Page 44 of The Not So Perfect Duke

“Stop your lying, O’Connor,” the wardswoman yelled. “You were caught stealing women’s jewelry with a man you serviced.”

“Aye, aye,” Máiréad muttered. “He got away and all. Left me holding the shitebag. He did a runner, yeah? I reached Silas Browning, and he told me the duke would take Chloe and see she got a good home. Poor wee mite, born on Christmas Eve, she was. I came from a good home; I wasn’t always like this.”

The wardswoman scoffed. The turnkey scowled at her, and she immediately quieted.

“My father was a foreman in a shoe factory. But then he died, and it all went wrong. I met Eddie at a music hall where I served drinks to make money for my mother and me. Well, he swept me off my feet. First man I had ever been with. I was soon pregnant, and Eddie looked after me. Gave me money and other gifts. But once Chloe was born, he stopped coming around. Sent his bully instead.”

Máiréad started to pace. “The money trickled down to nothing. I had to make money any way I could. My mother died, and I had no one to look after Chloe. How could I get a job in a factory?”

“You have no claim on your daughter, no custody at all?” Althea asked.

“No. Browning made me sign papers. She be gone from my life, and I pray she will be better off.”

“You are certain she is the late duke’s daughter?”

“Aye, I was with no man before and only him then. She’s lovely. My wee girl looks just like him. What will happen to her?”

“I am representing the present duke. We will see her well looked after. Never fear.”

“Tell his nibs I won’t come near, I promise. I want no trouble. That’s if I even make it out of here in one piece.” She coughed and spat.

Althea reached into her shoulder bag and held out a napkin with bread, cheese, an apple, and a couple of sugar biscuits toward the turnkey. “Can I give this to Miss O’Connor?”

“Aye. Go on.”

Althea gathered the napkin into a bundle and handed the food to Máiréad, whose lower lip trembled at the sight of the food.

“Thank you,” she whispered, holding the package as if it were precious cargo.

Althea murmured her thanks for the information and was escorted outside by the wardswoman. Standing on the walkway, Althea felt the urge to cry. Poor Miss O’Connor.

Edward Cranston preyed on beautiful but vulnerable females of the lower classes, mostly of Irish background. Charmed them, seduced them, got them pregnant, and then abandoned them, yet still kept tabs on his illegitimate children when possible. And he used those children to turn a profit.

No wonder the duchess had asked Damon, “Are you your father’s son?” because he was indeed going down a similar path. Well, not so much the reckless begetting of children, but certainly the moral bankruptcy.

Hollis Galway, her late father and once an inspector with the Metropolitan Police, used to say, “you cannot involve yourself in the private lives of your clients.” But she had. Althea hadn’t followed her father’s advice, nor had Eleanora, though it turned out well enough for her. Perhaps it would be best to wrap up this case. What more could she possibly do? Cut it clean and continue with her agency plans, leaving Damon behind. It was plain common sense.

But when had common sense ever entered into her interactions with Damon Cranston?

* * *

Gentlemen’s clubs, or exclusive clubs for the wealthy, had existed in London for hundreds of years. Some of the prominent ones, like White’s or Boodle’s, spoke more of another age, belonging to grandfathers and great-grandfathers. Almack’s closed in 1867, as did a few others from the Regency and Georgian periods. The more recent clubs were more specific, catering to those who enjoyed the arts, science, literature, graduates from certain universities, or flyfishing of all things.

Damon and his friends merged with a small club, unofficially known as The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park. For the past several years, they met once a week to share a drink and a few sandwiches and swap tales of their exploits.

It was here that Asher, Damon, and Christian decided to have their afternoon luncheon. It was the only place to ensure complete privacy. Asher hosted, with his footmen setting up various dishes on the sideboard so the men could serve themselves.

There was roast pork with savory potatoes, chicken fricassee over rice, watercress salad, dilled corn, stuffed cucumbers, and glazed carrots. Not to mention bread, rolls, cheeses, fruit, and desserts. It was a veritable feast, and Damon could not wait to fill his plate as he hadn’t had a proper meal in days.

Asher dismissed his servants, asking them to return in two hours.

Once seated, Asher poured the wine, white on this occasion, to complement the pork and chicken. “Well, it has been an eventful year,” Asher said, holding up his glass. “Though Christian and I are no longer members, here’s to The Rakes, past and present.”

They clinked glasses.

“Perhaps it is time to rethink the main thrust of this group, no pun intended,” Damon mused. “It has grown tiresome, and I have no desire to continue with this in its present state.”

“What do you propose?” Christian asked as he sliced into his chicken.