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For the two years following his flight from the workhouse, he’d survived on the streets, picking pockets, making his bed on piles of rags, stealing crusts of bread from Covent Garden in the pre-dawn hours. How many nights had he lain awake, weak to the point of delirium, shaking so violently with cold and loneliness and dread that death actually would have been welcome?
But life had prevailed. At least for him. He’d always been one hell of a gambler, steered by infallible instinct as he bet on everything from when a particular winter’s first snow would fall to who would receive the next whipping from Barrings. At the workhouse, his stakes had been food. In the streets, they became money. No longer mere sustenance, but survival.
And survive he had, doubling and tripling his stolen pound notes with each successful wager, earning the respect of London’s notorious thieves as he relieved them of their spoils, hoisting himself from the hopelessness of his plight.
Never forgetting that others hadn’t been so fortunate.
How many children had died, were still dying, on London’s thriving streets?
Lord, if he could only spare them that fate.
But even The Tin Cup Bandit’s stolen jewels together with Pierce’s acquired affluence weren’t enough. Hundreds of thousands of pounds were needed to reach the vast number of starving people. It was so bloody frustrating. If only he had greater influence, greater wealth, greater access—
Reality exploded like gunfire.
He did. Or rather, he would as the Duke of Markham.
Suddenly all vows of “never” faded as the monumental truth struck home. For years he’d sought ways to help. Now the ultimate opportunity was being handed to him with but a few annoying stipulations to impede his path. And he was turning his back on it? Was he mad?
Squelching the bitter protests still clamoring inside him, Pierce forced himself to weigh the facts with unemotional objectivity.
He was being offered a dukedom and all its privileges.
His refusal was based primarily in pride and deep-seated anger. That, and the repudiation of a way of life he abhorred.
The way of life—where was it written he had to emulate it?
If he’d learned anything from his years of poverty, he’d learned that titled wealth bred its own set of rules. Therefore, if the new Duke of Markham chose to mingle with riffraff, scandalously refuse the “right” invitations, and disburse his money in an unorthodox manner, who would dare challenge his eccentricity?
As for pride and anger, wouldn’t accepting the terms of the codicil appease both? After all, as the Duke of Markham he’d be accepted in the very houses he robbed, privy to the details of the aristocracy’s latest acquisitions, their most valuable jewels. He’d hear firsthand who’d won at Newmarket, played the highest stakes at White’s, invested wisely and well.
Consequently, the Tin Cup Bandit could escalate his number of burglaries, taking the ton by storm and utterly annihilating their fortunes. By combining the bandit’s spoils and his own allocated ten thousand pounds a week, Pierce could ensure that England’s workhouses thrived.
Not to mention the sheer joy of flaunting his newly acquired blue-blood status in Tragmore’s face and reminding the blackguard that a duke most emphatica
lly outranked a marquis.
Yes, the final victory would indeed be Pierce’s.
Conversely, what exactly would he be relinquishing?
Two years of his life. Two years to live at Markham’s wretched estate, run his businesses, direct his staff of servants. Two years to make his assets prosper.
Pierce lowered the bottle of whiskey thoughtfully. That task posed no foreseeable difficulty. After all, business ventures were his forte. He’d honed his investment skills over long, hungry years, ultimately earning a sizeable sum of his own. He’d make Markham’s bloody fortune flourish. In fact, he’d leave it healthier than ever. Two years hence, Markham’s assets would reach new heights, and his own commitment would be satisfied.
Not quite, Pierce reminded himself. In order to retain permanent access to the Markham fortune, he had also to produce an heir. A legitimate heir.
Which meant taking a wife.
Pierce frowned. The thought was distinctly unappealing. Given his double identity and his illegal missions, he needed his freedom. Hell, the Tin Cup Bandit notwithstanding, Pierce wanted his freedom. So whomever he selected as his duchess would have to tolerate his independence, at least for two years.
Two years? Pierce sat up with a start. Marriage couldn’t be negated as easily as business ventures. Even if his wife were willing to go her own way once she’d completed her task, she would be bound to him forever, bearing not only his name, but his child.
Daphne.
Her image came as naturally as the vision of her by his side, and Pierce felt his heart lift for the first time since the day’s madness had begun. Daphne—his wife, his duchess, the mother of his child.
An intrigued smile curved Pierce’s lips. Perhaps the notion of marriage was not so unattractive after all, he mused, digesting this new and fascinating possibility. If he had to be permanently tied to one woman, who but Daphne could fill that role?
