Page 43 of The Not So Perfect Duke

“What are you thinking about? You have that pensive furrow of your brows when you are deep in thought,” Damon teased.

“Merely organizing my upcoming tasks. Shall I report to you after I see Chloe’s mother?”

“I have a late luncheon tomorrow with Asher and Christian. Can you come to Clarendon Place at seven?”

“Yes. I will also contact Corbett and arrange the visit to Chellenhome, say, the day after tomorrow? I will tell you the exact time when we see each other at seven.”

Althea stood, and Damon did as well.

“Time for me to go?” he questioned, picking up his coat and slipping it on.

“I think it best. Sybil is upstairs.”

They strolled toward the study door when Damon clasped her arm and gently swung her around until her back rested against the wall. He stood close, then closer still, placing his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head. Leaning in, he nuzzled her neck, kissing it as he ground against her.

That very prominent and hard part of him rubbed against her thigh, causing heat to pool between her legs. Althea moaned, and her breathing became ragged. Oh, how he threatened her reserve. He cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing across her already erect nipple. Even through the layers of clothing and undergarments, every nerve ending came to life.

“Perhaps after your report,” he whispered as he nibbled on her earlobe. “We can retire to my room and explore those intimacies you spoke of. Stay an hour, stay all night. The choice is yours.”

Choice? As if she could say no. The duke was temptation incarnate.

Slowly, she trailed her hand along his flat stomach until she reached lower, clasped that hard thickness, and squeezed, causing a loud groan to escape him. “After the report, then.” She kissed him, then slipped away, opening the study door. With a teasing smile, she buttoned his coat. “We cannot have you going out in public in that condition. You will terrify the older ladies.”

“Minx.”

With a brief but devastating kiss, Damon departed. Althea closed the study door and leaned against it, breathing hard.

She was playing with fire.

Chapter 14

Newgate Prison sat at the corner of Newgate Street and Old Bailey Street for more than seven hundred years. And it looked like it, for there have been discussions of closing it for decades. Thanks to the reformer Elizabeth Fry, who presented evidence to Parliament of the conditions women and their children had to endure within Newgate’s walls, individual cells were constructed in 1858.

At one time, public hangings were held outside the prison gates until 1868. All hangings were now done in the prison yard. Althea couldn’t imagine such a thing, but those communal hangings used to attract enormous crowds.

The old, decrepit prison was filthy and dismal, with lice everywhere, so Althea would have to make this visitation brief. After paying the hansom driver, she entered the front entrance and shuddered at the sound of faraway yelling and shrieking.

A man dressed in black, with a large ring of keys in his hand, led her down narrow hallways and through locked gates to the women’s section in the right wing of the prison. There were no meeting rooms, so she would have to stand and speak to Máiréad O’Connor through the iron bars. The turnkey stood next to a wardswoman to supervise the verbal exchange.

The cell itself was tiny, with a wooden bench and a candle. The window was small and high above to let in a smattering of air or the occasional ray of sunshine. If the prisoners were lucky. The woman came to lean against the iron grates. Althea stepped in reverse, remembering it would be wise not to be so close. Máiréad O’Connor must have been beautiful once, but not now. Her hard life was etched on her face.

“Who are you, then?” Máiréad barked, pushing her tangled hair from her forehead.

A slight Irish accent. Althea introduced herself and stated her credentials. “Were you acquainted with Edward Cranston, the Duke of Chellenham?”

“Eddie? What’s he done now?”

“I am here to discuss your daughter. She’s the duke’s, correct?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who wants to know?”

“The current duke. Edward Cranston is dead.”

The woman stumbled, clasping the bars to stay upright. She wore fingerless gloves; her nails were broken and dirty. “My Chloe. What’s become of her? Did Eddie find her a good home? I signed her over to him. He promised me!”

“Did the late duke pay you for the upkeep of your daughter?”

Máiréad exhaled sharply. “Now and then, not much, mind. It’s why I turned to thieving. And I got caught. Thirteen years I got for stealing bread for my wee girl.”