Forever a Lord. Delilah Marvelle
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Walsh grabbed hold of him and yanked him close. “Come to the funeral.”
He flinched against the touch that seared his bruised body. Unlatching her arms, he stepped back and shook his head. “I really don’t want to see her in a casket.”
“I understand.” She patted the small sack of coins. “May God bless.” She nodded and moved into the crowd.
The Walsh boys lowered their gazes and disappeared after their mother, one by one.
Coleman blankly stared after them, knowing it would be the last time he’d ever see them now that Jane was gone.
Matthew rounded him and held out his linen shirt. “I’ve known you for eight years, Coleman. Eight. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were married?”
Coleman grabbed the shirt and pulled the cool linen over his sweaty, blood-ridden body, wincing against the movements. “Because it wasn’t much of a marriage. It was more like me helping a girl out of a situation and keeping her legally out of other people’s hands.”
Matthew held out the rest of his clothing, which Coleman also grabbed and put on. “I’m still sorry to hear she passed.”
Coleman shrugged. “It was only a matter of time. She was overly wild and consumed laudanum and whiskey like water.” He perused the trash-strewn ground. Finding the advertisement he’d earlier tossed, he swiped up the balled newspaper and shoved it into his pocket. For later.
Three hefty men, including a tall, well-muscled negro in a frayed linen shirt and wool trousers, suddenly pressed in on him and Matthew.
Coleman’s brows went up, realizing it was Smock, Andrews and Kerner—members of their group, the Forty Thieves. “You missed the fight.” Coleman thumbed toward the milling fence and smirked. “Although Vincent’s blood is still on the ground. Feel free to look around.”
Smock swiped a hand across his black, unshaven face. “We’re not here for the fight.”
Everyone grew quiet.
Oh, no.
Matthew quickly leaned in. “Jesus. Is someone dead?”
Andrews scrubbed his oily head with a dirt-crusted hand. “Nah. But it ain’t good, either.”
Kerner’s bearded face remained stoic.
Coleman stared them down and bit out, “Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on? Or are we going to stand here like bricks and play charades?”
Kerner’s bushy brows rose to his shaggy hairline. “Apparently, two girls went missing from the local orphanage. There’s been grumblings in the ward as to what happened. We’re talking prostitution. Sister Catherine called on me this morning and is terrified knowing the rumors are true. These missing girls are barely eight.”
Coleman hissed out a breath. The amount of sick bastards in this world taking advantage of children made him want to break rib cages all day long. He was damn well glad he wasn’t the only one putting up fists. The sole reason he and Matthew had created the Forty Thieves was to clean up the rancid aspects of the slums they all lived in. The trouble was, there was too much to clean and very little money to clean it with. “I say we get the boys together and decide who can resolve this mess best. Milton? When and where?”
Matthew pointed at Coleman. “Anthony Street. In three hours. The usual place. Someone has to know something. Maybe we can buy a few tongues. Though God knows with what. Informants these days only want money. Kerner, Smock, Andrews, come with me. We need to get our hands on twenty dollars. Coleman? Clean yourself up. Your face and nose need tending.” Matthew rounded into the crowd with the boys following suit and disappeared.
A humid wind blew in from the wharf, feathering Coleman’s pulsing skin. He made his way back to the milling fence and stood there, amidst the dust and shouts, staring at nothing in particular.
He probably shouldn’t have given Mrs. Walsh all ten dollars. Informants were anything but cheap and expected at least a dollar apiece.
Coleman momentarily closed his eyes, knowing what needed to be done. All that mattered was doing right by those girls and the countless others like them, and giving them the chance he never got when he was their age.
Reopening his eyes, Coleman slowly pulled out the crumpled advertisement from his wool coat pocket and stared at the words well rewarded. He didn’t know who the hell this Duke of Wentworth and Lord Yardley were or why they were looking for Nathaniel after almost thirty fucking years, but he did know one thing. He would swallow what had once been and use these men to get as much money as he could, to set him and the Forty Thieves up to help anyone in a similar predicament to these girls.
Everything in life came at a price. And knowing there were children whose very lives depended on whatever he and Matthew could buy, it was a price he was more than willing to pay.
CHAPTER TWO
Distinction of rank is of little importance when an offense has been given, and in the impulse of the moment, a Prince has forgot his royalty, by turning out to box.
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
The Adelphi Hotel
Evening
LEANING AGAINST THE silk embroidered wall of the hotel lobby, Coleman scanned the polished marble floors and rubbed his scabbed hands together.
“Sir?” a hotel footman called out, holding out a white gloved hand. “Could you please not lean against the wall? It’s silk and damages easily.”
Coleman shifted his jaw and pushed away from the wall. Although he’d scrubbed with soap and shaved around every scab from his last fight, his patched wool clothing lent to a dirtiness no soap could touch. He was used to it, but sometimes, just sometimes, it still agitated the hell out of him when others treated him like some thug. He was a boxer. Not a thug. There was a difference.
Quick, echoing steps drew his attention.
An older, dashing gentleman with silver, tonic-sleeked hair jogged into the foyer of the hotel, dressed in expensive black evening attire from leather boot to broad shoulder, save a white silk waistcoat, snowy linen shirt and a perfectly knotted linen cravat.
Skidding in beside that older gent was a good-looking man of no more than thirty, whose raven hair had also been swept back with tonic. A black band hugged the upper biceps of his well-tailored coat.
Apparently, everyone was in mourning these days.
It was depressing.
They faced him, their brows rising in unison at realizing he was the only person waiting for them in the lobby.
Coleman knew the best and only way to go about this was to make these men believe Nathaniel was dead. Because that part of himself was.
Adjusting his wool great coat, Coleman strode toward them. “I’m here on behalf of Nathaniel. You have two minutes to convince me you’re worth trusting.”
Both men stared, no doubt weighing his words.
The younger of the two approached. “Two minutes? I suppose we had best talk fast.” Grey eyes, that eerily reminded him of someone he once knew, searched his face. “Are you— What happened to your face?”
Agitated by the question, Coleman widened his stance. “The same thing that’s about to happen to yours, if you don’t tell me who the fuck you are and why you’re looking for Atwood.”
The man leaned back. “I can see you’re exceptionally friendly. Which would explain the face.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his evening coat. “The name is Yardley. Lord Yardley.” He gestured with an ungloved hand toward the older gentleman. “That there is my father, His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth. We, sir, are Nathaniel’s family. Close family. If he is still alive, as you are leading us to believe, we would like to speak to him in person. Not through another person. If you don’t mind.”