“By inconveniences, you are referring to the fact that you ordered the murder of the Chen family and their servant,” Papa said in a foreboding tone.
“And by ambitions, I am referring to your campaign to stop the opium trade. You need my financial backing and influence.” Rothwell dropped any pretense of humility, clearly believing that he held the upper hand. “Come now, our fortunes are tied together. If my history gets out, your reputation will suffer the consequences. Who would back the campaign of a duke who partnered with an opium trader accused of murder? What will happen to your career in politics then, Your Grace?”
Papa stood very straight and said, “I don’t give a damn.”
Glory had never been prouder of her father.
“You heard Mr. Rothwell’s confession,” she said loudly.
Rothwell and his nephew looked confused as the door to the adjoining room opened. Wei strode in, his gaze fierce and fury restrained. The Angels, their husbands, and Yao came to stand behind him.
“You murdered my family, Erasmus Trimble.” Wei’s tone was cold and controlled. “And you will answer for your crimes.”
“There is no proof of anything,” Rothwell spat. “My nephew burned the damned journal.”
“Actually.” Glory cleared her throat. “He burned a fake copy.”
“And we heard your confession,” Hadleigh said. “All of us here will swear to it.”
Rothwell looked furious, but then he sneered, “Those deaths took place years ago and on Chinese soil. English courts have no jurisdiction over what happened, and I cannot be found guilty of anything.”
“Not in a court of law, perhaps,” Wei said calmly. “But the real jury will be that of your peers, the society that you’ve fooled into thinking that you are a man of charity and success. My friends and I will see to it that your crimes are on the front page of every newspaper and gossip rag. Everything you’ve built as Rothwell—your reputation, projects, and schemes—will fail. Your name will be less than dirt. You are finished.”
Glory saw the instant that Rothwell realized he’d been cornered. He looked stunned—as if he’d never found himself in the position of not getting his way. His face turned apoplectic.
“You cannot do that to me,” he hissed. “I bloody own London, and you are nobody!”
Wei’s stare did not waver. “I am the nobody who is bringing you down.”
“Guards, kill this bastard,” Rothwell yelled.
The guards glanced at one another, then at Papa and the other lords in the room. Not one of them moved. Apparently, they’d decided whatever Rothwell was paying them wasn’t worth the trouble of public, cold-blooded murder.
Even Winslow backed away. “Father, it isn’t worth it. We should go—”
Father? Glory raised her brows. The men were apparently closer kin than they’d let on.
“You spineless bastard,” Rothwell snarled. “I always knew you would never amount to anything. I should have left you in the streets with your whore of a mother.”
“It’s over.” Winslow’s face hardened. “People are going to discover that you faked your death as Erasmus Trimble. That your wealth doesn’t come from investments but opium smuggling. No one is going to buy shares in our schemes now. We need to cut our losses.”
“A great man does not accept losses,” Rothwell declared. “He dictates the terms. Always.”
He punctuated his statement by yanking out a pistol—and turning it on Glory.
“Take away what’s mine, and I’ll take away what’s yours.” His eyes were feverish, wild. “You can watch another person you love die, Chen.”
Glory’s instincts kicked in—or her lightness kung fu, rather. Her breath snapped into a trained rhythm, and she was off. Everything around her seemed to slow—Rothwell’s finger moving on the trigger, Papa’s shout of warning—as she leapt through the air. Her shoes barely touched the ground as she sped past Rothwell, soaring gracefully over the settee and taking cover behind it.
Wei had moved as well. From behind her cover, she sighed with admiration: she still had much to learn from him. Her shifu possessed the stealth of shadows and the power of a tempest. He slammed into Rothwell, the force knocking the pistol from the bastard’s hands. Rothwell swung at Wei; Wei dodged, then landed a strike to the other’s chest. Rothwell staggered backward as Wei continued with a barrage of punches, the final one hurtling him into a wall.
Wei towered over his defeated foe, his knuckles cracking as he tightened his fists. Glory’s breath jammed as he hauled the moaning, bloodied blackguard up by the throat.
“I could kill you,” Wei said softly. “But I won’t. Because revenge won’t give me what I truly need. What I’ve already found.”
He dropped Rothwell like a piece of rubbish and walked away.
As the Angels and their husbands surrounded Rothwell and his associates, Wei came toward Glory. She ran to him, meeting him halfway. He took her hands and clasped them tightly.
