Page 8 of The Duelist for the Ton
“He’s harmless enough, Gerard. He lacks the intelligence to pose any great danger.”
“Allmen are dangerous. By taunting him, you risk discovery. He’ll not rest until he’s identified you.”
“Then he’ll not rest—and neither will any other man who engages in duels.”
“Perhaps, but I would not have their unrest at the cost of yours.”
King Street led onto St. James’s Square and the familiar façade of the Foxton townhouse. A couple emerged from a side street and scurried across the road.
“I told you we shouldn’t tarry, sir—half of London will be awake by now.”
“That’s Lady Stainton and her footman. She’ll be more concerned with being discovered herself to bother with us. I daresay they didn’t even notice us.”
As they approached Number Eight, the front doors opened and a woman appeared, dressed in the eye-watering shade of orange that was currently adorning the ladies who frequented Madame Deliet’s establishment. She issued a sharp word to the footman, flicked at her cuff as if to remove an invisible fleck of dust, then descended the steps with an air of self-confidence that metamorphosed into arrogance. The door closed behind her and, after a cursory glance in the Farthing’s direction, she opened her parasol—the same shade of orange as her gown—and set off, her loose-hipped gait the only evidence that she had not been born into the lifestyle she aspired toward.
“Is that…”
“Mrs. Scarlet,” Gerard whispered. “Mrs. Cerise Scarlet.”
“Cherry red,” the Farthing said, approaching the steps that descended to the basement of Number Eight. “Hardly the most imaginative of names.”
“I doubt the master has any interest in her imagination.”
“His Grace would need to be in possession of an imagination himself to appreciate that quality in others.”
“Hush! Do you want him to overhear you? If Mrs. Scarlet has left, he’ll be on his way to the breakfast room. He may even be there right now.”
“He’ll still be dressing. He takes at least an hour to get ready in the morning, whereas Mrs. Scarlet will have perfected the art of putting on her garments in a heartbeat so she can move on as quickly as possible to her next protector.”
“Is not the master paying her for exclusivity?”
“If His Grace expected exclusivity from all the women he took to his bed, there would be no courtesans left over for his friends.”
As they entered the scullery, a bell rang nearby.
“That’ll be the master,” Gerard whispered. “Be quick, now, or he’ll wonder where you’ve got to—and you don’t want the rest of the servants seeing you, especially dressed like that.”
They slipped through the scullery toward the back stairs. Footsteps echoed in the distance, followed by the familiar voice of the duke’s valet issuing orders to the cook.
The Farthing’s stomach growled at the aroma of bacon and deviled kidneys.
“Hurry!”
They ascended the staircase, wincing at the creak of the boards underfoot, then padded along the corridor toward the familiar bedchamber, slipping inside and closing the door behind them.
“Bollocks, eh?” Gerard said. “The master would whip you raw if he heard you using language like that in the house.”
“TheFarthinguses such language.Ido not—at least not in His Grace’s presence. One of the drawbacks of indentured servitude is that my master can curtail my freedom if I displease him.”
“But you are free.”
“Not in any way that matters.”
At that moment, a clock struck seven notes in the distance—the call to resume duties. A volley of chimes rang out in response, including the mantel clock in the bedchamber. With a sigh, the Farthing untied the mask and tossed it toward the bed. The brief bout of freedom was over.
Ten minutes later, the two of them stepped out of the bedchamber transformed, all evidence of the Farthing and Gerard safely folded away and tucked into a crate, ready to emerge when next required—which happened to be next Tuesday, on Hampstead Heath at dusk, when Sir Henshingly Crawford intended to give Mr. Simon Tewkberry a lesson inmanners for having likened Lady Crawford’s face to that of a pug in the process of emptying its bowels.
The duke’s sharp voice could be heard from behind the breakfast room door—admonishing a footman, no doubt. The footman at the door glanced up and straightened his stance before opening the door.
