"Blind Stag next week. Can't say I'm lookin' forward to rubbin' elbows with the bastards."
Several nights ago, cutthroats had held up two customers leaving The Underworld. Not only had the pair been beaten and robbed, but they'd been warned by the masked assailants that all those patronizing Gavin's club could expect the same fate. News of the attack had spread like wildfire, hurting business. It didn't take a genius to surmise that the other Covent Garden club owners had benefited from Gavin's misfortune. But which of the blighters had instigated the attack?
The most likely players—Robbie Lyon, Warren Kingsley, and the O'Brien brothers—wouldn't blink an eye to do violence. Gavin needed a show of force to stave off future aggression. He'd decided to start by calling a meeting where he would flush out the culprit.
"Have our men track our competitors in the meantime. One of them sneezes, I want to know about it," Gavin said. "And contact Magnus. I need his help locating Paul Fines."
"Don't know why we have to involve that crafty codger," Stewart grumbled.
Though Stewart despised John Magnus, Gavin liked the scoundrel. Magnus was old as the hills, and though his was a fading star, he still did business as a trader of information. Magnus' secrets had proved useful to Gavin in the past. Perhaps because they shared physical deformities—the other man had lost an eye in his youth—Magnus had shown a paternal bent towards Gavin… a fact that seemed to nettle Stewart to no end.
"Call for Magnus," Gavin said firmly. "I want Fines found."
Scowling, Stewart left to attend to the tasks.
Gavin made his way through the gaming rooms, nodding to the staff cleaning up the night's excesses. When he'd first laid eyes on the place years ago, it had been a dilapidated shack with rotting beams and tumble-down walls. He'd seen its potential at once. It had taken his life savings—earned through a combination of violence and investment—to buy the place.
Pausing to gaze around the brilliant circular marble foyer, he didn't doubt that his risky venture had paid off. Three premier stories of the tried-and-true triumvirate of depravity—gaming, drink, and whores—and all of it belonged to him. Normally, this fact brought a charge of satisfaction. Today, however, he felt... weary.
He continued to an alcove in the hallway. Running his fingers along the wall, he released a hidden mechanism, and a panel swung open. He'd had this private corridor built so that he could survey the entire house at his discretion. The passageway snaked behind the walls of every room on every floor. From the card parlors to the wenches' quarters, he monitored all that passed in his domain. Some might call his a controlling nature—and they'd be right on the money.
Power was everything; he'd never be without it again.
He followed the corridor all the way to his private wing at the back of the building. Sunlight hit him as he entered his suite; the series of spacious chambers had large windows overlooking a vibrant gated garden. His own personal oasis. Yawning, he headed to the bedchamber. He waved off his valet, and not bothering to draw the curtains, stripped off his clothes and climbed naked into the postered bed.
Despite his fatigue, the moment his head hit the pillow, his mind leapt awake. The cursed habit of too many years spent in the rookery, where vigilance had been the key to survival. Where between one eye blink and the next, a man could get himself gutted if he let his guard down. Gavin lay there, surrounded by the smell of fresh linens and sunshine, staring up at the embroidered bed hangings. And instead of sleep came the unbidden memories of his past.
He'd been a boy not yet ten when his mother deserted him. Alone in the world, he'd faced the chilling prospect of the workhouse when a sweep named Grimes had come along and offered him an apprenticeship. Relieved at the prospect of learning a trade, of joining a coterie of boys his own age, Gavin had gone along.
What a bloody fool I was.
He'd soon learned that his new master cleaned more than chimneys—Grimes had used his sweeps to rob some of the finest homes in the City. The bastard had a predilection for violence... and also for young boys. The knowledge had come too late; Grimes had kept his apprentices caged like slaves. The first time Gavin had been summoned to the master's chamber, he had feared the worst.
He'd not been the only boy sent for that night. Nicholas Morgan, one of the older boys, had been there too; Grimes' depravity had known no bounds. Helpless fear had twisted Gavin's empty belly as he'd crossed the creaky threshold toward the master, whose eyes had glowed a sinister orange in the firelight. But then matters had taken a different turn. A knife had flashed in Morgan's hand and landed in Grimes' chest.
The bastard had deserved the blade in the heart; Gavin wished he'd put it there himself. Morgan's sin had not been killing Grimes, but what he'd done afterward. Gavin could still feel the sharp steel, wet with blood, pressed against his own throat.
One word o' this to anyone, an' I'll gut you like a pig, you understand?
Dazed, he could only stare into Morgan's hard eyes.
Answer me, you filthy git!The blade bit into his throat, and he felt a sticky trickle—his blood or Grimes', he didn't know.Your silence or I'll end your miserable life right now. Don't think I won't do it.
A whimper sprang from his throat. He heard his own voice, words tattered by sobs.Don't leave me here. I'm scared. Take me with you, please…
Shame simmered as Gavin recalled how he'd begged Morgan to take him out of that place. Instead of showing mercy, Morgan had knocked him senseless. When he'd come to, flames had consumed the room. A lamp lay shattered by the curtains. Morgan had wanted to burn all the evidence, had left him to die … only he hadn't. Gavin had suffered a worse fate. He'd escaped the fire only to be caught and found guilty of arson. No one had listened to his cries of innocence; no one had cared that he was a child, alone and afraid. The only silver lining had been the ruling of insufficient evidence for murder, else he'd have swung from the gallows for certain.
Instead, they'd tossed him into the prison hulks along with the most hardened and depraved of criminals. Ten years he'd spent in that rotting hell for another man's sins. Had it not been for Stewart, Gavin might not have survived. His scar burned at the memory—he tamped down the dark swell of emotion. Stewart had protected him and taught him the skills to protect himself. The practice of ruthless violence had kept him alive. He'd endured perdition, knowing that one day he would exact his pound of flesh.
Morgan had caused Gavin's suffering; Morgan would pay.
With his company... and his family.
Despite her innocence and fresh beauty, Percy Fines was a creature of strong passions. Gavin had no doubt that she would accept his wager—out of loyalty to her brother, yes, but also out of curiosity. Desire. He hadn't mistaken the flicker in her eyes at the wordadventure. Nor the way her bosom had risen and fallen when he'd come near, those pillowy lips of hers parting with each breath. Though she might not recognize the welcoming signs of her own body, he did.
He exhaled, his blood heating at the welcome diversion. Without realizing it, he'd begun to stroke his cock. The shaft stiffened in his fist as he closed his eyes and imagined taking Percy here, in this very bed. Pinning her wrists above her head, he'd strip away the layers until she could hide from him no more. No disguises, not even a shred of clothing between them.
Her tits would be medium-sized and full, a perfect fit for his palms. If her lips were any indication, the nipples would be pert and dusky pink. He could picture Percy's blue eyes widening as he fondled her, tweaking the buds between finger and thumb. Her mixture of naiveté and wantonness inflamed him. He would taste one saucy nipple, suckling one peak then the other, until she began to squirm and buck against his hold.
