There was a fly in Trimble’s ointment, and I got rid of it for him. That’s what the stupid soldier gets for getting in the way of progress—for interfering in the British right to free trade. By disposing of the interfering captain and his family, I’ve not only restored the healthy flow of opium, but now Governor Li owes Trimble a favor. Apparently, the soldier’s son is fucking the fat governor’s wife…a pretty piece I wouldn’t mind sampling myself.
* * *
Too bad the son got away. But Trimble says not to go after the peasant—Li is satisfied that the bastard who cuckolded him is suffering a fate worse than death, having his kin massacred before his eyes. I took a souvenir to prove I’d done the others, and that was enough for Trimble. He’s giving me my purse today for completing the job, and I’m headed out on the next ship out of this godforsaken place. Back to London I’ll go, where I can start life anew as a gentleman of means…
Bile rose in Wei’s throat even as a terrible numbness spread and spread. All this time, there’d been another villain hiding in the shadows. Erasmus Trimble had wanted Wei’s father out of the way because the captain was incorruptible and dedicated to stamping out opium. Trimble had given Kray the assassination orders and parlayed the murders into an advantageous relationship with Li.
Where can I find Erasmus Trimble?
Feverishly, Wei tore through the pages, looking for a description, a clue, anything. But soon after Kray committed the murders, he collected his earnings and left—with no more mention of Trimble. Gritting his teeth, Wei read every despicable word until there was nothing left to read.
Just another dead end.
With a roar, Wei hurled the useless journal. It crashed into a wall, exploding in a flurry of paper. Pages rained through the study as he cursed himself for failing once again. For letting his family down. For selfishly focusing on his happiness when their murderer was still out there, carefree and unpunished.
When the red mist cleared, Wei dragged his hands through his hair, his chest surging as he took in the mess he’d made. The journal’s pages had separated from the cover and scattered bloody everywhere. His shifu would chastise him for his lack of control and rightly so. He should know better than to give in to temper, which accomplished nothing. What he needed to do was think…and to talk to Glory.
The thought of his little tigress anchored him. She would listen, support him, and help him work on finding Trimble. With her in his corner, he was no longer alone.
Expelling a breath, he went to gather the pieces of the diary, pausing when he picked up the cover. The binding on the back cover had unraveled, a corner poking out from beneath the leather. Frowning, he brought the cover over to his desk and used a letter opener to cut through the rest of the binding. He tipped the cover to the side, and something slid out.
A daguerreotype.
The image was of two men standing together in front of a building, which Wei recognized as the British factory in Canton. Kray was on the left. And on the right…recognition slammed into Wei.
Bloody hell, it can’t be him…
Turning the daguerreotype over, he saw that Kray had identified his companion.
British Factory, Canton, with Erasmus Trimble. 1836.
But Trimble went by another name now. Wei flashed to Kray shrieking when the attendant had picked up the newspaper, and suddenly he knew what the blackguard had been trying to communicate.
Killer, killer, killer.
Wei left his study in a sprint.
Thirty-Seven
That afternoon, Glory wished the guests would leave. After talking business with Papa, Mr. Rothwell and Mr. Winslow had stayed for tea in the drawing room, and she hoped they did not plan on lingering. Wei was due to arrive in two hours, and she wanted him to have privacy when he spoke to Papa.
Given that her father had forbidden her from seeing Wei, she’d thought it wise to keep mum about her lover’s impending visit. Instead, she’d asked if Papa would be free to help her with something at four o’clock. She’d told him it was a surprise, and, looking faintly puzzled, he had agreed. In her head, she planned what she might say when Wei came…perhaps a little speech that appealed to the unconventional way her own parents had found love.
“May I compliment you again on yesterday’s luncheon, Lady Glory?”
Sharing a settee with her, Matthew Winslow gave her a charming smile. He was dapper in a Prussian blue frock coat, embroidered yellow waistcoat, and biscuit-colored trousers. From his pomaded hair to his brass buttons, he was polished to a shine…one that Glory found a bit overbright. She preferred Wei’s understated elegance.
“I cannot take credit, sir,” Glory demurred. “My mama did most of the work.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Mama said from an adjacent sofa. “You planned the menu and selected the entertainment. The Chinese illusionist was a hit with the guests.”
“I will never understand how the chap links and unlinks solid rings,” Papa muttered from beside Mama. “Even though I footed his bill, he wouldn’t tell me his secret. All he would say is that one sees what one wishes to see…whatever the devil that means.”
“I think it is more apt to say that the guests saw whatever the illusionist wanted them to see, Your Grace.” Mr. Rothwell took a sip of tea and smirked. “A useful trick, that. We should take a page out of his book for our campaign.”
“I think His Grace’s speech accomplished that nicely,” Mr. Winslow said.
“I agree.” Glory beamed at her papa. “You spoke eloquently about the impact of opium on the Chinese people. About the human cost of the trade.”
