Page 82 of The Not So Perfect Duke

“Wake up, you cretin,” Damon hissed.

Well. Althea was rather impressed by Damon’s command. This was a surprising side of him and not unwelcome. Althea stood closer, still holding the revolver on Browning.

“What in the bloody hell,” the man rumbled as he struggled to focus. He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs.

“We have questions. Answer them to our satisfaction, and you will get your money,” Althea stated firmly. “Then you will leave London, never to return. Or we will have The Sentinel hunt you down. The man who beat you into submission? He works for me.”

Damon turned and gave her an approving nod, then swung his gaze back toward Browning. “And Miss Galway will use the pistol on you, make no mistake. She has shot miserable men like you before. And she never misses.”

Browning gave Althea an assessing gaze, then touched the back of his head and came away with blood on his fingers. “I’m bleedin’.”

“We will attend to that. Questions first. Do you agree to the terms?” Damon asked, his tone deadly serious.

“I just want my money.”

“You could have approached us without threats,” Althea admonished as she took the seat opposite, still keeping a firm grip on the firearm.

Browning grunted. “Right. Sure. Ask your questions.”

“How was it done? Explain the process of Chellenhome,” Althea demanded.

“The duke gave me names, gents, and aristos with by-blows they wanted gone. I was to collect a fee, then bring the bastards to Chellenhome. Then, they were sold to businesses, factories, or people who wanted a child for whatever reason.”

“We figured that part out,” Damon snapped. “I want to know why an earl or viscount or whoever would pay to have their progeny taken away when all they had to do was ignore the child, as many have done in the past. There had to be something in it for them.”

Browning squirmed in his seat. “I’m feelin’ sick. I need attendin’ to,” he complained.

“Once you answer me,” Damon replied, his tone thunderous.

“There was a small fee paid back to the gents. A finder’s fee. Some greedier ones started snatching orphans off the street for ready cash. When the inventory was low, the duke bought street waifs and sold them for thrice the price or more. Those names were not written in the ledgers. I got a cut for every sale, but the duke made the most of anyone. For a while there, he was in high clover.”

“A top-down scam, in other words. My late father told me of these. The scam relies on recruiting new members, bringing in more money, and the late duke sitting on the top took the most profit. But then it all started to unravel, correct?” Althea interjected.

Browning grunted his affirmation.

Kingsley entered with a tray and placed it on the table near Browning. “I can take care of this man’s wounds as you continue questioning him, Your Grace, Miss Galway.”

“Thank you, Kingsley. Have at it. I believe the nose is broken. You may want to check that as well,” Damon replied.

“Not the first time,” Browning muttered. “And not the last; I’ll be bound.”

“No doubt,” Althea replied. “So, it all started to unravel?”

“Aye. The older members started dying off or were too old to run the streets for whatever purpose. The duke did his bit to maintain the inventory, but he alone could not keep it a going concern. He tried to recruit newer blood, but it all fell apart. The newer gents were not as reckless as the old ones.”

Browning’s verbal cadence moved between his East End upbringing to his exaggerated gentleman’s accent. Althea stared at him, assessing his character, such as it was. He had held a gun on them. Would he have used it? Desperation can cause a man to do all sorts. Yet, he was being cooperative. Perhaps even telling the truth. His words had a ring of veracity.

“The boys at the home, Byron Holloway and Jack Benton. Tell me what you know of them,” Damon questioned.

Kingsley worked efficiently, wrapping gauze around the brute’s head and laying plasters on his nose and forehead.

“They’re his, the late duke’s. They’re brothers. Why do they have different last names; I don’t know or care. Of all the women Himself had, this one he kept tucked away for a while. Got attached to her as much as he was capable. I only knew the woman as Christabel. She died when the oldest boy was four. Maybe the duke didn’t care, for he hardly turned a hair at the news of her death. Told me to take the boys to the home but not to sell them until he said. He never said.”

Damon and Althea exchanged looks. How strange that Edward Cranston kept the boys. But who knows why the old duke did or did not do anything? The more Althea learned of the man, the more of an enigma he became. A thoroughly despicable being, but a puzzle, nonetheless.

“The boys have no family to speak of?” Althea asked.

“None that the duke told me. I don’t think he knew. Knowing him, I doubt he was concerned about it. I don’t know where the woman is from or her people.”