“We were just talking about you.” Leopold Beckworth’s meaty paw squeezed. “The date, Black. Really? Who gets the bloody date wrong?”
“You’re being sabotaged.” This comment came from Malum himself and Max hated that he felt his ears burning.
“It’s the only thing that explains it.” Winterhope spoke up from where he and Baron Westcott sat shuffling cards for a game they’d never play.
Because these meetings served a greater purpose. Whenever possible, the five men shared information to help one another prevent a few immoral members of the aristocracy from trading opium to fill their coffers, stocking up on tea in the process—tea acquired illegally.
As a result of this alliance, the small group helped one another when circumstances called for it.
Like when Max had ‘helped’ Standish avoid serving time in Newgate, and then later, when Westcott ran off with the woman who’d jilted the Duke of Dewberry.
They would do what was necessary to help Winterhope if the trouble at his stables persisted.
“Whoever is behind this needs to be stopped.” Beckworth frowned.
“I read through every word myself.” Had he been careless?
Malum leaned back, looking deceptively relaxed. Max knew better. The Duke of Malum’s energy was almost a palpable thing. “Who else has access to the frames?” he asked.
“The compositors—all six of them. The press operators. The mechanic. Wallace. Jones. Pip and Michaels.” Hell, it wasn’t as though the press room was off-limits to any of his employees. “I thought operations would be smooth sailing once we replaced the old Stanhope Press.”
Upgrading from the slow hand press to a steam-driven cylindrical one had been Max’s first priority as publisher. They’d been able to triple their circulation, with a good deal of repairs and adjustments. If Max and his mechanic could make the process into a continuous one, they could put out ten times as many copies as they had this year.
“You could hire a few watchmen,” Westcott spoke up this time. “The culprit is too consistent to make this attack random.”
“I’d wager The Times is behind these mistakes. The prospect of lining one’s pockets can cause people to compromise themselves in ways you’d never imagine.” Winterhope tapped the deck of cards on the table. “Last week I had no choice but to fire my top jockey for cheating.”
Westcott frowned. “Was he the one who brought in the hemlock?”
Hemlock not only killed horses, but could kill humans. The deadly plant had popped up in two of Winterhope’s fields the prior year.
“No,” Winterhope answered. “I’m fairly certain that was an accident. But I discovered the little fiend approached my stable master. I have two horses who look almost identical—except on the track. Both are red. Both have white socks. Rue’s Favorite has won seven races this season already, but the other one, Lion’s Kiss, comes out looking fast, but falls off at the finish. This little bastard wanted to enter Lion’s Kiss but actually race Rue’s Favorite and he needed Jackson’s help to pull it off.”
“If that got out, Winterhope Downs would lose all credibility,” Beckworth said.
“Precisely.” The marquess raised a glass to his mouth, flicking the lace on his wrist as he did so. Of all their group, Winterhope was not only the best-dressed, but he was also the cleanest and most wholesome. As far as Max knew, the marquess had not once taken advantage of his membership at the Emporium either.
“Perhaps you’re the one who needs watchmen,” Beckworth suggested.
Beckworth was as comfortable dealing with gangs on the docks as Maxwell was in his offices. Westcott fell somewhere in between, and Malum was the only known duke who had ever been shunned by London Society.
In public, at least.
Westcott placed his cards facedown and crossed his legs. “Doyle easily could have paid off one of your compositors.”
Dropping into a high-backed velvet seat, Max rubbed his neck. Kyle Doyle had owned The London Times for over two decades. He’d been decent enough to welcome Max to Fleet Street shortly after he’d taken over the Gazette, but Max suspected the other publisher had simply wanted a closer look at his competition.
“I suppose,” Max said. “But it could just as easily be someone from the Morning Chronicle, or the Herald, or the Post.”
“A watchman ought to be able to solve your problem.” Beckworth punched one hand into the other. “I can spare a few men this month.”
Max contemplated the offer. Beckworth’s men were known to break a few rules themselves—but also a few bones. “I might take you up on that.”
But not yet.
“These mistakes are not random.” Malum wrote something down, pulled the bell pull, and handed it off to the servant who appeared almost immediately. “Take care of this for me.”
As usual, the enigmatic duke provided no explanation. Often, in such cases, this was better for all concerned. Max was startled, however, by the duke’s next question.
