God knows I do not want to be revisiting this place.
Alas, he had little choice in the matter. According to his sources, here should be a moneylender named Giuseppe Alfonso, a slimy snake with black eyes, who made this bar his headquarters. The man had grown as rich as Croesus on the back of poor schmucks who had got themselves neck-deep in gambling, drinks, and whores. He could guarantee anyone who was in debt would come to this man.
I know, for I had been one.
Circling the room, his eyes skimmed over the men carousing with brightly painted courtesans, the men throwing dice on tables, and wrinkled his nose at the cloying tobacco smoke.
At the far back, sheathed mostly in murk, he spottedGiuseppe, the large carnelian ring he often donned flashing bloody red in the low light.
William went over and stopped at the foot of the table. “Ah, Giuseppe, old chap. I must have a word with you.”
“Pah!” the man leaned forward, his eyes glinting like onyx in the light—his French accent warped his words into a serpentlike twist. “The Prodigal Son returns… but I must ask… why? Word on the street has it that you have gotten out of debt, stopped your bad habits, and are working to rebuild your fortunes.”
“I’m not here for myself,” William replied matter-of-factly. “I’m trying to find a Frederick Wycliffe.”
“Thatnamedoes not feel familiar, but…” Giuseppe stood with a flourish, then beckoned, “Come to my office, young Duke. We’ll talk there.”
This ‘office’ was little more than a glorified cupboard with a table shoved into a corner, two chairs surrounding it, a tiny window, and a gas lamp. Upon seating himself, Giuseppe pulled a ledger and flicked it open. William chose sagely to stand and wait instead, lest he get his fresh clothes stained with whatever business went on here, and have his valet at his neck about it again.
The moneylender hummed a tune and leisurely trailed a finger down the sheets, checking the inserts, turning the pages with excruciating slowness. Finally, he leaned back and stroked the patch of hair on his chin. “He is not in these records, but this is only for the past year. I have other records from years past but those are at my other office in Soho. Would you care to visit tomorrow, perhaps, Your Grace?”
“I suppose I have no choice,” William muttered bluntly.
“Iamcurious, however,” Giuseppe sat back and drummed his fingers on the arms of his rickety chair. “Why are you here with me instead of gracing the well-appointed bed of your new wife?”
William knew he shouldn’t be surprised—word spread fast in the stews after all. Many believed that money was the currency of the stews; William knew better; if you dealt in information, you were king.
“Who said I hadn’t?” William replied calmly.
“I seem to recall the days when you didn’t give a whit about the ton or propriety and you would stay whole weekends with your courtesans, never leaving until dawn.”
I still don’t care a whit about the ton.
“I hold my wife to a different standard,” William replied.
“They are delicate little things, aren’t they,” Giuseppe laughed. “Trained to sing and dance and paint but not the most important thing of having stamina or creativity in the bedroom.”
“As touched as I am about your concern for my wife, I did not come here to talk about her,” he replied sharply. “It is her missing brother.”
“Ah, I see,” the man murmured in thought. “In that case, I shall throw you a bone, Your Grace. You do not have to come to me, I will send you word if I find his name in my books. That being said, though I know I deal with some of the lowest, there is another who serves the scum. His name is Harrison Black, and he works inside Covent Gardens. He may be a better outlet. Though you will have to break through a wall of cutthroats to get to him.”
“My wife fears her brother might be dead,” William stressed. “This is pressing, so please send me whatever you find. In the in-between times, I’ll try seek out this Harrison Black.”
“Be careful, he has a budding disdain toward the fops of the ton,” Giuseppe warned. “But maybe use your otherhobbyto your advantage, hm?”
William considered his options. He did not question the man on how he knew William boxed—this was the stews, the men were more intelligent than others took them for—but did question how he was going to get thisHarrison Blackon his side.
“Send me whatever you find.”
“You should check the whorehouses too,” Giuseppe said to his back. “But not the upscale ones you once patronized.”
That made sense: men who escaped to pleasure houses were less likely to be discreet. After all, most of them didn’t think they had to be reserved to be with some ‘cotton-headed’ wench.
“Any recommendations?”
“The Blue Siren in Whitechapel. I’d start there,” Giuseppe replied.
“Duly noted,” William inclined his head, then flickered his cowl up.
