“Mr. Black.” Knight’s polished accent was at odds with his rough-hewn features and burly frame. His rather exquisite silk cravat was offset by his swarthy skin. “Pardon if I haven’t paid my respects of late. Business has been occupying my attention.”
“You ain’t the only one. ’Ave a seat so we can get down to it.”
Knight inclined his dark head, seating himself beside O’Toole.
The last stranger came forward. Even if the process of elimination hadn’t verified his identity, Harry could guess who the man was from his sisters’ description of their friend’s husband. They’d said that Adam Garrity was a fastidious man whose good looks were diminished by his ruthless, cold-blooded aura; as usual, they were spot on.
Garrity was not the tallest, burliest, or loudest of the group, yet intangible power emanated from his lean and subtly honed frame. His eyes were hard onyx, his brows black slashes, his cheekbones blade-sharp beneath his pale skin. When he inclined his head, not a single strand of ebony hair fell out of place.
“Thank you for coming, Garrity,” Black said.
“My pleasure.” Garrity’s gaze flicked to Harry, and Harry felt his muscles constrict beneath that piercing stare. “New man?”
“Can’t ’ave too much protection these days,” Black said.
“Indeed.” Garrity proceeded to the chair at the opposite end of the table.
As everyone took a seat, Malcolm Todd’s beady eyes roved over the remaining chairs. Apparently finding none of them satisfactory, he went over to Harry, who was to Black’s right.
“Take your place by the Chinaman,” Todd snapped.
“Bennett ain’t going nowhere,” Black said. “Sit your arse down in another chair.”
Todd’s angry gaze burned into Harry, yet he obeyed his father-in-law’s command. Remaining in the contested seat, Harry felt the assessing stares of the other men. Something significant was happening, although he didn’t know what.
Serving boys arrived to fill cups with coffee and lay out a collation of meat, cheese, and pastries. When they left, Black nodded to his guards, who drew the red velvet curtains, shrouding them in privacy.
“Ain’t going to beat around the bush. This ain’t a social call,” Black said.
“Reckoned your summons made that clear.” O’Toole dunked a biscuit into his beverage. “What’s this about then, eh?”
“There’s a rat in our midst,” Black said. “It needs to be exterminated.”
If Harry had wondered what tactic Black would take, he now knew. The straight talk caused glances to shift around the table, expressions instantly wary.
“Surely you don’t mean at this table,” O’Toole began.
“That’s precisely what I mean. All o’ you know I was attacked outside this very coffee house last month, and if you say you don’t, you’re lying. One o’ you is twitching a tail ’neath this table, and I’m giving you a chance to show yourself.”
“I resent your implication, Black. I ain’t no rat.” In a show of outrage, O’Toole waved a meaty hand at the others. “Neither are any o’ these fine fellows.”
If he thought to stir up a rebellion, he was bound for disappointment. Knight looked pensive, Garrity faintly amused.
“It is not the nature of the rat to expose itself.” Garrity arched a dark brow. “Surely you did not expect one of us to scurry forward and accept responsibility?”
“I didn’t, but rats are motivated by one thing: self-interest.”
Black’s gaze circled the table, and Harry noted that not one of the men looked away. A show of defiance, fear, or strength, he couldn’t tell.
The king had more to say. “I’ve ruled this roost since two o’ you were in leading strings. You may not remember the time before, when chaos and bloodshed were tearin’ the stews apart. That was why I drew up the territorial lines and established the Accord. Society’s rules were made to keep men like us down, but that don’t mean we don’t need rules o’ our own. We may be cutthroats, thieves, and moneylenders, but we ’ave our own code, our own sense o’ ’onor that demands we defend what’s ours and be loyal to our own. That’s what I’m reminding you o’ today. An attack on me ain’t just on me: it’s an attack on our way o’ life. It’s pitting brother against brother and weakening us all.”
Harry’s estimation for the cutthroat grew. Black might be responsible for multiple crimes in the eyes of society, but he was a man who lived by his own code of conduct. In the underworld, he stood for law and order, and, without him, chaos would reign.
“We ain’t always seen eye to eye, you and I, but I’m grateful for all you’ve done, Black.” Once again, O’Toole was the first to speak. “But I resent being accused of a crime that I didn’t commit. What proof do you ’ave that one o’ us,”—again, he gestured to the table at large—“is involved in this treasonous act?”
“All o’ you ’ave a connection to John Loach, the bastard who tried to assassinate me.”
At Black’s reply, Harry observed little reaction on the dukes’ faces. Yet something shifted in the air, like the gathering of energy before a storm. His gut told him that that name was a stranger to none of the present company.
