“And, of course, Malum.”
Whereas Beckworth was rumored to rule over the darker money that came into England, word was that Malum controlled a good deal of the legitimate wealth. As well as most of what existed in-between.
Despite Malum’s status and resources, most of the ton publicly shunned him. Behind closed doors, however, England’s revered nobility proved their hypocrisy by patronizing the emporium on a regular basis.
All that aside, Reed was dubiously honored to find himself in the company of such men. And suddenly wary as hell.
Sighing internally, Reed resigned himself to yet more trouble. Had he inherited yet further debt, the kind that put him in trouble with the underbelly of society? He wouldn’t exactly be surprised if that was the case. He turned to Westcott with a raised brow, and his friend chuckled.
“Have a seat.” West shook a wayward lock of hair out of his eyes, crossed his feet, and slouched against the wall. “You’re wondering why I asked you here.”
Not fooled by West’s friendly manner, Reed remained standing. “I’ll admit to some curiosity,” he conceded.
Helton leaned forward. “I’ll skip the small talk, Rutherford—"
“Standish,” Malum grunted, not looking up.
“Standish… Damn. Never thought I’d see the day,” West inserted. “Anyhow, good to see you and all that, but I’ve asked you here because of the latest rumors.”
“Rumors?” Reed cocked a brow. How many times had the two of them mocked some rumor or another?
West winced. “Unfortunately, yes. Talk that you murdered your predecessors is… gaining traction.” Reed’s friend’s tone turned serious. “You need to put them down.”
Reed frowned. “But they are only rumors.”
“Rumors alleging murder,” West pointed out. Before Reed could emphatically declare his innocence, West held up a hand. “I know they’re false, but in society, even the most unfounded of suspicions take on a life of their own.”
His friend, the Piccadilly Player, ought to know.
“Innocent or not, you’re going to need help, Standish.” Winterhope folded his arms across his chest, looking far too serious. “And if these dangerous rumors aren’t subdued, the authorities will have no choice but to get involved.”
Reed clutched his hands behind his back, stunned by this conversation.
“That’s why you sent for me?” A moment ago, he would have laughed at this. But this powerful group of gentlemen most definitely were not laughing. And West had never been one to exaggerate or worry needlessly over anything.
Quite the opposite, actually.
“You need to put them to rest. Something you can’t accomplish while hiding away at Rutherford Place.” His old friend’s tone remained somber.
“I thought peers were above accountability,” Reed argued. Having managed both his father's and uncles’ affairs for nearly a decade, he’d seen crime go unpunished often enough.
“But yours are unique circumstances,” Winterhope said. “Because this crime, in particular, is against another peer—or in your case, peers.”
“You could be thrown in Newgate,” West said, “If these aren’t squashed before the Season begins.”
“The Season always complicates matters. There are more mouths to speculate. More ears to perk up to the gossip.” Winterhope shrugged. “In general, more fuel.”
The Season? But the first event of the Season was less than a fortnight away. Bloody hell.
“Surely it will die down as soon as some footman runs off with one of the new debutantes?” he offered.
“But we’re talking about murder, Reed.” West’s voice was firm. “You simply cannot leave this to chance.”
“And that’s why West here asked for us to step in,” Winterhope said. “Have a seat.” He gestured toward a plush, high-backed chair.
“You’ll want to take a look at this.” Unsmiling, the Earl of Helton tossed a newspaper onto the small table in front of him.
Reed gingerly lowered himself onto the offered seat and shifted his gaze to the newspaper—which was, oddly enough, dated three days in the future. But it was the headline that sent his heart plummeting.
