3
Present Day, 1838
Seated at his desk,Adam Garrity listened as Wickham Murray, his right-hand man, relayed the preparations for the meeting that was to take place that evening. “Meeting” was a euphemism: theirs would be a rescue mission, one that entailed doing battle with Erasmus Sweeney, one of London’s newest and deadliest cutthroats.
Adam wasn’t worried. Not only had he been around longer than Sweeney, he was deadlier.
A man couldn’t rise from the stews and end up where he was without being ruthless. Moneylending wasn’t an easy business but it was a profitable one, when done properly.
Adam did it properly.
As Murray discussed the firepower they’d be bringing, Adam gazed around his study. Surveying the fruits of his labor gave him a sense of gratification. When he’d had this townhouse built, his instructions to the architect reflected his general philosophy in life.
I want the best.
Adam’s study was as large as many ballrooms, the walls covered with polished oak boiserie panels imported from Paris and hung with gilt-framed mirrors and landscapes. Three large Aubusson carpets padded the journey across the parqueted floors. In addition to the desk, there were two seating areas: one by the marble fireplace, above which hung portraits of Adam’s wife and two children, Fiona and Maximillian, and the other by the tall bookcases that lined the opposite end of the room.
To the right of Adam’s desk, immaculate windows soared from floor to ceiling. He’d insisted on having abundant light. He’d lived too many years in the dark.
Although he had properties flung across England and beyond, this London house was the jewel in his crown. The seat of his power that came from decades of sweat, blood, and merciless discipline. Anyone who dared to threaten his authority had better beware…Sweeney included.
“I approve the plans, Murray,” he said dismissively. “That will do.”
“You’re certain you wish to interfere in this business with Sweeney?” Sitting on the other side of the desk, Wickham Murray lifted his brows. “It is not our fight, after all.”
It was a measure of Adam’s respect for the other that he allowed the questioning of his command. Murray had come a long way since he’d begun working for Adam eight years ago. Back then, the younger man had been a spoiled fop who’d owed Adam a great deal of money. Ten thousand pounds, to be exact (when it came to money and retribution, Adam wasalwaysexact).
When Murray couldn’t cough up the sum, Adam had been persuaded to let the other work off the debt. Murray had surprised him by proving to be more than a feckless Adonis. With his gentleman’s comportment and blue-blooded connections, he’d helped to spread Adam’s empire into the highest echelons.
As any cent-per-cent worth his salt knew, no one was as short of the ready as the aristocracy. Ladies hiding gambling debts from their husbands, lords concealing expensive mistresses from their wives…thetonwas a moneylender’s oyster. Murray, with his gilded brown hair, raffish good looks, and effortless charm, had been particularly successful with the gentler sex. The interest on the vowels that Murray had collected from desperate matrons alone had paid off his debt within two years.
Being a fair man, Adam had released the other from his employ; Murray had stated his desire to stay on. Adam had renegotiated the terms to give the other a stake in whatever business he brought in. The arrangement had lined both men’s pockets. Murray had brains as well as brawn and, unlike most gents, wasn’t afraid to dirty his hands.
Fine by Adam. Having lived the first half of his three-and-forty years in squalor, he preferred to delegate unpleasantness. From guards to footmen to maids, he retained a legion of employees to keep his life—and that of his family—untroubled and running smoothly.
“Sweeney intends to cut me out of my share,” he said. “He’s shown disloyalty to Tessa Kent and therefore to the order of the underworld. Such disrespect cannot be tolerated.”
Murray’s hazel eyes narrowed, conveying his understanding. While outsiders might view the underclass of London as unruly and unorganized, anyone who made his living in this world knew better. The hierarchy here was as steadfast as that found in the finest London drawing rooms. Perhaps more so, for it was the only thing that kept chaos at bay.
Known as the “King of the Underworld,” cutthroat Bartholomew Black ruled London’s darkest streets, enforcing its rules and administering justice when necessary. He was aided by powerful “dukes” who oversaw specific territories; Adam was known as the “Duke of the City” since his power flourished in the financial center of London. Tessa Kent was the “Duchess of Covent Garden” and, moreover, she was Black’s beloved granddaughter.
Like Adam, Erasmus Sweeney ran a usury business. Adam had no liking for the uncouth bastard, but they had a common interest: the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville owed them each fifty thousand pounds. His Grace, also known by the moniker “Ransom,” had somehow gained the favor of Tessa Kent, who’d brokered an armistice, allowing the duke extra time to recover a treasure that would pay off his debts. Adam had agreed to the deal because it was always wise to curry Mrs. Kent’s favor and that of her grandfather’s. The extra twenty percent interest he’d be getting was naught to sneeze at either.
Sweeney, too, had agreed to the temporary truce. Then he’d reneged. He’d violated the agreement by kidnapping Ransom’s young daughter and demanding the entirety of the duke’s newly discovered fortune—including Adam’s portion—in exchange.
If there was anything Adam despised, it was a man who lacked honor.
His distaste must have showed, for Murray rose, muttering, “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for tonight.”
A soft knock on the door prevented Adam’s reply. His wife entered, and as he rose to greet her, he couldn’t stop the familiar stir of warmth inside him. Gabriella wasn’t beautiful in a conventional sense: her unabashedly red hair, golden freckles, and generous curves didn’t feature on current fashion plates. Yet the moment Adam had laid eyes on her, he’d been struck by a stunning sense of recognition.
He was possessed of a singular memory (a handy ability for he never forgot a debt) and could recall the past with vivid clarity. At that first meeting with Gabriella, he’d flashed back to his earliest years. He’d been five at the time, living in Florence with his mama, and she’d had the rare day off from performing. As an artist, she was a lover of beauty, and she’d taken him to a grand gallery called the Uffizi. In that palace of treasures, he’d seen a painting of a woman so beautiful that it had stopped his boy’s breath, his knees growing weak.
I see you’ve lost your heart to Venus, Mama had said with a smile.You have good taste, Anthony. This is the work of the great painter Titian.
He’d never been back to Italy, hadn’t seen the painting again. But he saw the Venus of his memory every day in his wife. The same Titian hair and glowing lush curves, the same sweetly expressive eyes.
There were differences, of course, the main one being that Gabriella lacked the goddess’s come-hither confidence. To him, this was a boon. His past had taught him the perils of loving a woman who was too aware of her own charms.
