“You there,” Dewey O’Toole’s nasally voice called out.
She pushed aside thoughts of the stranger, her purpose taking center stage.
Concentrate and play your part. For Belinda’s sake.
“Me, sir?” she said with as much diffidence as she could muster.
O’Toole crooked a stubby finger, kicking out the chair next to him. “Come ’ere.”
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, clearing the path to O’Toole’s table: no amount of gold, apparently, was worth the trouble of crossing the O’Toole family. For Dewey was the heir to Francis O’Toole, a famous cutthroat.
Indeed, Francis O’Toole was one of the seven men who ruled the London underworld—men so powerful that they were known as “dukes.” O’Toole was the Duke of the Docklands, and his territory encompassed the wharf-side areas from Bluegate Fields to the Isle of Dogs. However, as powerful as O’Toole and the other dukes were, every one of them paid homage to the mightiest of them all: Bartholomew Black.
King of the Underworld. And Tessa’s grandpapa.
At the thought of her beloved grandfather, pride burgeoned in her. Grandpapa was a legend for he’d put an end to the bloody territorial wars that had once torn the stews asunder. While some might call him a cutthroat, he did whatever was necessary to keep the peace. He cared for the welfare of those under his rule. While the government enacted laws that benefited the upper class but left many in the underworld starving and destitute, Bartholomew Black found ways to feed and employ his people—the legalities of society be damned.
Of late, however, Grandpapa had had too much to contend with: an assassination attempt, the death of one of his most loyal dukes, and a deadly explosion at a brothel. For the first time, Tessa could see his many burdens wearing upon him, and it filled her with worry. She wanted desperately to help, yet he refused her. Refused to see that she had the ability to serve him, to help him make the underworld a better place.
Instead, he wanted to marry her off to some overbred blue-blood. She scowled. As much as she loved her grandfather, she wasn’t going to let him barter her off like chattel at Smithfield Market. She might be a female, but she was of the House of Black. Protecting the underworld and its denizens was in her blood.
If Grandpapa didn’t let her stand by his side, then she would have to serve him on her own.
And she would begin by delivering justice to Dewey O’Toole.
Going to his table, she doffed her cap. “Tom Brown, at your service, sir.”
“O’Toole.” He waved carelessly at the brutes across the table. “Barton and Smithers.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintances,” she said as she took a seat.
She knew O’Toole’s cronies by reputation. Barton was a swarthy hulk capable of beating a man to a fare-thee-well, but it was Smithers who made her wary. Narrow-faced and twitchy, Smithers was known to be a weasel—an insult, Tessa thought indignantly, to weasels everywhere. Nonetheless, he was the brains of the trio, and her breath caught as his beady gaze roved over her. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, his attention returning to his leader.
“O’erheard ’bout your windfall.” Greed glinted in O’Toole’s eyes, which resembled currants pushed into puffy dough. “Four ’undred quid, is it?”
“Five,” Smithers said, then cowered at O’Toole’s glare.
“Five—that’s wot I said.” O’Toole’s fist slammed against the table, setting plates and cups a-clatter. “Wot are ye, deaf?”
“Beg pardon,” Smithers sniveled. “My fault for mishearing you.”
“Ye got bacon for brains,” O’Toole snarled.
“Bacon for brains.” Barton slapped his tree-trunk-sized thigh. “Good one, O’Toole.”
O’Toole scowled. “Now where was I afore I was interrupted?”
Seeing as how she didn’t have all night, Tessa slung her leather coin bag onto the table, where it lay like a fatted calf. “You wanted to know about my inheritance. It’s in this purse.”
“You can’t fool me,” Barton scoffed. “Five ’undred guineas wouldn’tfitin that purse.”
Lord above, what kind of morons am I dealing with?
She resisted the upward pull of her eyeballs. “The clerk at the bank said this paper,”—untying the purse strings, she took out a fifty-pound note—“is as good as gold.”
O’Toole snatched the banknote, squinting at it. With a grunt, he shoved it across the table.
Smithers held up the banknote and perused it expertly. “It’s the genuine article.”
