To Deceive A Duke

Chapter 1

Behind the door is a secret box room that can just fit three average-sized people. The only furniture inside is a desk and chair with another hardwood chair opposite it. A single candle illuminates the stone walls and floor, as the little window that looks into the side alley offers no light. The stranger shuts the door and pulls across the heavy bolt. It makes a slight grinding sound, causing the man behind the desk, squinting at a pile of papers, to look up and frown at the cloaked figure. The candle casts his rough jawline and once broken nose into a harsher clarity and highlights the golden tones in the hair that sticks to his temple. His beard is a shade lighter and hasn't been cut in weeks, it sticks up in places and draws attention to his bloody lip.

"Can I help ya?" He asks in a rough London accent as he rises. On his feet, he fills up his half of the room, all muscle and brawn. His hand twitches towards the pistol strapped to his hip. 

The stranger pauses looking at the weapon but then they glide forward, "Are you going to shoot me, Peter?"

At the lilting soft voice, Peter relaxes and places his giant hand on his chest. "You panicked me, Miss Lenoir." He collapses back into his chair. "Forgive me, you can never be too careful, I was only going to defend what is mine." He takes a swig of the dark liquid is in his glass.

Clarissa Lenoir lowers her hood and without warmth, smiles, "You mean what is mine."

Peter runs a thick finger across chin, noting the challenge, "Your grandfathers." he corrects under his breath.

"Who is dead." She says gently, taking the available chair and crossing her ankles. "This is mine now. It read so in his will."

"This is what you want to talk about then." He says. 

She inclines her head and fixes him with a poker stare. He shifts awkwardly but doesn't glance away.

"So, let's talk." He reaches into one of his drawers and pulls out a few stacks of paper, "I haven't spoken to the people but I think we all agree that if you don't want the pressure and to put in the time that Mr Lenoir did, then we are alright to continue without your input." He slides the papers across along with a pen, "If you sign this contract it will release you from any obligation to The Strand." 

Clarissa leans forward and glances over the contract, it only takes her a few minutes to read it before she shoves back at him. 

"You want to survive on your own?" She asks tight-lipped, "Are you mad?"

Peter doesn't reply so she continues, anger seeping into her voice. "What is it about me that you find so objectional? My age? My sex?" 

"To name a few, frankly you are unexperienced and liability I can't afford," Peter says. She nods as she listens, her mind whirling. She folds her arms, keeping a calm composure. She lets the quiet settle before she starts talking, he keeps darting apprehensive looks at her but she doesn't give anything away and when does speak her voice is surprisingly light. 

"I am sure you are capable of running this place for a good few months, you have a dangerous reputation after all, and I don't doubt your methods." She smiles misleading before standing and crossing to the window, she runs a gloved hand over the murky frame. "But what happens when the money dries up? And the law start asking questions? Detective Rawson has his sights set on The Strand. The fool thinks he can be the saint to clean up the streets."

The spiders that hang onto dusty cobwebs retreat into their homes as she leans forward and cleans one of the windowpanes. She glances out into the dark alley and tuts.

"You and I both know there will always be a stain upon these streets and there's nothing that that man can do about it, particularly as my family fund most of his other efforts. In fact, my family have funded most of the plans around here, we have used our connections and influence to benefit the people. I would hate to take that away." She watches a spider spin a web in the dust, giving Peter time to soak up her words before she faces him, cold, composed, and unmoving.