Dominic tethered his horse in the yard of the Royal.
Hawkers touted their wares as theatre girls drifted home in crumpled clothes. Yet the brothers’ brass plate gleamed as though it belonged in Mayfair.
Crooked headstones crowded St Martin’s Burial Ground, the dead packed tight beyond the railings. They said many of the Moseleys’ unpaid debts lay beneath that soil.
Daphne would not lie among them.
Inside the office, a clerk with a scarred brow and missing teeth looked up before Dominic spoke. He required no introduction.
“I’m sure you know how this goes, Mr Hawke,” he said in his broad Stepney accent. “I’m told the guests at Shadowmere submit to the same searches.”
“Prudence is a useful habit in any establishment.”
Dominic hung his hat and greatcoat on the stand beside the desk, clasped his hands behind his head and let the lanky fellow frisk him.
The man’s bony hands worked along Dominic’s coat, slid down his ribs, then climbed back to his collar. His fingers slipped beneath the cravat, brushing the gold ring he wore on a chain.
“Touch that again and you’ll count with fewer fingers.”
The clerk stepped back, palms raised. “Come this way. I’ll show you to Mr Moseley’s office. It’s almost time.”
Dominic followed him down a narrow corridor, the boards groaning beneath their feet. Moseley would know of his arrival. The man left nothing to chance.
Somewhere deeper in the building, a long-case clock struck the hour. The clerk waited for the final chime before lifting his hand to knock.
Dominic admired the theatrics. He knew every trick to unnerve a man: the red walls, the dark-stained floor, the drawn shutters. The only thing missing was a coffin in the corner.
Eric Moseley sat behind a bare ebony desk, the elder brother, no taller than a woman and as pale as parchment.
“Mr Hawke.” He let the name settle, gold flashing on his fingers as he beckoned Dominic forward. “I’m impressed. Mrs Haggert seldom troubles herself on another’s behalf. Her insistence alone was worth the appointment.”
Moseley gestured to the leather seat. Dominic sat. He did not dwell on how many men had died in this chair. “Mrs Haggert champions the needy.”
“You? Needy? Come now, Mr Hawke. I’m told you could buy half the city if the mood took you.”
“I’m not here for myself.”
Two women occupied his thoughts. One bound to him by blood. The other by something he would not name.
Moseley watched him over steepled fingers. “Mrs Haggert tells me you’ve taken an interest in Lord Harland’s debt. She mentioned a connection to your mother. God rest her soul.”
Dominic gave a single nod. Nothing more. Moseley wanted something. It showed in the sharp glint of his eyes and the slow curl of his mouth.
“Your business is your own, of course,” he continued, “but I deal in facts, Mr Hawke. Much like your friend atTheSentinel. I’ll need more than a nod if we’re to come to terms.”
“What’s said in this room stays here.” He met Moseley’s gaze evenly. “The Sentinelserves its own interests. As do I.”
Moseley braced his elbows on the desk. “But you’re willing to trade favours, I presume. Else why are we here?”
Favours? Moseley would strip a man to the bone if he scented profit.
“I’ll settle Harland’s debt. In full. Today.”
Moseley’s gaze sharpened. “And in return you want … what, Mr Hawke?”
“Your word Miss Harland has not inherited her father’sobligation.” A man like Moseley kept his promises. That alone put him above most titled men.
Moseley reached into his desk and withdrew a thick ledger. Dust rose as he turned the pages. “With interest, the debt is fifteen thousand. Are you certain the girl is worth that much?”
