One
WAYLAND’S, LONDON - JANUARY 12, 1814
MICHAEL
Damn it all!Bleeding again. It was a wonder I had fingers left at this rate. I loathed this part of my work; spending hours buried under financial documents and transactions.
Opening a gaming hell. It had seemed so glamorous four years ago. The prospect had been full of amusement, riches, and a guaranteed disinheritance from certain, less than congenial, family members. I had precisely nothing to lose. And, over the last several years, reality mirrored my expectations precisely. Except for the ledgers; the ledgers had always been unbearable. And, as of this morning—the invitation—the invitation signified the end of all peace.
The heavy oak door flew open, banging against the opposite wall—nothing like a knock preceding the thunk and bits of plaster crumbling to the green carpet below. There was already a hole in the wall from the handle; Augie just made it larger. I could ignore the rudeness, and I could even be convinced to overlook the property damage. What I could not forgive were the two thick stacks of documents, tenuously balanced, one in each of his hands. “Augie, no…”
“Augie, yes. You requested these, remember?” As my second, Augie loved to actually fulfill the requests I made. It was his greatest flaw.
“I’m certain I didn’t.”
“I’m certain you did,” he said, lifting the larger of the stacks above my desk. He dropped it from an unreasonable height with a resounding thunk that drowned out my pathetic whine.
“I’ll never see the sunlight again.”
“Likely not.” He flopped the second stack with slightly less fanfare. “You didn’t request these, but you will when I explain the situation, so I brought them anyway.”
“I very much doubt I’d ask for yet more paperwork. What is the concern?”
“Johnson and Samuels, on Saturday.” The boxing match. Shillings and pounds have been pouring in for a fortnight. The ton was eager for blood and a good wager.
“What of it?”
“Johnson is heavily favored.”
“I am aware….”
“So why is Westfield betting some £3,000 on Samuels?”
“Westfield?” The name was familiar, but I could not recall which degenerategentlemanresponded to that title.
“Richard Dalton, Earl of Westfield.” Dalton… sweaty, portly man with few funds and even less luck.
“Dalton has £3,000 to wager?”
“I very much doubt it.” Augie flipped through the pages in front of me before pointing at an entry. “See here, that’s nearly what he owes us. He’s quite cleaned out.”
“And these are his records?” I peered over the stack below, thumbing through pages warily.
“Had a Dunner bribe his solicitor personally.”
“Which one?”
“Baldwin.” That’s good. He was competent. Wouldn’t have bribed the wrong solicitor or drawn unwanted attention. I flipped through the pages halfheartedly, searching for something I knew wasn’t there. Augie wouldn’t have brought this to me if there was evidence that Dalton had the funds.
“Who let him place it?”
“Potter.” I couldn’t hold back a sigh at the name. I liked the man, and he had a family to feed. But he has been gulled by everyone who walks past. At least I was confident he wasn’t part of any havey-cavey business with Dalton. He wasn’t smart enough to have made this mess intentionally.
“Alright, I’ll deal with that later. I assume you’ve already located Johnson?”
“Of course.”
“Why is my name on the building and not yours, Augie?”
