The Dark Discovery of Jack Dandy (2 page)

Jack’s back straightened. By blood, he was this woman’s social superior. It was only that his father had no honor that made Jack a bastard. Had his father been a better man, Jack would have been raised in a house just as old and imposing as this.

Those were things he made himself remember when shame had him wanting to run off with his tail ‘twixt his legs.

“No,” he said, very calmly. He gazed directly into the glass—could almost imagine the woman’s slack jaw. “I will not go around to the servants’ entrance, for I am
not
a servant. I am an invited guest of your employer, and you can either open this bloody door or explain to him why the meeting he requested was delayed—by you.”

There was a rather pregnant pause. And then a
click
as the lock on the door was disengaged and the heavy oak swung open.

Jack stepped over the threshold with a bored air. Of course he’d gotten his way. There was no greater threat to the working class than their employer’s wrath. That was why he hadn’t been in any employ other than his own for the past six years.

The woman who greeted him was indeed pinched looking. She was barely five feet tall—he spied the box she had to stand on to inspect visitors on the step—and just shy of being considered “sturdy.” Her gaze was downcast as she bobbed in a slight curtsy before him. “This way, Mr. Dandy, if you please.”

He did indeed. He walked behind her as she led him from the hall to a corridor lined with portraits that dated back several hundreds of years, given the dress of the individuals. The rich hung on to family as if they were currency—unless they were illegitimate like Jack; then they were tossed away—while the poor couldn’t spend theirs fast enough.

The house was decorated at the height of modern fashion, despite the obvious age of its exterior. Floral prints in a dizzying array of colors, shining brass and polished wood. He even saw a maid putting a small sweeper automaton away in its cupboard.

Jack had three of the little devils. Not because he was particularly dirty but because he thought them cute. And also, because he could.

Hmm.
There was something familiar about this place, something tugging at the back...
Bloody hell.
He’d robbed it. Oh, this was a fine kettle, now wasn’t it? Not that Abernathy had any way of knowing who’d filched his silver and jewels that night, but the realization made Jack feel a little dirty all the same. He didn’t often have to look his marks in the eye.

This was Finley’s fault, this sudden attack of conscience. He was going to have to send that girl a bill or something. Or perhaps demand that she give him back his spine. Guilt was not a good look for him—it gave one unsightly lines.

And now he felt bad for being rude to the housekeeper, as well.
Damnation.
He was going to have to cheat at cards and seduce a married woman just to get his equilibrium back.

The housekeeper stopped at a closed white-washed door, knocked and, when bade, entered. Jack heard her announce him, and then he swept into the room.

Abernathy was older—perhaps in his late forties or even early fifties. He wasn’t very tall, had thinning blond hair, pale blue eyes and a nose that could only be described as...British. He was dressed in gray-striped trousers, a puce waistcoat and a dove-gray jacket. His shoes were so polished they were like mirrors—not that the viscount could see his shoes past the prodigious curve of his belly. Jack didn’t think he’d ever met anyone who made him so keenly aware of his own height and slight build.

The viscount’s expression when he saw him was terribly amusing. Either Abernathy hadn’t known of Jack’s parentage or he was a very fine actor, because all the color drained from his face, save for the blue of his eyes.

Jack waited until the housekeeper closed the door, sealing the two of them in the study alone to speak. “I’m a busy man, your lordship—fings to do and peoples to see and all that. To what ‘onor do me boots muddy-up your prett-ee rug?”

The man winced at his atrocious accent. Jack narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he’d laid it on a bit too thick. Of course it was a horrible way of speaking—he’d worked hard to perfect it. Sounding the way he did ingratiated him to the people of Whitechapel, but it also made people from other parts of the city underestimate him. For the most part, he liked being underestimated. People said and did all sorts of things in front of you when they thought you were more thug than brain.

Viscount Abernathy, however, would do well
not
to underestimate him. Did the older man think himself better just because he had a big house and a lofty title? The aristocracy wasn’t what it used to be, and Jack reckoned his fortune was as large, if not larger, than the viscount’s.

Bloody hell.
What was wrong with him? Next thing he knew he’d suggest a pissing contest just to see which of them had the longest reach.

“Would it give less offense, my lord, if I spoke to you in a manner of conversation to which you are more accustomed?”

The older man’s eyes widened. Perhaps he noted the change in Jack’s demeanor as well as his speech, or perhaps Jack resembled his estranged pater in more ways than his good looks. “You may speak in whatever manner you choose, Mr. Dandy.”

Jack shrugged. “You, as well, my lord.” He glanced at a black leather wingback chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Abernathy gave his head a shake. “Yes, of course. Please, do. Would you like a drink?”

“Coffee, if you have it.”

The man blinked. “Coffee?”

Jack nodded as he set his hat on a small table and propped his walking stick nearby—within reach, of course. “Yes, please. I never imbibe when I’m discussing business. It’s bad...for business.”

“Yes, I see how it would be.” It was obvious, however, that he didn’t “see” it at all. Judging from the gin blossoms on the man’s beak, Jack would wager the man spent most of his time half-pickled.

The viscount pressed a switch on a little box on his desk. A second later the housekeeper’s voice came out of the box. “Yes, Lord Breckenridge?”

“Coffee, please, Mrs. Dean. And some sandwiches. And some of those little cakes you make that are so delicious.”

Good God.
Was Abernathy flirting with his housekeeper?

“Of course, my lord.” And she was being all coy in return.

Jack eyed his walking stick and wondered if jabbing the blade up his nose and into his brainpan might take away the image of the two of them trying to put their parts together around their notable middles. Instead of testing the theory, he sat down in the chair—it was as comfortable as it looked.

When Abernathy was done cooing to Mrs. Dean, he came and sat down in the chair opposite Jack’s. “First of all, I want to thank you for responding to my request for a meeting so quickly.”

“You have impeccable timing. This is my only free afternoon for some time.” It wasn’t, of course. His business happened mostly at night, in the dark and shadows, but Abernathy didn’t need to know that his afternoons were open for at least the next three to four days.

“Oh, very good. I suppose you are wondering why I requested a meeting as we’ve never been introduced.”

“I rarely wonder at anything, my lord. And it’s not as though we’re totally ignorant of one another, is it?”

The viscount had to be a lousy card player. His cheeks flared red, and his left eyelid twitched.

All the ladies must find him so
very
attractive.

“Yes, quite right.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left as his hands dangled over the leather armrests. He was rather enjoying himself. “You are a friend of my father, are you not?”

If Abernathy flushed any redder, Jack could sell him to a freak show as “The Incredible Tomato Man.” “We are well acquainted, yes.”

“I wager it wasn’t he who pointed you in my direction, though, was it?”

Make that
“
The Incredible
Lobster
Man.
” “Indeed not. I was given your direction by—”

“Don’t.” Jack held up his hand. “
Who
hardly matters. I’m more concerned with
why.
”

It was at that moment that Mrs. Dean arrived with refreshment. She set a silver tray laden with food and a large pot of coffee that smelled strong and rich on the table between them.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dean,” Abernathy said. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

She curtsied—ignoring Jack—and bustled out of the room like an engine with a furnace full of burning coal.

“I think you intimidate her.”

Jack poured himself a cup of coffee. “I have that effect.” He took a plate and placed three little sandwiches on it before leaning back in his chair. “Not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality, but why am I here, my lord?”

Abernathy, who was fixing his own cup of coffee, cleared his throat. “I understand that you occasionally avail yourself to the transportation industry.”

Jack wouldn’t necessarily call it an industry, or say that he availed himself to much of anything. He got involved in schemes and opportunities that promised to pay him extremely well for the amount of risk he had to take. “Do you have something that requires transportation?”

The viscount’s cheeks flushed. The man was hopeless. “Yes. Something that requires a certain amount of...discretion.”

Men like Abernathy only used that word when they knew they were doing something they oughtn’t. “I realize your circle considers it gauche to discuss remuneration, but I do not put my reputation or personal freedom on the line for cheap, sir.”

The man’s lips curled briefly, as though he’d bitten into something bad. Jack’s first thought was to poke him in the throat—hard. “Of course. What is your price? I suppose you’ll want it up front?”

He made it sound as though Jack had asked for a kiss on top of it all. “Half to seal the deal and half upon completion would be the gentlemanly agreement.”

“There’s nothing gentlemanly about this, sir.”

“No,” Jack replied quietly, locking his gaze with the viscount’s. “On either side, else I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
Let the arrogant nob chew on that for a moment.

Abernathy’s chin lifted defiantly. “Name your price, Dandy.”

“Before I know what I’m getting into?” He chuckled. “I am not a fool, my lord. I went to Eton, you know.”

“Of course I know. You were in class with my eldest. That’s how I came to know of you. Fenton Hardwick.”

It was a surname that made the boy in him want to snort with laughter, but Jack resisted temptation. He remembered Hardwick—annoying little prig, but always up for a bit of trouble. They hadn’t been friends, though. Very few boys wanted to align themselves with a bastard.

“Ah, yes. How is he?”

“He’s on the Continent with friends.” Where Jack would probably be had his parents married.

Jack’s smile was false. “Good for him.” He took another drink of coffee. “What am I to transport, my lord?”

“A crate.” The viscount gave him a narrow glance. “Though I’m tempted to tell you to go to the very devil and find someone else.”

“As you wish, but I’ve been to the devil, my lord. He sent me back.” He made to rise.

“Wait.”

Jack hid his smile as he sat once more. He knew the old man wouldn’t let him leave. Honestly, if he needed a reason to leave this should have been it. Abernathy’s desperation should have warned him off. Desperate men were not good employers.

But Jack didn’t leave. “Yes?”

The viscount squirmed. In his mind, Jack had the bounder pinned like an insect on a display board. “I will give you one thousand pounds to deliver a crate to St. Pancras station.”

One thousand
,
eh?
Desperate indeed.
“Two thousand.”

“What?” Abernathy’s face was purple. Was Jack about to witness a human head exploding? “That’s preposterous!”

Jack shrugged. “Find someone else then. I’m sure someone out there would do it for a thousand.”

The older man’s jaw clenched. “You are no gentleman, sir.”

“We already established that, I believe.” Jack crossed his legs and reclaimed the delicious coffee he was not yet ready to abandon. “Now, my lord, do we have a deal?”

Chapter 2

Two thousand pounds to pick up a crate on the docks and transport it to St. Pancras and then walk away. It sounded too good to be true. But it was true, because Jack had the first of the payments inside his coat pocket.

Logic demanded then that the situation was far from anything remotely resembling good. That realization floated around in his head, taking some of the shine off his latest influx of wealth. He was going to make the delivery—he kept his word, no matter what a bastard like Abernathy thought of him. He’d have to be extra cautious, use his best men, but he’d get the job done and be all the richer for it.

As he steered his carriage through the streets meandering toward Whitechapel, Jack wondered if Abernathy would tell his father that they’d met. Most likely not, because his father might ask for details and the viscount wouldn’t want to give himself away. Still, Jack could pretend.

Damnation.
He’d thought more of his father today than he had in the past two years. This anger and bitterness were of no benefit other than to keep pushing him. Someday he was going to be one of the richest men in England, and when that happened, he was going to rub his old man’s face in it. He would never be his father’s social equal, but he could better him financially. If he could cripple him in the process that would just be buttercream on the cake.

When he finally reached home, Jack drove the carriage around behind the house, and after pausing at the small podium to use the punch card key, into the small shack there. After disengaging the engine he stepped out, closed the carriage door and inserted a key into the wall next to him. The platform beneath the carriage began to lower, taking the vehicle with it. It would deposit it underground with several other modes of transportation, and then the lift would return, looking like the scuffed floor of an old shack, with no hint of what was beneath. The vehicles would have all been stolen by now if not for this precaution. His reputation was fearsome, but the money from selling just one of his machines would feed a family for a long time, and children were a far greater motivator than fear.