Leopold and this small band of English gents would make him pay.
Not for money or glory, but for the good of their country—and also other personal reasons they didn’t exactly share with each other.
If Leopold were to hazard a guess, these titled blokes wanted honor and revenge.
Leopold, as the one amongst them not born into the aristocracy, was merely protecting his own endeavors. Crossings gave smugglers a bad name.
Leopold smuggled for a living, yes—artifacts, jewels, spices, silks, lace, and other rare commodities, but never opium. He had lost too many friends to the lure of the poppy. And just as Malum banned the use of opium in his establishment, Leopold took no part in its transportation.
News of the latest sinking, however, wasn’t news to Leopold.
“Where did it go down?” Standish asked.
“Somewhere off the coast of Lisbon,” Leopold supplied. “A few of my men heard accounts of a fire sighted from another vessel. If that’s the case, I doubt anyone survived.”
“Sleep with the devil, find yourself in hell,” Helton said.
“With the lost shipments, Crossings finds himself backed against a wall.” Winterhope tugged at his lace sleeve, shifting his gaze around the room. “And we know that doesn’t bode well for those who are cornering him.”
“Which poses a good news/bad news kind of dilemma,” Malum exhaled, addressing the room.
“What kind of dilemma?” Leopold lifted his chin. What with traveling between Bond Street, the docks, and his estate on the southern coast, he was usually the first to identify any possible snags.
“When I last visited Crossings, I was left alone in his study,” Winterhope explained. Crossings made a habit of keeping people waiting, so this came as no surprise, but always in the drawing room. “He’d left his books out.” The marquess winced. “Lysander Crowley is a major investor.”
Everyone who’d invested heavily had turned up dead.
“Lysander Crowley…” Standish grimaced. “As in the Marquess of Foxbourne?”
The information shouldn’t be overly concerning.
Excepting, of course… The Marquess of Foxbourne was related to Winterhope’s new bride.
“The marquess is my wife’s uncle.” Winterhope, although something of a dandy, more than pulled his weight when it came to their efforts. Unfortunately, the doting jackal was also recently married.
Leopold cursed silently as he waited for the other shoe to drop. Inevitably, romantic entanglement meant there would be even more complications.
“There was an opened letter in Crossings' top drawer—from Foxbourne. The idiot wrote to Crossings that, upon his arrival in London for the Season, he’d expect to collect his profits.” Winterhope provided this little tidbit without blinking.
“Crossings won’t pay,” Helton speculated.
“Even when his coffers were filled, he never paid out,” Standish said.
Apparently, Lord Foxbourne had walked right into Crossings’ trap. It wasn’t even a very creative one.
“Stupid of him,” Leopold said. But the marquess’s safety wasn’t their problem. Or it oughtn’t be, anyhow.
But these nobs weren’t nearly as callous as Leopold.
“Foxbourne’s an ass, that goes without saying.” Winterhope plucked at his cravat. “As is his wife. But my concern isn’t for them.” He shifted a cool stare to Malum. “There have been threats to their daughter.”
“Lady Amelia,” Standish added with a thoughtful hum.
Hell.
Recalling the stunning young woman who had attended Winterhope’s house party the previous autumn, Leopold tugged at the cravat he only ever wore for these meetings. He had visited the estate on business during those same few weeks. Uninvited.
And because Leopold shunned those sorts of gatherings as a rule, he’d not asked for, nor expected an introduction.
