumberland in the north to Devon in the south. Yet a man who was rumoured to have lost everything in bad business deals, and was reduced to brawling to earn a crust, wanted nothing from him. And Rockleigh hadn’t even been sufficiently flattered by the Duke of Thornley’s interest in him to come and pay his respects.
Alfred dismissed Thadeus, who on reaching the pavement swivelled on a heel to jerk an obsequious bow. The investigator then rammed his hat back on his head and strode off. Alfred banged on the roof of the rig for the driver to head towards Mayfair. Far from accepting that that was the end of it, he was more determined than ever to have a meeting with Joan’s saviour. Curiosity about Drew Rockleigh’s decline played a part, but overriding all else was Alfred’s prickling suspicion that no impoverished fellow would turn down the opportunity to exploit his secret knowledge. If Rockleigh was playing a long game and heightening Alfred’s anxiety with uncertainty, then the tactic was working. The Duke sourly acknowledged that he was tempted to turn the rig about and drive straight into the heart of the rookery to demand Rockleigh spit out how much he did want if the sum offered wasn’t sufficient for him to drag himself out of squalor.
He pressed his shoulders against the lumpy squabs, rueing his missed chance of quizzing his son-in-law over Rockleigh the last time they’d been in each other’s company. Luke was sure to know a good deal about his friend’s degradation, yet Alfred had not previously been interested enough to probe. He was not one to want to pick over another chap’s misfortune. But now things were different.
* * *
‘I expect your father will put a stop to our meetings now.’
Vincent had sounded sorrowful. He had always been chary of upsetting the Duke of Thornley. His cousin Louise was very friendly with Lady Joan and their mothers were close, too. Years ago, Lady Joan’s infatuation with him had initially been flattering, but having the Duke’s good opinion was crucial to Vincent. Rich and powerful patrons of the church were hard to come by, and Vincent had been relieved rather than disappointed when Lady Joan’s flirtatious behaviour waned as she grew more mature. Vincent was a pragmatic man. He knew there was no real prospect of a clergyman marrying a duke’s daughter, so he had accepted early on that their relationship must remain platonic.
‘Oh, Papa is just up in the boughs over my misadventure, but he will calm down in a week or so.’ Joan gave her companion a smile as they strolled side by side in Hyde Park.
A short distance behind the couple, Aunt Dorothea was stomping along assisted by her silver-topped cane and her maid. The young servant was wielding a parasol to shield her mistress’s lined complexion from the April sun.
Joan would sooner just a maid accompanied her when she went out, but her father insisted that she be properly chaperoned even though he’d recently deemed his sister unequal to the task.
‘I don’t think Lady Dorothea cares for me at all,’ Vincent said, slanting a glance over a shoulder. ‘But for her manners forcing her to respond, I believe your aunt would have ignored my greeting earlier.’
‘She took the upset very badly that afternoon,’ Joan explained.
On the day in question Joan had entered Vincent’s back parlour to find nine children grouped in a semi-circle, sitting cross-legged on the rug. They’d ranged in age from about six to ten years old. She’d gladly assisted Vincent in chalking letters on the children’s slates for them to copy, but her aunt had refused to get involved or to budge from the front room of the vicarage. Dorothea had huddled into her widow’s weeds and sat all alone for two hours rather than make herself useful.
‘My aunt prefers it when we take a drive round the park, or head towards the emporiums where her cronies congregate. She has a fine time being scandalised by the latest on dits during their gossips.’
‘No doubt she had quite a tale to tell them after that drama.’
‘I believe my aunt is too ashamed to breathe a word about it...other than to her brother, of course,’ Joan added flatly. ‘But let’s not dwell on what disasters might have been.’ She slipped her hand through the crook of Vincent’s arm.
She had written to Vincent to inform him that she’d be unable to visit the vicarage again as soon as planned and why that was. She’d only briefly outlined the unpleasant encounter with the beggars because she didn’t want Vincent blaming himself. It was not his fault that Pip had lost his way. Sure that her father couldn’t object to her and Vincent promenading in Hyde Park, Joan had suggested in her note that they meet up to talk. She and Vincent had been friends for too long to allow a mishap to drive a wedge between them.
Next week the Duke would be reunited with his spouse and Joan was confident he’d be in a better mood then. The Duchess was presently with her daughter in Essex, as Fiona was increasing again and feeling very poorly. Maude had sped off many weeks ago to give support and encouragement, sure the signs were there that an heir to the Wolfson name was on his way.
Her brother-in-law would be immensely proud to have his longed-for son, Joan thought before her mind wandered on...to a person Luke would certainly not be proud of: his degenerate best friend...
An impatient tut escaped her as she realised Drew Rockleigh again occupied her thoughts. Since the hair-raising incident with the beggars she had not managed to forget the dratted man for any length of time, much as she wanted to. His astonishing way of life depressed her the more she dwelt on it. Infuriating though she found him, he deserved better than to end up trading blows in a boxing ring.
‘I hope the Duke won’t stop you seeing me or make me abandon the vicarage school.’ Vincent sounded anxious.
‘Of course he won’t, on either count! Papa knows that you are a good friend and he is not without compassion for the poor. He will mellow in time.’ Joan paused, searching for a new subject to talk about. ‘How is Louise liking her sojourn in the countryside?’
Louise Finch and Joan had been close since childhood. Louise’s mother and Vincent’s mother were kin and, despite one sister marrying a wealthy fellow while the other’s husband was a man of the cloth, the women remained close. Vincent had followed in his father’s footsteps, but had gained a living administering to a flock in the London stews rather than in a Kentish village.
‘I understand from my mother that her guests will be returning early next week. Apparently Louise misses the social whirl and is bored with cattle for company.’ Vincent gave a rather disapproving sniff.
Joan bit her lip to subdue a smile. It was the sort of blunt opinion she would expect from her best friend, yet she doubted Louise had intended her hostess to overhear it.
‘I shall be glad to have her back, anyway,’ Joan said, patting Vincent’s arm in a consoling manner. She gave him a smile and his indignation disintegrated. Vincent was a man of adequate height and build with coppery brown hair and pleasant looks. As they strolled around the perimeter of the lake Joan noticed that they were under observation.
‘Your association with me attracts attention, you know,’ Vincent said wryly, his thoughts mirroring Joan’s. He nodded discreetly at some people craning their necks at them as their barouche passed by.
‘No doubt they are recalling how abominably I embarrassed you when I was younger,’ Joan teased, making Vincent cough and blush. ‘Oh, the gossips should be used to us being friends by now.’ She wrinkled her petite nose in a display of insouciance. ‘It is more likely those young ladies are staring because they think you handsome and eligible,’ she added with a twinkling smile.
‘I doubt they would think my bank balance very attractive,’ Vincent countered wryly. ‘Even the clergy need to pay their bills.’ Vincent paused. ‘They appear to be returning for a second look,’ he said as the barouche again approached.
‘Oh, let them look.’ Joan sighed. ‘That is Miss Greenvale and her cousin. They are heiresses and could spare a few pounds from their trust funds to put towards your new church roof.’
‘I fear I’ll have no luck there and will carry on collecting rainwater in buckets for the foreseeable future.’
‘I’ll speak to Papa about releasing some of my money—’
‘You must not!’ Vincent interrupted sharply. ‘I’ll not let you do that.’ His features softened into a grateful smile. ‘You are a very generous and good-natured young woman.’ Vincent slanted a glance at the pearly contours of Joan’s profile, framed by chestnut curls. ‘I hate that you suffered for your goodness. Will you tell me more about this dreadful attack by those beggars?’