False accusations, harassment of theDomus’sstaff, undue disturbance of one’s fellow patrons. The rules at this establishment were well known, as were the consequences for disregarding them.
There was too much at stake here. Because theDomuswas more than it seemed, its purpose extending beyond indulgence.
Normally, Malum would have instructed Boris to toss both men onto the street by now, revoked their memberships, and ensured they were blackballed by his associates. But Northwoods… whose eyes were, in fact, a little unfocussed, might come in handy.
“This way, gentlemen.” Malum abruptly released his grip, turning on his heel and striding toward the back of the room. He didn’t glance over his shoulder—he knew they would follow.
“Should I throw ’em in the tank?” Boris asked from half a step behind. The tank—a holding cell of sorts—was reserved for those who violated rules that protected the women upstairs.
Malum gave a single, deliberate nod, but then added, “I want a profile on both of them,” he ordered.
Boris grunted in acknowledgment, and Malum’s instincts hummed. The Earl of Northwoods, Malum suspected, had ties to the one man who had eluded his grasp—the Duke of Crossings.
Crossings—a vile creature who lured desperate aristocrats into the opium-for-tea trade—had woven a web of corruption, the kind that resulted in despair.
Could Malum have had him killed? Of course. But that would have been far too easy.
No, Malum intended to see Crossings rot in Newgate for the rest of his days—crown connections be damned.
Which meant he needed evidence, irrefutable, rock-solid evidence. And if Malum was right—and he usually was—Northwoods just might come in handy.
He’d learned to trust his instincts, which were almost always spot on.
Much later, sitting alone in his office, Malum rubbed his chin. Working through the night was hardly unusual for him. In his line of business, it was a given. Normally, he would catch a few hours of sleep in the adjacent bedchamber, a space designated for his private use.
But tonight, the familiar comfort—the satisfaction he usually found at theDomus—eluded him.
Giving up, Malum rose with a sigh. Perhaps what he needed was the solitude of his Mayfair townhouse.
Preston Hall had been in his family for three generations, a relic of his father’s era. If it hadn’t been entailed, Malum would have sold it without hesitation. Instead, after establishing theDomus, he’d gutted the townhouse, stripping it of its history.Priceless paintings were sold off, the dated flooring and garish wallcoverings removed. Modern plumbing was installed, and the floorplan was entirely reimagined, erasing every trace of his father’s influence.
He’d made it his own, a place as deliberate as theDomusbut far more personal—a retreat.
And tonight, for reasons he couldn’t fully name, he needed that escape.
He was a man who had severed himself from his legacy—or, at least, from the social expectations tied to it. Yet, he couldn’t abandon his tenants or shirk his fiduciary duties.
These obligations anchored him to a life he no longer fully belonged to, leaving him adrift between two worlds.
Not that he minded. Detachment had been inevitable, a choice rather than a burden. Better to remain untethered than bound by the rot of Society’s corruption.
With a few nods of goodnight, he stepped outside, so immune to English weather he hardly took notice of the hovering mist as he climbed into his coach.
Sleek and well-sprung, it was built to outrun any curricle.
If the need arose.
There was no ducal seal—nor any of the gilded decorations the builder had suggested. It had been built for speed and discretion.
And although, by necessity, two outriders rode on the back step, the men wore uniforms that weren’t uniforms at all, but rather the garb one would expect of a struggling merchant or typical laborer.
The weapons hidden beneath their coats were anything but typical. Small pistols. Razor-sharp knives. Items that might come in handy in dealing with anyone who dared threaten the Duke of Malum.
Which was why he could easily dismiss the shadowy figure lurking behind a farmer’s cart parked across the way. Boris would deal with it.
Really, by now, Malum had too many enemies to count.
“Morning, Your Grace,” Jordan, his driver, called down as Philbert held the door open for Malum to climb inside.
