“Yes, my lord.”
King looked up at Danby. “I suppose you can stop calling memy lord.”
Danby opened his mouth but didn’t seem to know what to say. He closed it again. A crash filled the silence.
“What is happening below?” King asked.
“Er—” Danby shifted from foot to foot.
But King already knew. His creditors had descended like sharks when there was blood in the water. Who could blame them? He had accounts at every merchant on Bond Street and then some. He owed drapers and haberdashers, bootmakers and jewelers. Those merchants had no hope of being paid when the duke’s offspring—King—was stripped of his wealth and titles. They had to reclaim what they could now.
Feeling strangely calm, King stood and walked to the bedchamber door. It was open, and Churchwood stood just outside, eyes wide and lips pressed together. As soon as he saw King, he pounced. “What shall I do, my lord?”
“I suppose you ought to grab some candlesticks or silver,” King said, voice hard. “I won’t be able to pay you. I’ll give you a reference, though fat lot of good that will do you.” He walked to the winding stairway and looked down at the chaos below. He could feel Danby and Churchwood right behind him. He stared at the large foyer, now crowded with men moving couches and tables and longcase clocks through the open front door. Just outside, wagons lined the street before the house and people stood across the way, gaping at the spectacle.
King started down the stairway just as several men started up. They’d begin to pilfer from the bedchambers and the drawing room now. Nothing to be done about it. Soon his landlord would arrive and want to be paid the money owing for the lease. Then King would be out on the street.
His legs gave out then, and he sank down on the steps about a quarter of the distance from the bottom. A few of the movers gave him curious glances, but they didn’t cease their work. There was a line of them waiting to move through the door with whatever booty they could take.
King watched the men file out the door then file back in again like an industrious ant colony. He used to enjoy observing ant colonies on the rare occasion he was at the Avebury country estate. He supposed he would never see that again. Were there creditors in those ancient halls now, stripping the walls of the portraits of the previous dukes of Avebury?
One of the men passing him gave him a pitiable look, and King had to urge to trip the bastard. Let them look at him with pity. He would find a way to fix this. He would find a way to reclaim what was his. He had friends and connections. He had never been in a situation he couldn’t find a way out of, and this was no different. He just needed time and a bit of sobering up.
King’s gaze sharpened as a figure seemed to separate itself from the crowd of men. Or perhaps they moved apart toreveal her. A woman in a shabby blue coat with a ragged bonnet hanging by the ribbons down her back stood under his chandelier and looked about. She wasn’t one of his servants, and yet she looked familiar for some reason. She was pretty, with her dark hair in a neat bun at the nape of her neck and her large blue eyes in a face that seemed too thin. King never forgot a pretty face.
Her dark eyes settled on him, and he felt something inside him shift under her gaze. Judging by her clothing, she was of absolutely no consequence to him or the world, and yet he felt as though he’d just been noticed by the queen.
“You,” she said, stepping forward.
With some amusement, King noted that the burly men moving his belongings scrambled to step out of her way as she started for him. She pointed an ungloved finger at him, and King had the ridiculous notion to put a hand to his chest, as though saying,Me?
“It was you. I knew it!” She started up the marble stairs, pausing two steps below him. She was even prettier now that she was closer. Her skin was surprisingly smooth and clear for someone of her class. Not a pockmark in sight. He looked down at her, and her cheeks colored under his direct gaze. Belatedly, he realized she was holding something out to him. His gaze lowered, and he spotted the sheet of paper. He looked up again, and she nodded down at it.
He took the paper, feeling vaguely uneasy that he was still seated and she standing. He did not need to rise in her presence. She wasn’t a lady. King unfolded the paper and stared at a list of items with numbers beside them. “What is your name?” he asked, looking up from the odd paper.
“Miss Baker. Violet Baker.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I am the proprietress of The Silver Unicorn.” She raised her brows meaningfully, as though her words should hold some import.
“Good day, Miss Baker. I certainly hope your day is better than mine thus far.”
“It is not, sir—I mean, my lord. Thanks to you, my day has begun very poorly indeed. You may remedy that by paying the sum indicated.”
He stared at her until she nudged the paper he still held gingerly between two fingers. As she leaned forward, he caught the scent of her—the smell of yeast and lye and perhaps something lightly floral. King looked at the paper again. His thoughts were a complete jumble. Not only was he still foxed, he felt as though an entire shelf of books had crashed down over his head. The Duke of Avebury was a traitor. Was he in the Tower even now? Would he be executed today? And King, who had always known he would one day be duke, now knew nothing of his future. That future lay like a fathomless maw before him. He scrambled to hold on to the familiar, but he was being pushed into that bottomless blackness whether he wanted to go or not.
The words and letters on the paper swam before his eyes until he blinked and made a valiant attempt to concentrate. And then he frowned and looked up. “You want me to pay you ten pounds?”
“That’s right. That’s what you owe for the riot you caused last night.”
“Riot?” King stood, holding on to the newel post for support.
“Yes, my lord.” She looked up at him and squared her shoulders as though refusing to be intimidated. “You and your friends came into the Silver Unicorn last night, caused a riot, and destroyed my tavern.”
King gaped at her then realized who she must be. “Are you speaking of that grimy den we stopped in last night? The place with the rum like horse piss?” The rum that had caused him to imagine witches in his chambers.
Her pointed chin jerked up sharply. “I have never tasted horse piss, my lord, but I do believe my publican served you rum.” She shifted her gaze away thoughtfully. “In fact, I don’t believe you paid for that either. Let me have that paper. I’ll add the cost of the rum.” She held out her small hand. It was decidedly not the hand of a lady. Her nails were short, her knuckles red, and her skin chafed.
“You may add whatever you like to this…receipt. I can’t give you ten pounds.” Yesterday he would have ordered Churchwood to pay her, finding the whole exchange amusing. He had a vague memory of tables overturning and chairs smashing last night. He didn’t think he was wholly responsible for the damage to her dirty slum tavern, but he would pay it just to make her go away. Today, he didn’t think he even had a pound to his name. Really, for the damage the rum had done to his brain,sheshould payhim.
“Eight pounds, then,” she said, moving to block him even as he moved down a step. “And no less. I won’t take no for an answer.”
