In Compromise with the Earl by Ava MacAdams

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Gazing through the murky fog at the ramshackle tavern in Seven Dials, Oswald cursed. “What the deuce is Duke Strathmore doing here?”

Earlier that evening, Oswald had found himself back at White’s, planning on how to confront the Duke when the man in question strode into the club as if was his personal playground. He was ready to confront him there and then, but he needed to be discreet.

Patiently he waited until the Duke left and he slipped away as well, calling his carriage to follow the man. When they had ended in Seven Dials, a slum in St. Giles, Oswald was both intrigued and repulsed.

After a half hour of waiting and watching, Oswald descended the carriage and made his way to the front door. He had to step aside when a man, holding onto a scantily-clad women stumbled out of the door.

The drunk squinted, “W…what’s a high-to-do toff like you, skulking ‘round these parts?”

“Same as you,” Oswald replied, looking pointedly at the women.

“Ah, the whores are dime a piece,” the man who reeked of tar and blue ruin leered “Have y…yerself a bonny old time, M’Lord.”

Tipping his hat, Oswald went inside and felt his throat close over at the thick smell of smoke, cheap gin and unwashed bodies. He could barely see through the dimness cloaked with threads of smoke but he spotted the Duke—as he was walking to the back with a woman.

Doesn’t he have the pick of the litter when it comes to women? So, why here?

Without apology, Oswald followed him and ended up in a corridor that was saturated with incense and at the end, a winding staircase. Even halfway down the stairs, he heard muffled sounds filtered through the walls; though the voices were indecipherable, yet he did not have to hear what was being said because the words were pleasure moans and groans.

In the basement, his breath caught with the familiar smell of sexual acts and the sound of flesh in flesh. He knew as he turned the corner he would come upon wickedness and depravity beyond imagining.

Nevertheless, he and the Duke were due a conversation and he did not care if the man was stones-deep in the woman, they were going to talk. The room doors were closed, but there were peepholes and he used them, not flinching as he spotted the carnal acts inside them.

He did not react to one single sight, not the orgy going in room two or the flogging in room five. He moved on until he came to the end of the row and saw Duke Strathmore lounging on a Roman bed, a red-headed woman kneeling between his legs, his expression enthralled as she took his manhood in her mouth.

He stepped away and banged on the door, hoping the two would pause, but he never expected to hear, “Come in, the door is open.”

Oswald fixed his jaw and opened the door, before stepping in only a foot inside. He kept his eyes on the Duke instead of the lady servicing him.

“We need to talk, Your Grace,” he said.

“In case you have not noticed, I am in the middle of something, Tennesley. If you want her, you’ll have to wait,” Strathmore said, his hand threading into the woman’s hair and his head lolling back.

“I am not here to get her services, I am here about your blackmail,” Oswald said.

“What the deuce are you talking about?” Strathmore huffed as his brows knitted. “I never sent anything of that kind to you.”

Oswald wanted to think the man was lying, but the knot in the middle of his gut told him otherwise.

“What did you mean about my secrets then?” Oswald snapped.

“Unless you don’t know many of us peers still think you were the one to kill your lovely wife,” Strathmore said. “If this one goes the same way, don’t you think that would show your colors.”

“I never laid a hand on Claire,” Oswald’s fist tightened at his side.

“But many others had. I’ve made my peace with you winning the Kingsley chit,” Duke Strathmore hissed through his teeth. “She was too much of a prude anyway. Now, if you will excuse me—”

Oswald did not wait a moment, he just spun on his heel and strode out, the grunts of the Duke’s capitulation thrown at his back. He left the basement and went to the upper floor, then exited the building all together.

If the Duke was not behind it—who was?

With a look to his cloaked driver, Oswald hopped into the carriage and rapped on the roof; he was bound for home. He tossed ideas through his head, and even while dissecting each suspected person, he still could not come to a solid conclusion.

It was an absent-minded realization of not hearing any noise of other carriages jerked him out his thoughts and he ripped the curtain away from the window. He found that he was on a dark lonely street and felt caution creep into his chest.

He reached up and rapped on the roof, while sticking his head out the window. “What the deuce are you doing—”

A gunshot cracked in the dark and he yanked his head away from the window, and the shot landed in the middle of the door. He reached for the door handle and made sure it was shut. Looking around the carriage, his jaw tightened.

Damnation, why did I not place a weapon in here?

He did not have one—but his driver was always armed. Swiftly, he kicked the door open and used the door as a shield before he clambered on top of the vehicle.

Another shot rang out while he got to the driver’s seat, a man who was slumping on the seat and realized that the man was not moving. Oswald reached out and ripped the hood off the driver’s head to see the vacant eyes of a dead man.

Another shot rang out, this time clipping one of the horses in the side and when the animal collapsed, Oswald knew he had little time. He scrambled to find the hidden compartment where the driver kept his pistol and he managed to yank the weapon from under the seat.

He grasped the cold handle and pocketed all the shots with their paper cartridge when another shot slammed into the carriage. Quickly he flew back into the coach, eyes out the window in the general direction of the continued bellows.

He saw no one outside—yet—but heard the hurried fall of horse’s hooves and the raged hollering of several men who now surrounded the carriage—muggers. Belatedly, he realized he should have driven away when the steeds were intact, but it was too late now; all he could do was deal with the robbers himself.

He should have paid more attention before all this happened or he should have gone home and arranged for a standard meeting with the Duke like a sensible Lord. With his back to front of the carriage, he heaved a seething breath, readying his pistol.

Muscles tense in anticipation, he moved, crouching along the carriage floor toward the door. He reached for the door handle, ready to shoot the moment he saw any of them, when the door ripped open.

He leveled the pistol and let one fly between the man’s eyes. He lurched out of the vehicle, and landed on his feet, only to throw himself into the bushes. Rolling up he aimed but a mugger landed on top of him and kicked the gun away before he dropped on Oswald and the two wrestled in the dirt and brambles.

A punch to his jaw had his vision wavering for a moment before his instinct took ahold of him and the beast inside him took over. He punched harder than he ever did in the boxing ring, not stopping even when he heard bones snap and cartilage crunch under his fist.

When the body was unresponsive, Oswald shunted him to the side and reached around, blindly searching for the pistol when the third attacker landed a kick to his side, sending him on his back and just as his hands landed on the cold handle of the gun—moonlight glinted off the barrel of another gun before it went off; right into him, sending his vison black.

The mugger ran off into the night, leaping onto one of the horses and racing away just as his eyes closed and he slipped unconscious.

* * *

Aphrodite tightened her robe while gazing out on the dark driveway. The grandfather clock in the hall below had chimed ten o’clock and Oswald was not home. She could not stop the sinking feeling in her heart that something was wrong.

She did not know what was happening to him and that scared her more than she could ever admit. Even worse, she hated sleeping alone in that enormous bed not three feet away from her. She had become so accustomed to his big, warm body in the bed beside her, his strong arms holding her close.

She missed his familiar scent on her skin and the solid beat of his heart under her ear when they slept, wrapped around each other so tightly, it was difficult to decipher where she ended and he began.

Downcast, she went to the bed praying that when they saw each other again, they would have the single conversation that would be a linchpin of their marriage. If he was straying, she would leave—but the very notion of it made her heart lurch as she loved him, truly, undeniably loved him.

Slipping under the sheets, she reached out for one of his pillows and hugged it to her chest.

“Come home, Oswald,” she whispered. “Please, come home.”

* * *

The pain in his arm jolted Oswald awake. Pain was a hot greased knife right through his body, sinking deeply and radiating through his body with every pulse of his heart; when Oswald dared suck in a breath, it grew worse.

Reaching up with his uninjured hand, his fingers inched to his arm, and he felt warm, metallic blood pulsing from the wound. Oswald knew the attacker had aimed for his heart, and he thanked God that he had been hit in the upper arm instead.

The wound was still fresh which meant he had not been unconscious for too long. It was still a trial to sit up and maneuver his ripped jacket from one shoulder and down the other.

Now and then, he had to stop to suck in a hot, shuddery breath because his head was fogged up with pain and the pulsing from his arm was not helping.

When he got the cloth off, he reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a handkerchief that he gingerly wrapped around his arm and using his teeth made a tight tourniquet around the wound, tight enough that the bruised flesh started to get numb.

Little by little, he pushed himself to his feet and after grabbing the pistol, he shoved it into his waistband and went back to the carriage. His driver was dead and so was one of his dappled grays, but he managed to unhitch the lone horse, mount it and ride off the way they had come, hoping that he could find his way back to the Hall.

Guiding his horse with his knees, he took to the streets and managed to get to Seven Dials Square. On secure footing, he slid from the horse and hailed a hackney.

It proved how desensitized the men of that town were that the man did not blink an eye at how ragged and bloody Oswald was. “Soho, and be quick about it,” he ordered, thankfully that he still felt the bag of crowns and silver pressing against his arm from his folded jacket.

As he settled onto the seat, he pressed his head to the windowsill and sucked in a breath—if this had been a robbery, why had they left him with his money?

“T’wasn’t a mugging,” he breathed out painfully. “It was an assassination.”

He could not go back home this way as showing up beaten and bloody would bring more questions than he had answers—so the only recourse was to find Leo and have his cousin help him.

When the hackney trundled into the Leo’s street, Oswald painfully descended from the carriage and paid the man a crown. He labored up the walk, and climbing the single step made him dizzier than ever before.

He rested his good shoulder on the frame of the door and he sucked in a shuddery breath as his mind was swimming in pain. He banged on the door, thumping as he hard he could. If he could talk, he would have shouted Leo’s name but he was in so much pain and weak he did not have that strength.

The cold, misty air was seeping through his lawn shirt and chilling him to his bone, and he barely held onto to the thinning shreds of his strength. He lifted his hand to bang again, when the door was yanked open and Leo, clad in a plain robe, gazed at him with an open mouth.

“Oswald, what in God’s name—”

Stepping in, Oswald nearly collapsed on his cousin, who, quickly grabbed him. “Oswald, what happened?”

“I was attacked,” he gasped out. “Muggers. I got shot.”

“Dear God,” Leo muttered while taking Oswald further into the humble apartment. He gently rested Oswald on a chair and went to work removing the bloodied shirt.

Unable to do anything but let his cousin take care of him, Oswald gave in to the darkness encroaching on his vison and sank into unconsciousness quickly.

* * *

When he managed to fight through the fog in his mind and the dark curtain behind his eyes, Oswald lifted his heavy lids and winced as the light of late morning met his tender orbs.

Muted thrums of pain lanced up his arm and when he managed to twist his head and look, he found his arm cleaned and bandaged so tightly his arm was immobile.

His chest was bare but Leo had draped a thin blanket over him and he sighed in relief. He had made the right decision to go to his cousin instead of his Hall, and he felt gratified, but as his memory came back in bits and pieces, the happy sensation began to fade.

Following the Duke to the tavern—

Going into the basement to confront him—

Being told that the Duke was not the blackmailer—

Oswald felt more distressed than ever; the pain in his arm a negligible sensation to the cutting lances that ripped through his chest. Aphrodite’s eyes, heavy with hurt and distrust, flicked before him and he felt burdened to tell her the truth.

He had no other options to pursue and the deal he had made with himself to tell her when he came to this dead end rested on his heart. He knew he hurt Aphrodite, something he had vowed to never do, and he had to make it right.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Leo said while walking into the room, holding a cup of steaming coffee. “I must admit, I was terrified when you came to me last night, bleeding and soon, unconscious.”

Touching his arm, Oswald said, “Thank you for helping me.”

Handing him the cup of coffee, Leo perched on the edge of another chair. He raked a hand through his hair, tousling the blond strands while his blue eyes took on a distressed look. “Oswald, what in God’s name happened last night?”

The burden of keeping his secrets felt heavier than ever. He did not want to tell anyone else before Aphrodite; one day he knew he would confess his sins but not until he told the truth to his wife.

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Oswald said. “I managed to get a hold of a gun and defend myself, but my carriage driver is dead.”

Leo looked distressed. “We’ll have to call the Constable on this.”

“I know, but I have to get home first,” he said. “Aphrodite must be worried sick now.”

“I…I couldn’t get the shot out of your arm. I tried, I did, but I was so afraid of butchering you.” Leo said fitfully. “As soon it was daylight, I had to get your physician to come and do it. I’m sorry Oswald.”

“That’s fine,” Oswald sighed. “At least I don’t have to go to the hospital. We can call the Constable when I get cleaned up and dressed.”

“And another cup if you have it,” Oswald glanced into dregs of his coffee. “It already feels like it is going to be a long day.

His supposition was right; when the Constable came the interview felt more like an inquisition, but when the two uniformed men, Oswald and Leo went to the site, he found the carriage stripped of wheels, doors and seats, even the dead horse was missing with only the dead body of his driver crammed inside. He did not have to think about the live horse, he knew it too was gone.

By the time it was done, he could only go back to Leo’s home, he fell asleep in his cousin’s bed, exhausted.