Mrs. Bonner flicked her gaze down and up. “That is one of many correspondences directed to this business and a good example of why my time here must come to an end. To engage in such lewd behavior is bad enough, but to discuss it so openly is beyond reproach. Why that Mr. Zed thinks I’ll tell him stories about what goes on within these walls, I don’t know.”
Grinding his back teeth together, Max tried to swallow his frustration. She couldn’t possibly be so simple. “The author of this letter isn’t asking you to write a lewd novel. He wants information on the members.”
“Yes, that was clear.” Mrs. Bonner leaned back in her chair. “I believe his exact words were, ‘I will make it more than worth your while if we came to a mutually-beneficial arrangement. I’m more than willing to pay, and pay well, for information regarding your members’ less savory inclinations.’” She sniffed. “I don’t know how he wants me to determine which behaviors are more or less savory when every act in The Black Rose is shocking. It would be like choosing between the Tyburn Tree or the guillotine.”
It didn’t surprise Max that she would remember the letter word for word. From running numbers to solving problems, Mrs. Bonner had proven herself a most intelligent woman.
She was also the stupidest smart person he’d ever met.
“Do you not understand why Zed wants this information?” The alias burned in the back of his throat. It was one he recognized. “The man isn’t planning on reading your little stories in bed as he pleasures himself.” Mrs. Bonner’s mouth dropped open, but he ignored her dismay. “He wants information about the members in order to blackmail them.”
“He doesn’t say that.”
“Not in so many words, no, but the intent is clear.” Max blew out a breath and reread the letter. Zed had been the head of a crime ring that he and his friends had been instrumental in taking down several months ago. The Crown had arrested many perpetrators, including The Black Rose’s proprietress Madame Sable, but others had fled England, evading capture. The identity of Zed had never been determined. The man had been as elusive as smoke, and Max had thought he had drifted out of their reach.
Tension coiled in his gut. He’d thought that part of his life was over. He’d wanted a fresh start, and purchasing The Black Rose was the first step. An investment that would keep him as occupied as he’d like, one that did nothing more than make money and people happy. No more sneaking and spying for the Crown. He was done soiling his soul for the greater good. Finally, he could live a life of peace and pleasure.
But Zed was back. And sniffing around his club. That idyllic future would have to wait. Tucking the letter into the inside breast pocket of his coat, Max stood. “I have to go.”
“What about the books? You wanted to see them.” Mrs. Bonner tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “And we have yet to discuss the exact date of my departure.”
“Later.” He strode for the door.
“But, my premium—”
“Later.” Max turned at the door and bowed. “I’ll return tomorrow and we can discuss your employment.” He fled, not wanting to see the confusion crossing her honest face.
The letter changed everything. His options for his new club were now forced. And Max had a creeping suspicion that Mrs. Bonner wouldn’t like the new terms of her employment.
***
“So, he’s back.” John Chaucer, Earl of Summerset tossed the letter onto the low table in front of his chair and kicked his feet up onto it. He pulled out a lilac pocket square and wiped his fingers, as though the blackmail letter held a taint.
Marcus Hawkridge, Duke of Montague, and Sinclair Archer, Marquess of Dunkeld, laid down their cue sticks and strode over to join them. The men were in a private billiard’s room at Simon’s, a gentleman’s club they all belonged to, and a favored location for confidential conversations. Dunkeld knocked Summerset’s boots off the table and picked up the letter.
The marquess ran a hand through his copper hair. “What is this ‘Zed’ business, anyhow? I detest affectation.”
Montague snatched the letter from his friend’s hand. “Says the man whose castle in Scotland boasts a dungeon holding fifty suits of armor chained to the walls.”
“Sixty-five. One for each Englishman who dared fight my clan at Prestonpans.”
Summerset crossed one silk pantalooned leg over the other, swinging his foot back and forth. “And which clan member was it who sold out to us English in order to receive a marquisate?”
A deep growl rumbled from the Scotsman’s burly chest.
“Gentlemen.” Montague raised a hand. “Can we please get on to the matter at hand? I was on my bridal tour when you took down this crime ring. I don’t know who this Zed fellow is.” Marcus and his new duchess, Elizabeth, had faced trials of their own when they’d first met. But fortunately for them, the pair had missed Zed’s arrival to England.
Max picked up a cue stick and rolled it between his hands. “That’s the problem. Neither do we. All we know is a man—”
“Or woman,” Summerset interrupted. “We never had any confirmation of the miscreant’s sex.”
“Someone, calling himselfor herselfZed”—Max glared at Summerset, daring him to interrupt again—“was the head of the ring. They gathered intelligence on men in the highest levels of government and business and blackmailed them in order to influence the regime. Of the many co-conspirators that we’ve picked up, not one of them had ever met Zed. Or were too terrified to admit to it.”
The door was flung open, and two young club members, barely out of their leading-strings, stumbled in. The ripe odor of whiskey and ale followed closely behind. Max flipped his cue stick so he held the narrower end in his hand and placed the wide end against one of the lad’s chests. He prodded the duo back out into the hallway, ignoring their drunken protests before closing and locking the door.
Stalking back to the table, Max bent over it and took a shot. The ball bounced around the corner pocket but didn’t drop in. “We’ll need to contact Rothchild. He was running point on this investigation.” The fifth member of their group, Julius Blackwell, Earl of Rothchild, was recently married, as well. His bride, Amanda, was the Duchess of Montague’s sister. Rothchild was enjoying his newly-found nuptial bliss at his country estate in Dorset.
It would have to be interrupted, poor sot. But Rothchild would want to know that Zed was back. He’d almost lost his wife to the bastard.
