LONDON, FEBRUARY 1834
Candlelight flickered over the scars on Leopold Beckworth’s palms—minor really, mere scratches compared to the ones on his soul. He’d grabbed the wrong end of a knife a few too many times, in both the literal and figurative sense.
Staring at his hands, only half-focused on the meeting, Leopold contemplated their current plan—one that relied upon obtaining evidence rather than drawing blood. And that evidence needed to be strong enough to stand up in parliament; convincing enough to convict an aristocrat.
Smuggling. Opium. Tea. And it always led them back to the Duke of Crossings.
Leopold’s gaze tracked the thick white line from the base of his right wrist to halfway up his pointer finger. Making a fist, he smirked.
Without a few scars, he’d be soft—or dead—or worst of all, penniless. He’d not trade his scars for the lessons he’d learned.
Because of those lessons, he’d survived to the age of three and thirty—at least, he believed himself three and thirty. Growing up on the docks, Leopold had only known seasons. Hehadn’t the luxury of tracking such trivialities as the days and the months.
He’d been too busy keeping himself alive.
To survive amongst those who lived without hope, a man quickly learned to be observant, vigilant, and always prepared to fight. But Leopold had hungered for more.
He’d wanted to rise above that perpetual desperation.
And so he’d taken risks.
It was this mentality that had ultimately brought him to the Domus Emporium, to consort with its proprietor, the shunned Duke of Malum. Those risks had earned him success, and that success ensured him a seat at a table alongside the most powerful men in London. Men whose hands were pale and manicured, men who’d been born into power and then collected even more.
In contrast, Leopold had earned his power, built his own empire, so to speak—importing and exporting, or as some liked to call it, smuggling.
To avoid being taxed into poverty, buyers and sellers came to him, and the King of Bond Street never failed to deliver. A highly lucrative service.
Still staring at his hands, unaffected by the scandalous statues and paintings around him, Leopold’s mind buzzed as his colleagues strategized.
“It’s been confirmed.” Malum spoke in level tones. “Crossings has lost another shipment.” Good news—even if they didn’t know who was behind it.
“This is the third in as many months. It can’t be coincidence.” The Earl of Helton ran a hand through his dark brown hair, his eyes serious behind his spectacles. Helton, a serious nob, also owned the only two newspapers in London that mattered.
“My devil of a father-in-law is fit to be tied,” Standish, another earl, added. Upon unexpectedly inheriting his title a fewyears back, Standish had married Crossings' youngest daughter. Another of their colleagues had married her older sister. These connections made for problematic complications in Leo’s opinion, but there was nothing to be done about it.
“Pirates?” Helton pondered even as he shook his head.
Crossings’ ships had been captained by mercenary bandits. Who would have the audacity to attack those ships?
More mercenary ones?
They were missing something, and they all knew it. Butwhat the devil was it?
Two years prior, Malum had found the Duke of Crossings’ newfound wealth more than suspicious. And so he’d asked around.
He hadn’t been the only one, but most were willing to turn a blind eye. Except for the gentlemen who made up their team, the Rakes of Rotten Row. Or, in Leo’s mind, the Rotten Rakes. It was easier. Shorter.
Less pretentious.
Working together, it hadn’t taken long to discover that Crossings was operating opium farms in India and then paying smaller traders to smuggle it to China in exchange for tea. And he wasn’t working alone. A devious network had been set up and unfortunately, those who’d been caught hadn’t lived to provide any solid evidence—not the kind necessary to convict a duke.
As a result of their frustrations, Leopold and these lofty men were trying a different tactic—one that required a little more subterfuge.
Deceit.
Six months earlier, the two earls and the Marquess of Winterhope had entered into what appeared to be a devil’s bargain. In exchange for some easy concessions, they’d convinced the Duke of Crossings that they had switched sides. It was a tricky business, but it provided them limited accessto Crossings’ inner circle, and that was already paying off. Winterhope had even convinced Crossings that he might invest. The entire scheme was dangerous, but necessary, since their adversary was a double-crossing opium smuggling bastard who needed to be stopped.
The duke was behind too many suspicious deaths, not to mention thousands of lives ruined by opium.
