“You don’t like it, do you?” she asked astutely. “Being called a king.”
Leopold shook his head. “It’s a jest.”
She continued staring at him. “She sounded quite serious.”
“Nothing more than a jest,” he repeated. “Trust me.” Leopold shifted, watching her without meeting her eyes, instead remembering how silky her hair had looked when he’d first noticed her at Winterhope’s estate. She’d looked as pretty as a frosted cake, dressed in lace and pastels, carrying her parasol. He hadn’t gotten close enough to know if she smelled like sugar or flowers, but she must have; all wellborn women did.
An icy cold snaked from his head to his toes. Disgust.
At himself. And he didn’t like it.
Having spent less than twenty-four hours in his care, this Diamond of the Season looked almost common.
But no. She could be wearing naught but a potato sack and still stand out. She was different. She would always stand out, as they say, inherentlygenteel.
“Why would you work for Crossings if you own an inn?” She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes a little. “And that isn’t all you own, is it? You can tell me what you do, you know. I’m no threat to you, or anyone, for that matter.”
Just there, he saw it again—something other than fear in her eyes.
And those little breaths.
“Tell me about your father’s business with Crossings.” Leopold spoke with just enough authority that she would knowhe was serious. He wasn’t one who enjoyed playing games. He locked his stare with hers, watching her contemplate his demand.
When she lifted her chin and turned her face to the window, he could have throttled her.
“Crossings spent a fortnight at your father’s estate just after Christmas. But there were others. Who were they?”
She shook her head. “Just my family.” Her loyalty would be commendable if she weren’t protecting villains.
There must have been others. “Give me one name.” For now. One name would provide a lead—a thread that might help them unravel Crossings’ organization.
He watched her profile. Felt a twisting in his gut when she bit her lip.
Any other young lady, he suspected, would have broken. She was obviously unhappy, uncomfortable, and even frightened.
Hell, he’d broken men three times her size, men whose freedom, whose very lives were on the line.
Fucking hell, had he lost his touch? Perhaps another angle might prove more fruitful…
“Crossings is importing tea—tea which has been obtained illegally—in exchange for opium. Did you know that?”
His question had the desired effect, and she turned back to gawk at him with wide eyes. And then she was shaking her head.
“They’re importing silks and lace.” Finally, he was getting somewhere. “In exchange for wool, and some of the goods from my father’s estate in Jamaica—and my brother manages that.”
“Sugar and tobacco, then.” The words put a sour taste in Leopold’s mouth. Grown and harvested by slaves, the means of building wealth was just as abhorrent as the opium scheme.
He’d discussed it more than once with the Rakes, but that was an altogether different war to wage.
“Yes.” Lady Amelia swallowed hard.
Leopold wanted names. “Who oversees the shipments?” That person might very well be involved with Crossings.
She closed her eyes, looking pained, but just when she went to speak, her head wavered. “I—” She looked like she might burst into tears.
“What?” Leopold prompted.
“I can’t.” She paused. “Breathe…”
