Debts beyond comprehension. Disgruntled tenants. Unpaid vendors. Gambling vowels.
Not to mention the care of his mother and three sisters. His uncle’s wife had departed the estate the day following the funeral, announcing she’d rather live with her sister than remain at Seabridge Manor another day. For which Reed had been grateful.
One less burden for him to bear.
Because his mother and sisters had been left distraught in the wake of the tragedy. His mother had cared about her husband and loved Randal, her oldest son. Reed’s sisters had looked to the two men for security, until recently.
But for the most part, they had been left reeling by the loss of their father and eldest brother.
Reed clenched and then unclenched his fists. He could not dwell on them now. He had far more pressing issues to sort out.
Blasted issues none of them had considered before acting so recklessly.
The most urgent of which was this unsavory scandal. By revealing as few details of the fire as possible, by declining any further investigation that might expose his uncle’s dark comments, Reed himself had fallen under suspicion.
And ridicule.
And a few legal challenges.
But it was best this way. He’d bury the unsavory circumstances of their deaths right along with them. No one need ever suspect the worst.
Caroline, Melanie, and Josephine’s innocent faces came to mind. The rumors about Reed’s part in all of it would die down and then he could go about salvaging his sisters’ futures. If anything else got out, the poor girls would forever live as pariahs.
“Rutherford.” A friendly face appeared, loosening the vise that had begun to tighten around Reed’s chest. Westcott and Reed had been in the same level at Eton and, together, had fought off more than one bully. “Right on time.” West jerked his head toward a darkened corner near the back of the room. Upon closer inspection, Reed could see a set of heavy velvet drapes hanging there, likely concealing a back entrance.
Reed exhaled.
Not at all reluctant to absent himself from dubious happenings around the gaming tables, Reed shook the hand West offered and followed him away from the main area.
“Good to see you,” he said. Relieved as he was, Reed was still keenly aware that West had refused to share with him the purpose of this meeting. The continued secrecy only further fueled his curiosity.
“Likewise, my friend.” West glanced over his shoulder with a warm smile. The baron hadn’t changed much in the past few years. He was still slim and broad-shouldered, one of the rare noblemen never to have worn padding. He had hair that alternately appeared light brown and dark blond, and hazel eyes, making the man something of a chameleon.
Stepping through the heavy curtains, Reed followed West up a spiraling staircase to a carpeted foyer. On one side, a wall, on the other, a gleaming railing that overlooked the main floor of the club. West marched to the end of the foyer, and knocked on the heavy wooden door. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed it open and gestured for Reed to precede him inside.
Knowing the Duke of Malum owned the club, Reed immediately guessed this to be the infamous duke’s personal office. Hints of cigar smoke blended with lemon oil, mahogany, leather, and an unrecognizable spice. On one side of the office, a massive desk. On the other, a comfortably arranged seating area where hot coals burned in the adjacent hearth.
As Reed perused the faces of the occupants, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Despite having kept mostly absent from society, he had, however, kept abreast of happenings via the newspapers. He’d seen the caricatures and recognized all but one of the gentlemen lounging there—a handful of the most powerful men in all of England.
And not one of them appeared welcoming. What the hell was West up to?
His old friend gestured toward two of them. “Standish, you know Helton and Winterhope.” Maxwell Black, the Earl of Helton, lived year-round in London and had recently entered the London Gazette. The man’s black hair was unkempt and he looked not to have shaved in two or three days. Nonetheless, intelligent green eyes met Reed’s from behind a pair of spectacles.
With the earl having taken permanent residence in London, Reed wondered at the condition of the man’s country estate. Had he simply abandoned it?
“Helton,” Reed leaned forward, noting ink stains on the man’s hand as he shook it.
He then turned to Benjamin St. Lancaster, the Marquess of Winterhope and owner of England’s finest stables, Hope Downs. With neatly trimmed brown hair and sideburns, the man’s flamboyant suit fit him like a glove, and his cravat was tied perfectly. Winterhope’s appearance contrasted sharply with that of the earl’s.
“You’re looking nobbish,” Winterhope observed. The comment came as no surprise to Reed, but even having been dressed in the latest finery—by his dead cousin’s valet—he’d yet to feel comfortable in his new position.
And damned if he ever would.
Before Reed could respond, West gestured toward the seedier-looking of the other two gentlemen. Although the hulking fellow appeared relaxed, with one booted foot resting on his knee, the man’s eyes burned with a cunning intensity. “Mr. Beckworth,” West introduced the man without further explanation.
And none was needed. Reed had heard of Leopold Beckworth. The man, known to be ruthless and calculating, likely controlled half the commerce that took place on the docks. When they shook hands, Reed found Beckworth’s grip to be firm, his hands, scarred and rugged.
