“I adore it when you get protective.” Her hands wandered, and he felt himself responding, as ever, to her teasing touch. “You’re my hero, Mr. Kent.”
He rolled over her. “Don’t you forget it, Mrs. Kent.”
He kissed her smiling mouth with a need that had only grown deeper and fiercer with time. She responded with an ardor that always heated his blood. Together, they reaffirmed with their bodies and hearts the love that would see them through anything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next day, with Grier by his side, Andrew entered Will Nightingale’s coffee house in the heart of the Seven Dials. Nightingale’s was an ancient institution, a relic from another time when the public gathered in such venues to learn the news of the day and engage in the free exchange of ideas. Although the rising popularity of tea and private clubs had led to the demise of coffee houses, Nightingale’s showed no acknowledgement of the times.
The interior hadn’t changed much in the twenty-odd years since Andrew had first stepped foot into the place. It still had the same shaved wood floors and smoke-tinged air, the heads of bleary-eyed game serving as décor on the walls. He did notice a few new paintings: the amateurish watercolors sprang up like bizarre blooms in the field of furry trophies.
The place was bustling as always, serving boys dashing back and forth with silver pots, refilling the famous pitch-dark brew for the customers clustered around long tables. As potent as the coffee was, however, it wasn’t the secret to Nightingale’s longevity. That lay at the table set in a private alcove at the back of the room.
Andrew strode toward the alcove, Grier at his heels.
“Try not to kick the hornet’s nest, will you?” the Scot said under his breath.
“Someone kicks first, I’m not backing away,” Andrew said evenly.
He needed his full focus on protecting Primrose. This meant he had to clean his own house. To end the feud with his nemesis Malcolm Todd, one way or another.
When he and Grier neared their destination, a pair of hulking guards blocked their access to the table, waiting for their master’s decree.
Bartholomew Black, sitting on a throne-like chair, jerked his chin at Andrew. “Him only.”
Grier cast Andrew a look of warning before being led off.
“Good morning, sir.” Andrew bowed deeply—fitting when one was greeting the most powerful man in London.
Those who didn’t know Black might mistake him for a doddering eccentric. He certainly dressed the part: from his lace-trimmed shirt to his embroidered puce waistcoat to his satin breeches, he looked as if he’d stumbled in from the previous century. Yet the dark eyes that looked out from beneath that ridiculous periwig were as sharp as a blade, and the beringed hands that were dumping sugar and cream into coffee could just as casually end a man’s life.
Anyone who didn’t respect the King of the Underworld was a fool.
Andrew was no fool.
Which was more than he could say about Black’s son-in-law, Malcolm Todd. Todd occupied the seatone downfrom Black’s right, a position rife with meaning. Black keeping the chair to his right empty was a subtle yet symbolic reflection of the state of affairs. Everyone knew Todd was chomping at the bit to inherit his father-in-law’s power; Black, however, showed no signs of relinquishing the reins to his kingdom.
While Black commanded respect, Todd deserved nothing but contempt. A small, bald man with a round face and a vicious nature, Todd would stoop to any means to gain more power.
“Corbett,” Todd said in his sneering manner.
Andrew calibrated his bow to his degree of respect. “Todd.”
“Hah.” Black let out a bark of laughter, turning to his son-in-law. “Made a leg for me, didn’t he, and a fine one, too. But you? Not as much as a bob o’ the ’ead.”
Todd’s face reddened. “I don’t give a rat’s arse what the bugger—”
“And there’s your problem. You don’t care about doin’ the pretty, but Corbett ’ere,”—Black jabbed a blunt finger in Andrew’s direction—“’e does. Understands class, don’t ’e, andthat’sthe difference between ’im and you. Why ’is club draws all ’em fine coves with the fat purses while yours attracts the common riffraff.”
“His blighted club isnotbetter than mine—”
“God Almighty, shut your gob.” Black aimed a squinty-eyed look at Todd, and the latter shut up. He turned his gaze to Andrew and gestured regally to the seat on his left. “Sit.”
Andrew complied, and a serving boy rushed forward to place a dish of coffee in front of him. As he took a sip of the thick, fortifying brew, Black waved a hand, and the guards pulled a velvet curtain across the alcove, sealing them in privacy.
“Let’s get down to business. Corbett,”—Black pinned him with a hard black stare—“Todd says you’re violating the terms o’ the accord and poaching on ’is territory. Is this true?”
“No, sir,” Andrew said.
