PROLOGUE
April 1, 1826
Goodrum’s House of Pleasure
Eleanor Goodrum turned a jade chess piece over and over in the palm of her hand and stared silently across her desk at Bow Street runner Archer Colwyn. She absently smoothed her thumb over the queen’s blatantly sensual curves. She loved her chess pieces carved anatomically true to life.
The man whom she’d been told was the terror of Bow Street runners seemed ill at ease. He pulled at his starched collar as if he were having difficulty breathing in enough air. She smiled a cat-like smile, certain she had her prey exactly where she wanted him.
And more the pity he was prey because at a height of what she estimated as nearly six feet, he was the kind of man she thoroughly enjoyed. His ginger hair was the shade of dark russet that always caught her eye. And those shoulders - they would crush the woman lucky enough to be the object of desire in his arms. The dark shadow of a stubborn beard refusing to be tamed at this hour of the day finished his slightly dangerous looks.
When he suddenly leaned across the desk, closing the distance between them, she inhaled a deep breath of bergamot and sandalwood. The stab of uncertainty following close behind surprised her. No one had made her feel that way in years.
“Ummm, Mr. Colwyn, you do surprise me. I would never have guessed the raw audacity that simmers beneath your calm exterior.”
“Madame Goodrum, there is a good deal about me of which you are unaware. Many others have underestimated me…” He paused a long, silent moment before finally uttering, “At their own peril.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong. I don’t know whom you’ve dealt with in the past, but I see no peril in front of me now.”
“What do you see?” He leaned close again, his voice tense.
“I see a man desperate to reclaim something which could harm someone very close and dear to him.”
He jerked back as if seared by flames.
“Ah, yes. Now you see - I understand fully what is at stake here.” She kept her voice low and soothing, but she was sure he hadn’t missed the meaning of her words. His eyes had widened and he’d sucked in a sharp breath.
Even though she was certain she’d shattered his nerve, he straightened and demanded, “Stop baiting me. Just tell me. What is it you want?”
She slid a leather portfolio across the desk. “Read the papers inside and then bring me proof of the elimination of the man they concern.” She then placed an expensive vellum card into his hand. “This woman is the key to the return of your journal pages. She’s unlike any other woman you’ve ever encountered, so do not think to deal with her the same way you’d deal with the simpering females of your acquaintance. Before she came to work for me, she was like a wounded bird with a broken wing. Tread carefully there, or you will have to answer to me.”
He took the card and studied the expensive, gilded printing.
She knew by heart what was on the carefully crafted card: “Madame Domino, Chess Mistress Extraordinaire” Beneath the name were gold edged letters for four nights of the week - Tuesday through Friday. The bottom line was stamped with the symbol of Goodrum’s House of Pleasure - a ship under full sail, flying a pennant etched with a tiny skull and crossbones. The card was the face of the lucrative worldwide business El had built with her own blood and sweat. The hard-won empire was hers to use as she pleased.
When he made to pluck the card from her grasp, she tightened her hold. “If you take this card, you are bound by your word to deliver this man to justice.” She gave the leather bag between them an ominous tap.
He snatched the card from her grasp and shouldered the bag before heading back out through her office door. He said nothing further. He didn’t have to.
She’d successfully leveraged the deeply held secret that could destroy not only him, but his sole reason for continuing to walk among the living. This particular form of blackmail gave her no pleasure, but she needed this gifted investigator to do her bidding in the battle against the lowest form of scum to roam London’s streets, a child torturer and molester.
1
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April 4, 1826
Covent Garden, London
The familiar smell of a horse manure barge being loaded quayside wafted across the close April night air. Col slipped down a darkened alley off Russell Street and reflected on his marginally good luck that evening. Although London streets had been ungodly wet that year, the elements had taken pity on London for one glorious night, and Col had managed to stay dry for a change. He caught an occasional wink of stars between the fast moving clouds following the snake-like outline of the Thames below.
Two rats squealing broke the silence of the heavy darkness in the alley. The loser hurried away, thoroughly thrashed and bested after a heated battle over a crust of bread. The victor waddled off with his prize bakery cast-off reflecting a bit of light from the street lamp out on Russell.
When Col turned to make sure no one had followed him into the alley behind one of the theater coffee houses, the toe of his boot caught on something heavy, and he sprawled into the alley muck.
He swore an oath and jerked his hands back. His fingers were covered with the still warm blood of the man whose body had cushioned his fall.Damnation and hellfire.
Col stayed utterly still, listening for some evidence of whether he’d missed his chance once again to find the murderer. At the sound of nearby rapid, pounding steps heading toward the river, he stooped and retrieved the bloody chess piece he’d suspected would be lying on the body. After alerting a nearby street constable to the location of the body, he raced toward the river in pursuit of the mysterious killer of chess players.
