DOMUS EMPORIUM, SPRING 1834
Harold Preston, the Duke of Malum, stiffened in his chair, the faintest shift betraying his annoyance. The hairs on the back of his neck rose a moment before he heard it: raised voices breaking through the heavy quiet of his office. Though muffled by the thick walls, the sound was unmistakable.
Exhaling slowly, he released his irritation. He then carefully folded the letter he’d been reading and slid it into the top drawer of his desk, turning the key with a quietclick. Whatever the message contained, it could wait.
TheDomus Emporiumrarely entertained skirmishes. Its patrons, though prone to vices of all kinds, understood the rules. Anyone foolish enough to incite trouble risked not only permanent expulsion but also the loss of access to the most exclusive pleasures London had to offer. That threat alone was usually sufficient.
Usually.
Malum stood, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve before shrugging into his jacket. The smooth, practiced motion was a ritual—part of his armor. Though he employed men well-equipped to deal with such disruptions, he knew the value of making an occasional appearance.
Control was the cornerstone of his power—control of his reputation, his empire, and, most importantly, himself. And when anyone challenged any part of his world, it was Malum’s responsibility to restore it.
TheDomuswasn’t merely a brothel—it was a sanctuary of indulgence, a palace of secrets for the men who publicly condemned it while privately relishing its luxuries.
Bloody hypocrites.
His mouth quirked into the barest shadow of a smile as he strode to the door.
Handling this personally wasn’t strictly necessary, but it sent a message—to his employees, to his clients, and to himself.
Order would be maintained.
As he made his way down the carpeted stairs, he was able to make out the low murmur of excited voices overlapping in the room below, workers and club members alike come out to gossip about the latest commotion. The noise suddenly rose and then fell to near silence the moment he stepped onto the floor.
Jaw set, Malum didn’t school his appearance for anyone’s sake. But he knew what they saw—or what they didn’t see, rather.
As they gawked and backed away, parting around him as though he was Moses himself, they wouldn’t see even a hint of vulnerability. They would not see any indication of compromise or uncertainty. No charm. No nod to propriety.
They would see a man who’d been raised to be a duke, true, but not one of their own. No, he was a duke who’d done the unthinkable—a duke who’d turned his back on Society.
Malum knew it offended their fragile sensibilities, but he didn’t care. Although unintentional, the result was rather effective.
Sensing a shift rippling through the crowd, the two combatants who’d dared to challenge one of Malum’s dealers were already backing down. Their wariness was clear, but so was their arrogance. Both men—an earl and some other gentleman of lesser distinction—wore smug expressions, as if their birthright alone guaranteed them immunity.
But this wasn’t White’s. Here, a title meant very little.
“My lord,” Malum said, his voice cold enough to frost the air as he addressed the Earl of Northwoods. “Good sir,” he added, shifting his gaze to the other man, whose name he neither knew nor cared to learn.
Without warning, Malum’s fists shot out, and both men flinched, their reflexes swift, almost admirable. But Malum had no intention of lowering himself to their level. Petty skirmishes weren’t his style.
As they ducked, he seized their cravats with practiced ease, a subtle tug turning the fine silk into makeshift leashes. They froze, their movements arrested by the quiet authority that emanated from him. Now, they were his to control—like unruly mongrels caught in the act.
“Forget the rules, have you?” It wasn’t necessary to raise his voice. With the room quiet as a church, he could have whispered and still been heard.
“Your man is cheating,” hissed Northwoods after an extended pause. “Dealing from the bottom of the deck.” The challenge was a little surprising, earning some raised eyebrows from those gathered around. The earl’s features were unremarkable, his opinions carefully measured, and his presence so understated it was easy to forget him entirely. If ever a reputation could be built on passivity, Northwoods had mastered it, tending toward neutrality in all things, as though to avoid the burden of standing out.
The accusation, Malum knew, was laughable, as the employees at theDomuswere treated too well, paid more than twice what they’d make at any other establishment. They knew that to try anything stupid like that would be idiotic and not worth the potential cost.
No, the only question now was how best to use this situation to his advantage—later.
“He’s hiding the aces,” the other man chimed in, emboldened by Northwoods’ complaint. Emboldened also, it seemed, by the spirits he’d consumed.
“Who is this rodent?” Malum asked his head of security. Standing over seven feet tall, and with shoulders as wide as a horse, Boris managed to intimidate guests without so much as speaking. He would have thrown these two out if their boss hadn’t appeared.
“Baron Dankworth, Your Grace,” his employee answered.
Malum twisted the fabric in his hands, tightening the noose on both of them.
