“What in hell?” Hugh murmured under his breath. Chase was one of the members of the Lords of Chaos on the list Montgomery had given him. That left only Dowling and Exley alive. “Are they killing each other?”
“Talbot thinks they might be, sir,” Riley said. “He’s got Bell watching the Chase house, and he’s following Dyemore himself.”
That got Hugh’s attention. “Dyemore’s gone out?”
After learning that the old Duke of Dyemore had been the last known leader of the Lords of Chaos, Hugh had investigated the new Duke of Dyemore. He’d discovered that Dyemore had landed in London only weeks before. On disembarking the duke had apparently promptly holed himself up in his town house because few had actually seen him in London. Hugh had had a man watching Dyemore for the past several days, but the duke had barely left his house.
He shook himself now and glanced back at Exley’s front door, which was still quiet. “Stay here. I’ll send someone to relieve you for the night. I’m going back to Kyle House to receive word from Talbot. It can’t be coincidence that Dyemore has decided to finally show his face on the day Chase dies.”
“Yes, sir.”
He left poor Riley stamping his feet against the cold and headed into the wind. What was going on in the inner workings of the Lords? It almost seemed as if they were fighting among themselves.
The old Duke of Dyemore had died suddenly and apparently without anyone in line to succeed him in the leadership of the Lords. Perhaps there was no one at the top.
Perhaps they were battling like rats to take possession of the dung heap.
Hugh frowned and glanced across the street to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He wished he could talk the matter over with Alf. She might drive him half-mad with her cheek, but she was also sharp as a tack and able to make the kinds of logical connections that made discussing strategy like riding a galloping horse: exhilarating.
Except he’d driven her away.
On that morose thought he looked up and saw the lights of his town house. He leaped up the steps and knocked, nodding to his butler as the door was opened.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Cox said, taking his hat and cloak. “Would you like supper served in the dining room?”
“Later, thank you.” Hugh made for the stairs, mindful that it was close to the boys’ bedtime.
He hadn’t seen them since this morning right after breakfast, when he’d introduced the new nursemaid Cox had found. Peter had seemed to like the new nursemaid, a motherly older woman named Milly. He’d chattered to Hugh about Milly and his lessons for the day while Kit still kept to monosyllabic answers. Annie, their established nursemaid, had reported that Peter had slept through the previous night without any nightmares.
Hugh sighed as he made the nursery floor. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the boys were improving with Alf around. If she decided to stay away because of him, would Peter’s nightmares return?
His steps slowed as he neared the nursery and heard voices.
“But why are you not a boy?” Peter asked, sounding quite worried.
Hugh stopped dead, holding his breath.
“Because I’m a woman,” Alf said.
Her voice was matter-of-fact, and Hugh closed his eyes in relief. Oh, thank God, she’d returned. She was safe and sound.
“But you were a boy before—”
“Silly!” That was Kit, his voice both scornful and a bit uncertain. “She’s always been a girl. She was just disguised as a boy.”
“But why?” Peter’s voice was stubborn and held a hint of tears. “I don’t want you to be a girl. I want you to be Alf.”
“I am Alf,” she said, her words careful and precise. “I’m always Alf. I always have been. I always will be. I’m just telling you that I’ve been wearing boys’ clothes but that I’m really a woman. I didn’t want you to be upset when you saw me in a dress.”
“But you talk different, too,” Peter objected.
“Are you a princess?” Kit asked cautiously, but with an undercurrent of excitement in his voice. “Like in a fairy tale? Were you stolen when you were a baby and forced to wear boys’ clothes?”
“Oh!” Peter exclaimed. “A princess!”
Alf laughed. “No, I’m sorry, I’m not a princess. I’m just Alf.”
“Aw,” said Peter, probably voicing the disappointment of both boys.
“Then why are you telling us now?” Kit asked, still sounding suspicious.
Hugh cleared his voice and stepped into the nursery. “Because I asked Alf to do so.”
They were sitting on the floor, Alf, Kit, and Peter. Alf wore her boys’ clothes as usual, but something was different about her, perhaps in the way she held herself. Perhaps in the way her hair was neatly clubbed back instead of half-falling in her face. Already she looked more feminine. Peter sat in her lap and Kit was perched beside her, leaning against her side.
He caught his breath. They looked… very like a young mother with her children.
Like a family.
He had to glance away for a moment and compose himself.
“You made Alf into a girl?” Kit sounded accusing.
He stared at his eldest son. “I didn’t make her into anything. I merely asked her to learn to dress as the sex she already was.”
“Didn’t you like her as she was?” Kit asked rather belligerently.
“Yes,” he replied, looking at her. “But I like her better when she doesn’t have to hide who she truly is.”
“I like Alf all the time,” Peter declared, and turned to hug her.
The woman wrapped her arms around his son and hugged him back. She watched Hugh over the blond head, though, and he couldn’t help but see a challenge in those big brown eyes.
He’d asked for this. He’d pushed her to do this.
And she had.
Something inside him rose at the knowledge, at the challenge in those brown eyes. He wanted to take her, pull her from this room, prove to her that he was the male to her female.
Instead he held himself carefully rigid.
“I’m so glad,” Alf was saying to Peter, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “I like you, too.” She placed a kiss on his forehead and then one on Kit’s forehead as well. “And I like Kit.”
“Do you like Papa?” Peter asked.
“Petey!” Kit hissed.
“What?” the younger boy asked, bewildered.
Alf smirked—the same cocky smile she’d given Hugh as a lad. It had an entirely different effect now that he knew she was a woman. “Sometimes I do.”
“Really?” Kit didn’t sound particularly convinced, and Hugh blinked, feeling hurt. There’d been a time when his older son used to run to him, grinning, on fat little legs, and hold his arms up, begging to be held.
But that had been before he’d abandoned the boy.
Perhaps such hurts could never truly be healed.
“Yes, really,” Alf replied firmly, interrupting his dark thoughts. “Sometimes, of course, your papa is quite stern and abrupt and won’t listen to me and I want to throw potatoes at him”—Peter giggled at this—“but most of the time…” She looked up at him, meeting his gaze again, her brown eyes wide and soft. “Most of the time, I find I quite like him.”
His heart seemed to stop for a moment as he looked at her. He’d understood the huntress, the cocky boy, the wily informant, and, since the night before last, the sensual woman. All of that he’d been braced to defend himself against.
He hadn’t expected simple acceptance, though.
She’d laid him bare.
Peter squirmed in her lap, breaking the spell. “I’m hungry.”
She glanced down at him. “I came up to have supper with Peter and Kit.” She looked back up at him, her gaze cautious. “Would you like to join us?”
He blinked. The boys were watching him, Peter expectantly, Kit with his face shuttered. He didn’t usually eat with the boys—it wasn’t something adults did in aristocratic households.
He inhaled. “Yes, but why not come downstairs? I’m expecting news from Talbot.”
She smiled at him as Peter gave a whoop, and even Kit looked pleased.
The boys ran ahead down the hall as he held out his elbow to Alf.
She took it with a shy look, and as they followed his sons he wondered if he’d made a mistake in asking her to arm herself with skirts.
Chapter Twelve
Day after day the Black Prince brought the Golden Falcon out to train her, always handling her gently, always whispering words of encouragement and praise, until one day he untied the long tether and threw her into the air. The Golden Falcon flew high into the sky, until she was but a dot in the blue. The boy whistled. The bird wheeled and swooped from the sky, landing on his arm of her own accord.
And the Black Prince smiled at her.…
—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon
“Slow-ly,” Iris said several days later as Alf was trying—unsuccessfully—to rise gracefully from a curtsy. “You must perform it as slowly and as steadily as possible. Oh, and do keep your back straight. Pretend as if you had your back against a brick wall.”
They were in the red sitting room in Kyle House today for Alf’s Lady Practice—as she privately called it. Most mornings she’d been practicing at Iris’s house, but today Iris had wanted to see the boys, and as a result Alf had a bit of an audience for her lessons.
Spread on a low table were a steaming pot of tea, along with a pitcher of chocolate, and several plates of tempting refreshments. Peter giggled as he watched her, while Kit was more interested in his cup of chocolate.
Alf blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. She felt like a fool. She didn’t like feeling the fool. “A man must’ve invented the curtsy. It’s the most awkward thing I’ve ever done. I don’t know how anyone can do it gracefully.”
“With lots of practice,” Iris said pragmatically, and took another biscuit. She, of course, was sitting on one of the settees with the boys.
There was a plate of biscuits, one of muffins, and one of sliced cake, and Alf eyed them rather longingly.
“Once more,” Iris said, sounding far too cheerful.
Alf bent her knees, remembering to keep her back ramrod straight. Her stays did help in this, since she was laced so tightly it would have been a bit hard to bend at the waist in any case. The problem was sinking down without wobbling.
A snort from Peter as she began to rise alerted her to the fact that she’d failed yet again.
“Beg your pardon, my lady, but might we be of service?”
The voice was from the doorway, and Alf straightened gratefully to see that Riley, Bell, and Talbot were standing there.
She raised her eyebrows. Although she’d exchanged a few words with Kyle’s men, she wasn’t entirely sure what they thought of her.
Especially now that she’d suddenly transformed into a woman.
But neither Riley, Bell, nor Talbot looked as if he were laughing at her. In fact they seemed genuinely interested in helping with the proceedings.
Alf glanced at Iris.
Iris raised her brows back at her and, on receiving a shrug from Alf, nodded. “We’d be grateful for your help, gentlemen.”
Riley drifted in, followed by the boy and the larger man. Bell was blushing and having a hard time meeting Alf’s eyes. She wondered in amusement if it was because she was a woman now.
“What can we do, my lady?” Riley asked.
“Do you know how to make a bow?” Iris asked.
The Irishman grinned and made a sweeping formal bow.
Iris nodded in approval. “Very good. I’m teaching Alf about introductions. Why don’t you be the gentleman at a ball and Alf will be the lady?”
Riley nodded and turned to her. “Miss Alf?”
She curtsied as he bowed, and then they did it again with Iris making comments about where Alf’s hand should be and to keep her chin lowered just a little longer and smile, but never smile too widely, and certainly not with teeth.
Teeth were apparently not ladylike.
The whole thing was more exhausting than spending the night running over rooftops and dueling footpads.
At the end of half an hour Alf finally was allowed to sit down and have a biscuit and some fresh tea. She was laughing at one of Riley’s stories when she glanced up and saw Kyle standing in the doorway, watching them.
Well. Watching her, anyway.
She felt her face heat as she saw the glint in his black eyes.
He jerked his chin at her in a sort of command, and she said, “Excuse me,” as Iris had been teaching her, and calmly got up and went to the door.
He was waiting for her in the hall.
She walked toward him, aware of her skirts brushing against her legs and of her hair, pulled back and exposing her face. “It seems like we should trade jobs, guv.”
He frowned, those black eyes intent on her. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “Just that you’re spending more time watching these days than I am.”
He stepped toward her. “Oughtn’t I be? I asked a lot of you.”
“You asked me to put on a dress.”
“You yourself said it was much more than that.”
He glanced up irritably as boyish giggles came from the sitting room. It seemed to remind him that they were standing in the hall. He took her hand and pulled her without comment across the floor and into the dining room.
He closed the door behind them.
She looked up at him, this powerful man. “What do you want from me, guv?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered, sounding angry—whether at her or himself, she couldn’t guess—and his hands pulled her against his hard body.
He bent and took her mouth, sliding his tongue against her lips until she parted them. Until she let him in with a relieved sigh. She’d missed this. Missed him. She’d wondered if he’d decided he was done with her.
Apparently not.
His fingers brushed over her bare neck, ticklish and sweet, even as he thrust his tongue inside her mouth again and again.
“Alf?” The call came from outside the room.
For a second more he continued to ravage her mouth as if he couldn’t tear himself away from her, and then Kyle lifted his head. His lips were reddened, his eyes dark.
Carefully he tucked a lock of her hair back inside her cap. “I don’t know what the hell I want from you.”
“BUT WHERE DID she go?” Peter asked several days later with that whine particular to five-year-old boys.
The headache Hugh had woken with seemed to tighten into a knot behind his right eye. He’d thought that spending a morning with his sons in the library might help them understand each other, but he was beginning to doubt his wisdom. Thus far Peter had been petulant and Kit still hostile. Perhaps he should double the pay to their nursemaids.
“Alf has her own life,” Hugh said wearily.
The truth was that he hadn’t seen or heard from her in almost a week now. Part of that time he knew had been spent with Iris, learning everything she would need to know for the ball, but the rest he had no idea about. For all he knew, she was still risking her life at night as the Ghost of St Giles. He had no hold on her, did he? She could do whatever she pleased. She’d made very sure to flaunt that fact to him by slipping out of her room and past his guards whenever she wanted.
And that was all his own choice. Because after his loss of control, after he’d kissed her in the dining room despite telling himself he wasn’t going to touch her again, he’d decided to avoid Alf.
Which he had.
Hugh sat in his wing chair and rubbed at his aching eye as he watched the boys on the floor before the fire. He’d been attempting to interest them in a large book of maps, but that, like all his other plans of late, seemed to have failed.
“But—” Peter had begun when his elder brother interrupted.
“Quit asking, Petey.” Kit sighed, sounding far too cynica
l for a seven-year-old. “She’s just gone and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Alf’s not coming back?” Peter asked, wide eyed. He looked from his brother to his father, his blue eyes filling with tears.
“I’m sure—” Hugh said helplessly.
“But I want Alf to come back,” the little boy whimpered.
So did he. “Come here.” He bent and lifted his son to his lap, the warm weight a comfort. Hugh looked at Kit, still scowling on the floor. “You, too.”
The older boy slowly got up and dragged himself over, and Hugh pulled him close as well.
He closed his eyes, laying his cheek against his angry son’s dark head. At least the boy let him do that.
He sighed, remembering when Kit was born. The red, wet bundle thrust into his arms, traces of birthing blood still caught in the whorls of his tiny ears. Hugh had unwrapped the baby’s swaddling against the protests of the midwives. Had traced the wrinkled armpits, touched the curling toes, wondered at the perfect penis. Placed his palm over the delicate, round belly, his fingertips curling over the baby’s shoulder, and known: he loved this tiny thing. Loved him mindlessly and forever.
Paternal love didn’t die simply because a boy glared at his father. It merely watched and grieved.
Hugh swallowed. His damned eye felt as if it would burst from the socket. He wondered idly if it was possible for a man to die from a headache.
Peter gave a wiggle. “Alf.”
“I know.” He kissed the small forehead.
“No, Alf is here, Father!” Kit exclaimed.
Hugh’s head jerked up as he opened his eyes. She stood there in her boys’ clothes, grinning at him, cocky as ever, a covered basket at her feet. She must’ve come in by the French doors again, and it occurred to him that he really ought to put a better lock on the door.
The boys scrambled from his lap and ran to her, and the sight made him breathless. He stood watching as she knelt, laughing, and they hugged her. Peter’s tears had dried and Kit’s anger seemed to have evaporated.