The Artist Who Saved the Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

June 1816

London, England

Rachel Middleton knew exactly what she was doing when she ignored the outstretched hand of the most eligible bachelor in England and walked away.

She could sense the many judgemental eyes aimed at her as she weaved between the guests at the ball, all dressed in their grandest attire. But she focused only on her mother’s stern glare a few feet away, which made Rachel wince and regret her last move.

“When is the wedding, my dear?” The Marchioness of Beaufort took a delicate sip of punch from her crystal cup and scowled at her daughter. She stood near the refreshments table but looked anything but refreshed as her only living child approached.

Rachel stopped in front of her mother and stiffened. “What wedding?” 

Lady Beaufort kept her voice low, but her tone was curt and filled with frustration. “The one resulting from the proposal you must have received this evening! Otherwise, why would you have just refused a dance with The Duke of Wonderful?” 

Rachel giggled and touched her mother’s arm to soothe her. “I think you mean The Duke of Marlborough? Though I hear he’s a wonderful marksman on the hunting trails, I see no proof that he’s a wonderful match for me.” 

“Is that so? Well, he seems to have missed his mark tonight! What proof could you have possibly gleaned about the man’s character by walking past him at a ball? Rachel, this is your second season out in society. I am baffled by your poor showing at these important society societal events after all I have taught you about enticing a gentleman. To turn away from that one is pure nonsense!” 

“I’m sorry, Mama. But, in my defence, The Duke of Marlborough has an odd smell.” Rachel wrinkled her nose, hoping a bit of humour would lighten her mother’s mood. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect.

Caught off guard by her daughter’s rude comment in public about a peer, Lady Beaufort nearly spat her mouthful of punch all over Rachel’s silk ball gown the colour of rich chocolate. She collected herself and smiled a bit too brightly at a few ladies passing by. Then she grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled her close to scold her with a bit more privacy.

“For heaven’s sake, Rachel. You can’t afford to be such a snob. Are you referring to the man’s strong scent of power and gold? He is a duke! And one of only two eligible dukes in attendance this evening. Which means he could reek of rotten eggs and still be the most ideal match at this ball if not all of England!”

Rachel bit her lip in reaction to her mother’s angry words. She reached up to secure a golden clip that had come loose in her thick auburn hair and thought about how to respond. There was no use arguing with Lady Beaufort at a ball about anything of importance, especially the topic of men.

What her mother didn’t know was that Rachel had spent that very afternoon reading an old journal she’d found hidden in the attic. It was one her mother had kept as a young woman and saved at the bottom of a trunk. The journal entries began just before the marchioness’s wedding engagement and continued through the first few years after she and Rachel’s father had married.

But the picture of early married life her mother’s words had painted was heartbreaking. The young Lady Beaufort wrote of how the kind, romantic man she fell in love with had changed quickly into a distant and oppressive husband. 

Before Rachel wept over them herself, many of the bowed journal pages looked as though they’d been warped by her younger mother’s tears.

Yet her mother’s weren’t the only sad stories Rachel had recently learned about the married women in her family. Lady Beaufort’s journal had been hidden alongside the journals of Rachel’s maternal grandmother, as well. In addition to unsettling entries about other overbearing men in their family, both women had expressed sadness and regret about their choices of mates. Choices they’d been doomed to keep for the rest of their lives.

So, it was no accident that Rachel hadn’t received a marriage proposal yet. She’d been secretly postponing that fate for as long as possible by pretending to entice a gentleman, as her mother put it. But all the while she’d been purposely making social faux pas that a debutante looking for a good match should never make. 

At Lord Cavendish’s ball last month, she “accidentally” sneezed into a gentleman’s sleeve when he leaned in to sign her dance card. At a soiree last week, she spilled her glass of lemonade down the waistcoat of the baron who’d brought her the drink. And, before ignoring the outstretched hand of a foul-smelling duke that very evening, Rachel had stepped on a viscount’s foot and later giggled far too loudly near the ear of a wealthy banker’s eldest son.

“Mama, please don’t worry. The night is young. If it pleases you, I’m willing to dance with the other eligible duke you say is here this evening. But please don’t expect me to invite him home to meet Papa anytime soon, even if he smells nice.” 

Lady Beaufort frowned. “The other duke is far less amiable, I’m afraid. And far less suitable due to recent events. Oh, look! The Marquess of Blandford is lingering alone near the orchestra. Hurry, dear. We must make haste!” 

Rachel’s mother pinched her daughter’s cheeks to make them rosy, then grabbed her hand and pulled her across the exquisitely chalked floral design on the ballroom floor.

“Mama, wait! Lord Blandford is the blandest man alive!” Rachel whispered at her mother’s back, but it was no use. Lady Beaufort was determined to make her debutante daughter entice an eligible gentleman before the night was through.

Lord Blandford stood next to the hosts of the ball, Mr and Mrs Hughes. The Hughes family owned a large amount of land not far from London. They rented most of it to high-paying clients while they lived out their retirement years in a massive luxury London townhouse with the biggest ballroom Rachel had ever seen. 

“Mr and Mrs Hughes, you must be so proud of such a grand event! Thank you again for the invitation. It’s an honour, as always.” Lady Beaufort knew to address the party hosts first, but her real target was the tall man to their left who squinted through his smudged monocle towards the dance floor.

“We’re delighted by your presence, Lady Beaufort. And your daughter is blossoming into a fine young lady, I see.” Grey-haired Mr Hughes winked at Rachel, then coughed loudly when his wife elbowed him in the ribs. 

Lady Beaufort beamed. “Yes, thank you, Mr Hughes. My Rachel is a fine young lady indeed. And a good evening to you, Lord Blandford! Lord Beaufort and I are happy to hear of your investment success of late. We hear the textile trades with America have been flourishing.”

When Rachel and her mother rose their heads after bowing in front of Lord Blandford, the sides of his wide mouth had pulled sharply downward. 

“I’m afraid that’s old news, Lady Beaufort. It seems a recent shift of favour in the shipyards has docked my latest trades until further notice. It’s a good thing our Prince Regent loves fine fabrics more than life itself or I’d be renting this large ballroom to store a year’s worth of satin and silk!” 

Rachel took a step back as Lord Blandford’s nostrils flared and his large ears turned bright pink. But she couldn’t peel her eyes from his fascinating reactions that told more about a man she barely knew. She wished she had her paints to capture the transformation of a normally yawn-inducing gentleman into a restless lion ready to pounce. 

Well, a lion wasn’t quite the right imagery for a man like Lord Blandford, but that’s how Rachel would have painted him then. There was something very exciting about seeing a person’s dramatic side come to the surface. Or at least a side of their nature that hadn’t been witnessed before.

Those clues to a person’s true nature were what made Rachel an excellent portraitist, though she loved painting landscapes, too. Through her creativity as an artist, she learned to study a subject’s expressions, gestures, and words with such skill that her instincts about people were rarely wrong.

Rachel’s instincts about Lord Blandford that evening told her that the blandest man alive had no real interest in her or in finding a wife at all. Those instincts helped Rachel relax knowing she need not spill anything on Lord Blandford’s fine clothes to avoid his attention.

“My goodness, Lord Blandford, I had no idea. We are sorry to hear of it, are we not, Rachel?” Lady Beaufort gave her daughter a side-eye glance that Rachel recognized as a signal to be beguiling. She also noticed that her mother’s interest in the angry marquess wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as it was moments ago.

“Yes, of course, Mama! I wish you good fortune and better days soon, My Lord.” Rachel curtsied as her mother bid Lord Blandford and the Hughes a good evening. Then she pulled Rachel across the ballroom again towards a quieter corner where tall, brass candelabras flickered with many fine beeswax candles. The glowing candles created a dreamy atmosphere and filled the room with the scent of honey.

“What was Lord Blandford talking about, Mama? I have never seen him so animated and furious.” 

Lady Beaufort scowled again as she tugged her long white gloves higher up her arms. “A lady does not enquire of such private matters. A lady’s place is to stay out of an angry man’s way and tend to her own responsibilities.” 

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “And what is a lady’s place when a man isn’t angry, Mama? Or is dodging an irritable husband a daily task in every married lady’s life?”

Lady Beaufort sighed as the twinkle in her bright blue eyes dimmed. “All marriages come with sacrifice and hardships, my dear. Let’s hope that you’re eventually matched with a husband who makes life comfortable and pleasant for you.”

A strong wave of longing filled Rachel’s chest. She wished she’d known her mother back when she journaled with such joy and excitement about romance. And she wished she could trust that true romance for any woman could ever last longer than her wedding night. 

“And what of love, Mama? Could marriage come with that, too?” 

Lady Beaufort clucked her tongue. “I realize that young women daydream about finding great love with great passion, but that is your downfall. Trust me, a passionate man can have an angry side that cuts like a knife. The people he loves the most suffer the deepest wounds. You need to come to terms with that as soon as possible.”

Seeing another flash of sadness and regret in her mother’s eyes made Rachel swallow hard and regret her words. From reading her mother’s journal entries, she knew that Lady Beaufort was referring to her own marriage. It had started with a passionate spark that eventually burned their love to the ground.

Before Rachel could respond to her mother’s warning, Lady Beaufort straightened her spine and blinked away tears in her truly stunning azure eyes. Her mother, Catherine, was a great beauty, yet she seemed to make considerable efforts to hide it. 

Catherine Middleton wore fine clothing, but in very simple styles, and rarely wore jewellery. Rachel wondered if her father had anything to do with that. Was he the kind of jealous man who preferred to keep his wife’s beauty all to himself? The more Rachel learned about her father from her mother’s diary, the more she felt contempt for the man she’d deeply adored as a child. 

On the surface, Lord Beaufort was a doting father with a silly sense of humour. It was the side of him she couldn’t see, the side exposed in her mother’s journal, that found Rachel questioning how her father had fooled her about his true nature like no other person had done before. 

“Are you listening to me, Rachel? Wait here while I arrange for our coach. I’ve grown weary of another fine social event where my daughter has fewer prospects than when we arrived.”

Rachel watched her mother march out of the ballroom and wished she’d said something to reassure her that all would be well somehow. She again wished she had her paints and a canvas to interpret her mother’s thoughts and emotions with every stroke. But she was afraid that particular portrait would have turned into a mirror image of her future self, one where she was eventually yoked to the same kind of man that her father had turned out to be. 

She shivered and moved closer to the warm candlelight around her, then turned towards the centre of the room where a pair of dark, glaring eyes locked with hers.

Rachel froze. It was him! A man of great wealth and terrible misfortune if his claim of innocence were to be believed. There stood the second eligible duke at the ball that Lady Beaufort must have been referring to earlier. He was the duke that Lady Beaufort had quickly dismissed as a possible suitor, and rightly so.

The man suddenly staring at her from across the ballroom was Evan Darby, The Duke of Pembroke. He had deep sable eyes, thick dark hair, and a darkness emanating from his soul that surely every person in that room could detect. 

Evan Darby was the only duke Rachel wasn’t allowed to entice because he was the only duke being investigated for murdering his parents just three months ago. 

He was also the only man at the ball who suddenly made Rachel Middleton feel like she was in the presence of a deeply troubled and passionate man. 

His intense gaze, his clenched jaw, and his strong hands balled into fists made The Duke of Pembroke look very much like he could murder his family. Yet Rachel wondered by the way his chest rose and fell if he was struggling under the heavy weight of buried grief.

Neither of them crossed the room or said a word, but Rachel felt an unspoken connection tying them together that she could not explain. She felt the intensity of his gaze take her breath away until, seconds later, The Duke of Pembroke’s eyes suddenly softened and his jaw relaxed. But he continued to stand as still as a stone sculpture.

“Rachel! Must I keep calling your name as our coachman awaits? Come, we must depart now.”

Rachel jumped, startled by her mother’s voice ringing out above the music. “Yes, Mama! I’m coming!” She pressed a hand against her chest to slow her rapidly beating heart. When she turned to meet Lord Pembroke’s mesmerizing gaze again, he was gone.

She sighed and took a deep breath, then shook her head and smiled. Rachel’s mother was right to keep her away from men like him. But there wasn’t anything wrong with gathering her paints later to sketch a murderous duke with smouldering eyes, was there?

“I thought you said our coachman was waiting. Where is he?” Rachel followed her mother out to the cobblestone street, which appeared quite abandoned at that hour of the night.

“The footman said our carriage would be here momentarily. And stop fidgeting. It’s unladylike.” Lady Beaufort pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. 

“Mama, there’s nobody out here to see me. Besides, I’m shivering, not fidgeting. It should not be this chilly in early June.” 

A fine mist floated over their gowns and carefully set curls as Rachel and her mother watched two footmen return to the front of the mansion to manage the carriage arrivals. Rachel busied herself guessing each man’s life story, complete with imagined intrigue like the novels she sometimes read from another box she found in the attic. Those novels must belong to her father since she knew of no woman in her family who’d ever indulged in fiction full of mystery and exciting suspense.

Rachel enjoyed indulging in those books and her artwork the most after days spent volunteering at a London hospital. She loved helping people, but being around so much illness and pain, even part-time, took its toll. So, she escaped into the world of fantastical books and interesting portraits where she wasn’t expected to help heal anyone for days at a time. 

Though lately, the hospital hadn’t needed her help as often, resulting in Rachel filling her hours rummaging through old boxes in the attic, seeking something of intrigue. She had certainly found that intrigue through her mother’s writings and couldn’t wait to get back to them soon.

“Here comes our carriage, thank goodness. This silk will ruin in the rain …” Lady Beaufort’s sentence was cut off by a jarring sound of distress coming from somewhere in the shadows. Was it a man shouting in pain?

Rachel and her mother grabbed each other’s hands with fear. They were suddenly alone again on the street, as both footmen had stepped inside to collect the next guests waiting for their carriage. 

When the unknown man cried out again, Rachel’s caregiver instincts kicked in. She could not ignore the sounds of a man shouting “Stop, stop!” with obvious wails of pain. Someone was in grave danger, and there was no time to waste.

She released her mother’s hands and ran as hard as she could towards a dark alley where the man cried out again. The adrenaline coursing through her veins had taken control. 

“Rachel! Come back!” her mother called with a fearful shrill.

But Rachel could no sooner stop herself from running towards the stranger’s anguish than she could stop her mind from racing through every horrible scenario she might face when she found him.

As she reached the edge of the alley and threw herself around the corner, Rachel wondered whether she’d ever hear her mother’s voice again.

 

Chapter Two

Evan Darby emptied the glass of port down his throat as the ballroom’s irritating quadrille music drilled a hole in his tired brain. He hated balls, hated socializing, and recently had a new horrific reason to hate his life.

But none of the people whispering about him at the Hughes ball understood the anguish that he carried every moment of every day. Nobody else understood what it was like to grieve the loss of your beloved parents while racing against time to clear your name. 

No one else in that ballroom was facing a possible death by hanging. Though Evan hadn’t yet been accused of any crime, dangling from a noose could become his fate if he couldn’t prove that he wasn’t the one who’d poisoned his mother and father.

And prove it very soon.

Evan clutched the crystal goblet in his right hand like a weapon as he studied the room. Every gentleman was a possible suspect, every lady an accomplice. Even their elderly host, Mr Hughes, wasn’t free of the duke’s suspicion. However, Hughes had been the first peer to extend a social invitation to Evan since his parents were poisoned three months ago.

The entire ton assumed that Evan was guilty; he was certain of it. Not a single one of them trusted him anymore, other than his closest friend since childhood, Bertram Haworth.

Yet he understood why he was a suspect. Until more clues came to light, it made sense to blame the murder on him. First, Evan’s parents were killed in the London townhome that the three of them had shared. Second, he had no solid alibi, and he’d been home asleep when the murder occurred. And third, Evan was the one who’d found The Duke and Duchess of Pembroke dead on the floor in the drawing room.

But Evan had no reason to want his parents dead. They’d been a tight-knit family his entire life. The duke and duchess were adoring parents who loved each other and their son. They were funny and kind. They’d always treated Evan with love and respect.

So, the shame of not being able to protect and save them was a heavy burden for the new Duke of Pembroke to carry. That shame, paired with unspeakable grief, made Evan angrier by the day.

Nothing mattered but burying his shame and grief so he could pursue justice and revenge. That mission did not include dancing with debutantes, not that any of their fathers would allow the young ladies to get close to Evan anymore. 

Fortunately, he didn’t care. As far as Evan was concerned, none of the silly young women of polite society could replace his mother as the Duchess of Pembroke House. He silently vowed that none ever would.

“You might want to soften that glare, Your Grace, before you frighten every guest in the room.” Stephen Turnbull, Earl of Grafton, carried two fresh glasses of port and offered one to Evan. “Or is that your intent this evening? To scare us all into believing your innocence?”

“I suggest you remove that grin from your face, Turnbull. The death of my family is no laughing matter.” Evan narrowed his eyes at the earl but accepted the drink all the same.

He glanced with interest at the differences in their attire that evening. Lord Grafton wore a striking red silk cravat with a pristine cream-coloured silk waistcoat. Whereas Evan wore plain black linen from head to toe, other than his white tunic mostly hidden by his black waistcoat and tailcoat.

No wonder people assumed Evan was a villain just by looking at him. In addition to his three-month scowl, it seems he’d also been dressing the part.

“Just trying to lighten the mood, Your Grace. Trust that I am not laughing at your pain. I am merely trying to distract you from it for a moment. Is it working?” Lord Grafton’s eyes spoke of sympathy, but he stood with a stiffness that revealed his discomfort. Evan made nearly everyone uncomfortable since his parents died, but he was getting used to it. 

“I suppose I should thank you for speaking with me in public, Turnbull. How foxed with drink did you have to get before finding the nerve?” Evan quickly swallowed the contents of his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No drink required. I believe in your innocence and sympathize with your loss. If you care to drown your sorrow even more by losing a few rounds of Piquet in the game room, that’s where I’ll be.” Lord Grafton shook Evan’s hand and turned to leave the ballroom but was stopped by a very wobbly and red-faced Lord Blandford. 

“Ah, Lord Grafton! Tell me your secret!” Lord Blandford slurred his words and lifted his wine glass so swiftly upward that he sloshed his drink onto his sleeve.

Lord Grafton’s face flushed red. He blinked several times before responding and looked quite shocked by the state of the man in front of him. “My secret, Lord Blandford? Whatever do you mean?”

Evan smirked and leaned in to speak quietly near Grafton’s left ear. “Speaking of getting foxed enough to boldly cross a room …” 

Lord Grafton chuckled nervously as he and Evan watched Lord Blandford somehow manage to set his drink inside the crown of a bust of the Queen without it and the glass crashing to the floor.

“Your recent investment success, Grafton! While my fine textiles grow dusty in their warehouse crates, I hear your manifests have grown longer and more prosperous since early spring. We should do business together, mate! Is there room on your boats for a fellow peer? You clearly have good taste, as your fine cravat would suggest. I have silks in that exact crimson shade. Who is your tailor?” 

Lord Blandford tried to look more closely at the fabric around Lord Grafton’s neck without the aid of his monocle and tipped too far forward. Before he toppled over, Evan caught the drunk marquess by the arm and propped him back up.

“Alright, Blandford! I think it’s time for you to turn in.” Evan whistled for a footman, who rushed to his aid. Within minutes, Lord Blandford was carefully escorted out of the ballroom as Lord Grafton breathed a sigh of relief. 

“That’s a man who doesn’t take business ebbs and flows with confidence, I’m afraid. Thanks for the assistance, Your Grace. Now for that game of Piquet! A pleasant evening to you.” Lord Grafton offered his hand to shake, but Evan ignored it. 

“Why have Blandford’s trade shipments been delayed? Though I agree his charisma could use some tweaking, his reputation is impeccable, is it not?” Evan folded his arms across his chest and silently chided himself for not knowing the answer to his own question.

How had he lost track of the comings and goings of Deptford Dockyard since his parents died? If he were honest with himself, Evan knew exactly how. His father’s investments in shipping had brought lucrative income to the family estate for many years, but all of that had stopped within a fortnight of the former Duke of Pembroke’s death. 

And it was all Evan’s doing. Knowing the Pembroke estate would thrive from his family’s land holdings alone, Evan had immediately sold off his father’s other investments and gladly avoided all maritime responsibilities entirely.

Evan had adored his father, but he’d never shared his love for ships and trade. The new Duke of Pembroke would keep his sights set on dry land only, if he remained a free man.

Lord Grafton shrugged his shoulders. “My guess is Lord Blandford fell out of favour somehow and doesn’t realize it. As you know from your father’s dealings, trade and shipping relationships can be tricky to maintain. Merchants are fiercely competitive and the finite number of ships are managed by endless egos. Which is why men of the peerage are better off serving only their queen and not the sea.” 

Stephen winked at Evan, then bowed to the Queen Charlotte statue, where Lord Blandford’s glass still rested inside the crown. “So, your decision to leave trade investments behind was a smart one, Your Grace. I should do so someday myself.”

“Enjoy your success while you can, Grafton. I assume that selling off my father’s holdings helped raise your income these past few months. And well it should. There has to be a silver lining in all of this turmoil somewhere.” Evan sighed, then lifted Lord Blandford’s glass from the statue crown and placed it on a passing silver tray held out by a footman serving tiny teacakes. 

“That is very kind, Your Grace, thank you. On second thought, I think I’ll skip the Hughes game room tonight and go straight to Brooks’s for another drink and a card game with higher stakes. Care to join me?”

Evan shook his head. “I’ll pass. Brooks’s hosts too many peers who’d love to see my head on a plate. And too many peers with money to burn. I can’t keep up!”

Lord Grafton laughed. “Nor can I! Good evening, Pembroke. I’m glad to see your smile return. Enjoy that while it lasts.”

Evan grinned despite his foul mood. He shook Grafton’s hand and watched the man disappear into the crowd. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if he should join Grafton for another drink at the club after all. Maybe the Earl of Grafton’s shipyard connections could help him investigate that side of his father’s business dealings. Perhaps more disgruntled peers like Lord Blandford would rise to the surface.

Evan’s mind turned back to Lord Blandford’s behaviour that evening. He couldn’t think of anyone else more upset by the recent trade business changes than Blandford. Could the marquess have been so enraged by his loss that he killed Evan’s parents to eliminate some of his competition? If so, were Evan’s parents only the first to fall prey to Blandford’s murderous revenge? Could other competitors like Lord Grafton be in danger? 

Blandford was a shrewd businessman and never hesitated to boast of his financial goals. But it wasn’t easy to see the typically mild-mannered lord as a killer. 

If he did kill the Duke and Duchess of Pembroke to pad his pockets, that action was about to lead to his end. Blandford, or whoever was guilty of destroying Evan’s world, would pay with his life. Evan would make sure of it.

The duke dropped his glass onto another passing tray and began the irritating task of moving through the bodies towards the other side of the ballroom. He would try to catch Lord Grafton before he left and ride to Brooks’s with him. Perhaps it was too soon to share his suspicions about Lord Blandford, but Grafton may have more insight about Blandford’s behaviour.

On his way across the room, Evan caught a glimpse of glowing light off to the right that seemed to surround the head of a beautiful young woman like a halo. 

He stopped in his tracks and stood mesmerized by her ethereal appearance. She stood in front of several tall candelabras, all aglow with honey-scented light. Her auburn hair was swept up in a cloud of red-gold curls. And her lovely figure was enhanced by the shimmery chocolate silk of her dress.

Evan’s mouth went dry, and all thoughts unrelated to her disappeared from his head. Then her eyes met his and took his breath away. He wasn’t quite sure of their colour from that distance, but he would have bet they were blue with flecks of gold. Whatever their colour, he knew they were the eyes of a unique woman.

No, that wasn’t quite right. From how she glowed at that moment, they must be the eyes of an angel.

“Watch your step, Your Grace!” 

Evan snapped his head forward after accidentally walking right into Mr Hughes. 

“My apologies, Mr Hughes! I’m off to find Lord Grafton. Thank you again for the invitation this evening. I appreciate your kindness.” 

Mr Hughes steadied himself then nodded. “Be more careful, son. You need to be aware of your surroundings now more than ever.” 

The older man put his hand on Evan’s shoulder and lowered his voice so only the duke could hear. “I’d hate to see you suffer the same fate as your parents, God rest their souls. Your father was a fine man and a good friend. I saw the close bond you shared with him and how it grew stronger as you became a man yourself. So, I know you did not kill him or your beloved mother. But the people who ended your parents’ lives will do all they can to make you take the fall. Or they’ll end you, too.”

Evan clenched his jaw to keep his emotions in check. The fact that Jack Hughes believed in him and continued to treat him with respect was almost too much for his hardened heart to take. 

“Thank you, Jack. I will be careful. Fortunately, I haven’t heard back from the parish constable since that terrible week in early March. Maybe he’s following other leads we’ll learn about soon.” 

“The constable is worthless, but it’s not the constable you should fear. It’s his bloodthirsty runner you need to worry about. Cornelius Bowman’s the name. He stopped here not two hours before our guests arrived and was full of questions about you. About only you, Evan. I gave you a glowing review and insisted that you are innocent, but Bowman had the greedy look of the Devil in his eyes. My bet is he’s circling his prey before he pounces, so get ready. Be honest, but don’t say more to that young man than necessary when he comes calling. The less he knows, the better, until the true villains are found.”

Evan gulped but tried not to show other signs of fear. Hughes was right. He needed to be aware of his surroundings. His life depended on being cautious about what he said and to whom. And he had to stop gawking at pretty women who distracted him from the task at hand. 

The only thing that mattered for the foreseeable future was staying out of jail and solving his parents’ murder.

Evan thanked Mr Hughes again, then dashed out to the street in case Lord Grafton hadn’t left for the club yet. As luck would have it, he saw a man walking towards the alley wearing a similar red silk cravat as Grafton’s. 

“Lord Grafton!” Evan shouted at the man in the distance, but he quickly disappeared into the dark. 

Though not sure why Grafton would have reason to go into an alley at that time of night, Evan continued trying to catch up with him. Brooks’s gentleman’s club wasn’t all that far from Hughes House, so perhaps Grafton had decided to walk, despite the unusually cold mist in the air. 

“Grafton! I’ve decided to join you!” Evan shouted again as he entered the alley and buttoned his tailcoat closed against the chilly wind. Though early June, it was still officially spring in London. The weather was still quite fickle and took the occasional dive into lower temperatures at night.

Guarding himself against the chill was expected, but Evan wasn’t prepared for the balled fist that came out of nowhere and punched him in the face. 

He cried out in shock as he stumbled backwards and slammed into a brick wall. When he raised his hands to defend himself from his anonymous attacker, Evan felt blood from his nose or possibly his mouth slide down his chin. 

Shoes against the cobblestones were the only sounds he heard as another fist blow connected with the side of his head. But this time, he caught the offender’s wrist in a tight grip before they could pull away. 

“Stop! Stop this madness! Who are you?” Evan shouted through the ringing in his left ear. 

The person in his grip grunted and twisted wildly to try to escape, but Evan held fast and didn’t let go until what felt like a small knife was plunged with great force into his lower left side.

Evan howled with shock and pain. He released the attacker’s wrist and tried to pull himself deeper into the alley to escape while still pressed against the brick wall. But he couldn’t get away quickly enough. He suffered two more knife blows to his belly and side before a young woman’s screaming voice made it all suddenly stop. 

 “The nightwatchman is coming! The nightwatchman is coming!” 

Evan heard the woman scream the same sentence again and again as the distinctive sound of his attacker’s shoes pounding against the stones below his feet finally grew distant. 

His attacker had escaped, but the duke was still alive. Or was he? It felt like reality was slipping through Evan’s fingertips like the warm blood seeping from his wounds. He somehow stayed on his feet against the brick wall but felt his strength slipping away as his knees began to buckle. He knew he needed to get out of that alley if he wanted to survive.

“The nightwatchman is coming! Hold on, son, hold on.” 

His late father’s soothing voice pleaded inside his pounding brain until Evan felt a small woman wrap her arms around his waist.