Sarah MacLean: No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Her eyes met his, and he recognized the faraway look in them. “Wot’s a fancy bloke like yerself doin’ ’ere?”

Chasing ghosts.

Like an imbecile.

The prostitute’s touch was everywhere, and he caught her as she searched his coat for his purse.

“No luck today, darling,” he said, extracting the empty hand.

She did not hesitate to lean in, and he steeled himself against her sour breath. “ ’Ow ’bout a bit o’ business, then? I’ve never ’ad one yer size.”

“Thank you,” he replied, lifting her and setting her to the side. “But I’m afraid I’ve an appointment.”

She grinned, two teeth missing. “Tell me, luv. Are you big all over?”

Another man would have ignored the question, but Temple had lived a long time on these streets, and he was comfortable with whores. For years, they’d been the only women willing to keep him company—luckily, he’d never had to settle for ones quite so . . . well used.

Fate had dealt the woman an unfortunate circumstance, a truth that Temple understood better than most. She did not deserve scorn for the way she managed.

He winked. “I’ve never had a complaint.”

She cackled. “Any time you like, luv. A right bargain, I am.”

He tipped his hat. “I shall remember that.” And he was off, down Cursitor, counting the doors until he reached number nine.

The building was out of place—cleaner than all the others on the row, with flower boxes in the windows, each boasting a mass of mums in bright colors—and as he stood outside, staring up at the flagstones, he knew that he’d found the place. And that she hadn’t run.

But why live here, on a filth-ridden street in Holborn?

He raised the knocker and let it fall with a firm rap.

“I see I wouldn’t be the first to sample the wares.” He turned back to the street, where the prostitute stood watching him. She came closer, gaze suddenly knowing. “I know you.”

He looked away.

“Yer the Killer Duke.” He returned his attention to the door, frustration coursing through him. It never went away, that cold thread of anger mixed with something worse. Something far more devastating. “Not that I care, luv. A girl like me can’t be too choosy.”

But he heard the change in her voice. The edge. Wariness and knowledge and a tinge of equality. They both lived in the darkness, after all, didn’t they?

He ignored her, but she continued. “You’ve a boy for MacIntyre?”

He looked to the door again, then back at the woman in the street. “A boy?”

She raised a brow. “Y’ain’t the first y’know. Won’t be the last. It’s the way of it. The way of men . Girls ought to be careful these days. Especially around the likes of you.”

The woman hadn’t met Mara Lowe, evidently.

The door opened, ending the woman’s sermon and revealing a young lady with a cherubic face in the house beyond. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, peering up at him with wide, surprised eyes.

He tipped his hat. “Good morning. I’m here for Mara.”

The girl’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. MacIntyre, you mean?”

He should have known she wouldn’t be here. Should have known she’d lied to him. Had the woman ever told a truth in her life? “I don’t—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, however, as hell chose that precise moment to break loose inside the house.

A cacophony of shouting erupted from a room beyond his view, and a half-dozen small figures came tearing through the foyer, chased by a handful of slightly larger figures, one of which was carrying—was that a table leg?

Three of the smaller creatures seemed to sense their impending demise and did what any intelligent being would do in such a scenario—ran for the exit. They made a tactical error, however, in that they did not count on either Temple or the young woman to be in the vicinity, and so instead of a straight shot into the street, they found themselves captured like flies in a wide web of skirt.

The trio cried out in frustration. The maid at the door cried out in what Temple could only imagine was terror, and not improperly placed. And the leg-brandishing creature cried out in conquest, leaping onto a small table in the entryway, raising his club high above his head and launching himself into the fray.

For one fleeting moment, Temple admired both the child’s courage and his form in battle.

The girl at the door stood no chance. She toppled like a felled poplar, and the boys scurried from their cambric trap, tumbling across the floor, kicking and screeching and wrestling.

And it was only when squeals began to emanate from the pile that Temple realized he could not in good conscience back away from the door and let the insanity ensue without him.

If these children escaped, they would wreak havoc on London.

He was the only one qualified to contain them. Obviously.

Without asking permission, he stepped over the threshold and entered the house, the door closing behind him with a great thud even as he helped the maid to her feet. Once he had confirmed that all her extremities were in working order, he turned to the more unsettling matter at hand . . . the writhing pile of boys at the center of the foyer.

And then he did what he did best.

He entered the fight.

He pulled boys one by one out of the pile and set them on their feet, removing wooden swords and bags of rocks and other makeshift weapons from hands and pockets before setting them free, placing each of them on the ground with a firm “That’s enough,” before going back to extract the next.

He had taken the last two boys in hand—the one with the table leg and another who was quite small—and lifted them clear off the floor when he saw it, small and pink and unmoving.

He leaned in, still holding the two boys.

“Aww . . .” said the boy with the table leg, seeming not to mind that his feet were dangling two feet above the floor. “She’ll get away.”

Was that a—

The piglet sprang to life with an ear-splitting squeal, running for the nearest room and startling Temple, who leapt back. “Jesus Christ!”

And, for the first time since he’d knocked on the door, there was silence inside No. 9 Cursitor Street.

He turned to face the boys, each of whom was staring up at him wide-eyed.

“What is it?”

None of them replied, instead all looking to their leader, who still held his weapon, but luckily seemed disinclined to use it. “You took the Lord’s name in vain,” he said, accusation and something close to admiration in his tone.

“Your pig startled me.”

The boy shook his head. “Mrs. MacIntyre doesn’t like cursing.”

From what Temple had seen, Mrs. MacIntyre might do well to worry less about the boys’ language and more about their lives, but he refrained from saying as much.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s not tell her it happened.”

“Too late,” said the little one in his other hand, and Temple turned to look at the boy, who was pointing to something behind him.

“I am afraid I already heard it.”

He turned to the voice, soft and feminine. And familiar.

He set the boys down.

She hadn’t run . “Mrs. MacIntyre, I presume?”

Mara did not reply, instead turning to the boys. “What have I said about chasing Lavender?”

“We weren’t chasing her!” several boys cried at the same time.

“She was our booty!” another said.

“Stolen from our treasure!” said the leader of the pack. He looked to Mara. “We were rescuing her.”

Temple’s brow furrowed. “The pig’s name is Lavender?”

She did not look at him, instead letting her attention move from one boy to the next with an expression he found distinctly familiar—an expression he’d seen a million times on the face of his childhood governess. Disappointment.