The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm

A boy was waiting on him in the alley behind the mews.

Not merely a boy. That boy. The one from before.

“I knew it,” the boy said. “I knew it had to be you.”

God’s lords and his ladies.

Ash collared the youth and dragged him into the shadows. He looked about the alley to make certain no grooms or coachmen lingered close enough to overhear.

“The Duke of Ashbury is the Monster of Mayfair.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Ash said sternly. As if there might be some other scarred man wandering the alleys of Mayfair by night, wearing a cape and carrying a gold-knobbed walking stick.

“I knew from that night—said to my mates, I did—that you had to be Quality,” the boy rattled on. “The rest, I pieced together from the gossip sheets. The Duke of Ashbury came to Town just a few weeks before the first sighting appeared in the papers. Rumored to have suffered an injury at Waterloo. I decided to wait out here just to see if my guess was on the mark. And damn me, here you are.” He smacked his hands together. “Wait until the lads hear this.”

“The lads will hear nothing.” Ash gave the boy a shake. “Do you understand me?”

“You can’t frighten me. I know you won’t hurt me. Roughing up innocents isn’t your game, is it?”

No, it wasn’t. Unfortunately.

Ash released the boy’s collar. “Fine. You’ll have a crown from me, but nothing more.”

“A crown for what?”

“In exchange for keeping your mouth shut. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Starting the blackmail a bit early, I must say.”

“My mum always said I was advanced for my age.” The boy grinned, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “But it’s not money I’m after. My family’s flush with it. My father made a fortune in coal. Name’s Trevor, by the way.”

“If you try to spread this tale, Trevor, no one will credit it. You live in Mayfair; you should already know how the snobbish ton thinks. They won’t take the word of some new-money brat over that of a duke.”

Ash brushed past the boy and started down the alleyway at a brisk pace.

Of course the boy followed.

“You’ve got me all wrong,” Trevor said in a loud whisper, trotting at Ash’s side. “I don’t want to expose you. I want to be your associate.”

That brought Ash to a standstill. “My associate?”

“An assistant. An apprentice. A protégé. You know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I’m going to join your wanderings at night. Help you mete out justice. Pound footpads and such.”

Ash looked the boy up and down. “You couldn’t pound a lump of bread dough.”

“Don’t be so certain about that. I’ve a weapon. A secret one.” The boy looked both ways before withdrawing something from his pocket and holding it up for Ash to see.

“A sling. This is your secret weapon.”

“Well, you already have the walking stick. And a pistol or blade seemed out of character for us.”

“There is no ‘us.’”

“Too violent, you know. We’re peacekeepers.”

“There is no ‘we,’ either.”

“A sling would set me apart, I reckoned.” The lad plucked a pebble from the ground and fitted it in the leather pocket. “See that crate at the corner?” He flicked his wrist a few times, building momentum, then released the sling.

The pebble smacked into a stable door on the opposite side of the alleyway.

A horse whinnied. From the loft above, a sleepy groom called out in anger, “Oi! Who’s there?”

Trevor looked at Ash. Ash looked at Trevor. They each mouthed the same word at the same time.

Run.

Once safely down the lane and around the corner, Trevor put his hands on his knees and panted. “I’m”—huff—“still working on my aim.”

Ash walked on, hoping to lose the boy while he was winded.

“Next I’ll need a disguise, of course. I’m thinking a mask. Black, or perhaps red. And a name, naturally.”

Ash growled. “There will be no disguise. There will be no name. Do you hear me? Go home before I take you there myself and have a word with your father.”

“What do you think of this? The Beast of Berkeley Square.”

“More like the Pest of Piccadilly.”

“Or we could go with something simpler. Like Doom. Or the Raven.”

“I suggest Gnat. Or the Measle.”

“Maybe the Doom-Raven?”

Ash shook his head. “Jove that thunders, you are a menace.”

“Wait. That’s brilliant. I’ll be known as”—he swiped one hand before his face, as if tracing a broadsheet’s headline—“the Menace.”

Oh, indeed you will be.

Ash stopped, turned, and stared down at the boy. “Listen, lad. I am returning to my house. You are returning to yours. And that is the end of it.”

“But it’s not even midnight. We haven’t thrashed any scoundrels yet.”

Ash grabbed Trevor by his jacket and lifted him onto his toes. He bent forward and lowered his voice to a threat. “Consider yourself fortunate I haven’t thrashed you.”