His desk was still cluttered with correspondence that demanded his attention. Resigned, he sank into his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he surveyed the pile.
By the time he pushed back from the desk hours later, his eyes were gritty, and his back and legs were stiff from the lack of movement. With a glance at his watch, he realized he’d practically worked through the night. No use going home.
Instead, he opted for the small chamber just off his office, a spartan room with a firm mattress and crisp sheets that he rarely used but appreciated for its convenience.
Malum shrugged out of his coat, tossed it onto the chair in the corner without bothering to aim, and lay down fully clothed. When he closed his eyes, he’d imagined he’d be too exhausted to think.
But no. For a while, work had done its job, keeping certain inconvenient thoughts at bay. But now?
Thoughts from the park, earlier that day—or was it yesterday?
Melanie’s lush body against his, the little hitches of her breath when he’d located a sensitive spot on her skin, the way her eyes had dared him to do something entirely reckless.
Absurd. Maddening. But eventually, his thoughts quieted, the chaos fading into the surreal haze of dreams, and fitful sleep finally came.
When he awoke,Malum lay still at first, eyes closed, not willing to end his slumber quite yet. Then, faint but sharp, the acrid scent of smoke—not the familiar haze of cigars but something darker, more ominous.
It took a moment for the implications to register through the fog of sleep, but when they did, his eyes flew open. Even as he sat up, the smell grew stronger. Faint voices reached him from downstairs, their urgency cutting through the quiet of the early morning. He was on his feet in seconds, pulling his coat over his wrinkled shirt as he headed toward the commotion.
By the time he reached the back of theDomus, the scene was already unfolding. Smoke billowed from the kitchen, curling into the hallway like a living thing. Several workers shouted to one another, hauling buckets of water and damp cloths to douse the flames licking at a pile of charred refuse near the back entrance.
“What happened?” Malum demanded.
“Something caught in the refuse heap,” one of the workers called back, tossing water onto the fire. The flames hissed angrily, but they were beginning to relent, the bitter smoke swirling in the air.
Malum grabbed a bucket from the nearby pump without hesitation, hauling water alongside the others. His shirt clung to his back from the heat, and his lungs protested against the smoke. Still, he worked methodically, dousing the flames until they had been reduced to embers and then continuing on when the stubborn glow refused to die.
“Your Grace!” a gruff voice barked from the doorway. Malum glanced up to see Boris stomping in, looking disheveled, his shirt half-tucked and his hair sticking up on one side as though he’d only just rolled out of bed. The large man squinted through the haze, his expression darkening as he took in the damage.
“Good of you to join us,” Malum remarked dryly, tossing a final bucket over the remains of charred rubbish.
Boris ignored the jab, frowning as he surveyed the scene. “Kitchen accident?”
“Perhaps,” Malum said, an edge in his tone as he crouched beside the pile, examining the scorched edges. The remnants of crates and linens told him Boris might be right. But something about it felt… deliberate.
Boris’s gaze flicked to him. “You’re not convinced.”
“I’m thinking,” Malum said slowly, rising to his feet, “I have too many enemies to imagine otherwise.” He brushed soot from his hands, his expression darkening. “Keep an eye out. No one enters or leaves without your knowledge."
From there, the day passed in a flurry of activity, residue from the smoke still lingering. Everything in the immediate vicinity of the fire had been coated in a pale layer of ash, and the stench had settled into every surface in the building. Workers scrubbed at the walls until they gleamed, hauled out debris, and repaired the affected woodwork. The kitchen was a battlefield of labor—pans clattering, voices rising over the grind of brushes on stone, and the pantry inventory hastily replenished from nearby vendors.
Malum moved through it all with his usual efficiency, issuing orders and overseeing every detail. Every single window was opened to help clear away the smell, and a cool draft cut through the halls, mingling with the sharp tang of vinegar and fresh-cut lemons, but even that wasn’t enough to completely banish the odor.
By late afternoon, theDomushad regained much of its usual splendor. The kitchen was able to function well enough, the furniture was back in place, and the first guests would soon arrive. The damage to the building itself had been minimal, and nobody had gotten hurt, but even so, Malum couldn’t shake the disquiet curdling in his gut.
Although a few workersmentioned catching the faint scent of kerosene—a substance they routinely stocked—there was no definitive proof it hadn’t been an accident.
Boris joined Malum on the balcony, where he stood surveying the main floor, his scowl deep and forbidding.
“Call in additional staff for tonight,” Malum instructed. “I want every corner watched.”
Common sense said, in all likelihood, the incident was the result of carelessness. But… something about it didn’t feel right.
The timing of the article was too convenient to dismiss. It wasn’t just about idle gossip or public embarrassment; it was a calculated move to discredit him—to make him look weak.
Boris had suggested a few names… Lord Witherson, who’d been thrown out for cheating at cards. Callum Price, whose overzealousness with one of the courtesans had made him persona non grata. And even Dankworth or Northwoods, though Malum thought it unlikely either would stoop to arson. There were others: disgruntled employees, vendors with cancelled contracts. Dozens had reasons to resent him, certainly, butwho had the cunning—or the nerve—to pull off something this audacious?
Malum’s thoughts returned to the timing. Crossings missing shipments, the article, the sham engagement, and the meeting in the park—they all pointed to a larger scheme. It wasn’t just random. Someone wanted to unravel him piece by piece.
