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Prologue

July 1820

London

* * *

Every sort of vice could be found in London, if one knew where to look. In the filthy rookery of St. Giles, one didn't have to look very hard.

The fight had already started, a bare-knuckle match between two street fighters in a grimy pub cellar. The favorite, an Irishman native to St. Giles, was short and stocky and known for fighting dirty; in St. Giles, fighting dirty was applauded. The challenger was an African, dark and formidable, and jeered by the crowd. The cellar was packed with men who had paid their farthing at the door and were intent on recouping their money by placing bets with any and all takers. A musty odor of old smoke, spilled beer, and dried sweat clung to the walls. Before the night was over, there would be a sharp scent of freshly spilled blood as well.

One spectator, a little too short to see over the rest of the crowd, wormed his way through the room. From time to time he bobbed on his toes for a glimpse of the fighters before resuming his search for a better vantage point. At last he seemed to find one that suited him, settling into a place against the wall.

“I’ve got five quid on the Moor," he said to the man beside him, a tall fellow in the hard-worn clothes of a drayman.

The taller man removed the cigar from between his teeth and blew out a puff of smoke. "The Irishman's favored."

The newcomer scoffed. "Bloody idiots, the Irish. Look at the Moor—solid muscle, a long reach, and such power! He could beat a dozen Irishmen."

In timely demonstration, the African fighter struck, pounding several quick hits to his opponent's belly. The Irishman staggered and looked for a moment as if he would fall to his knees, if not collapse altogether. Phipps raised a fist in triumph.

His companion shrugged. "Perhaps. But the crowd wants the Irishman to win, Mr. Phipps. If the African wins, the losses will be heavy." He paused meaningfully. “The crowd won’t take it well.”

"You've got no appreciation at all for the sport, have you, Brandon?" Mr. Phipps said crossly.

"No."

In the ring, the Irishman landed a punishing blow to his opponent's chin, and the African fell back to his seconds, reeling. The frenzied crowd roared, and even the colorless Phipps let out a shout. Brandon didn't move, his eyes still restlessly roaming over the spectators.

"You're the only man I know who wouldn't relish this assignment," Phipps told him in a low voice. "There's men out doing a lot worse than watching a good mill." Brandon gave a quiet snort. Phipps shook his head and sighed, reluctantly turning from the fight. "Well, where is Pearce?”

"There." Brandon tilted his head, indicating a man in a green coat across the room. "He met them a quarter hour ago and took a packet from them. Paid in coin."

"And the Blackwoods?"

"By the ring, near the corner." Brandon dropped his cigar and ground it under his heel. "They bet very heavily on the Irishman."

Phipps nodded. "Good work." He pushed up the brim of his cap and wiped his forehead, and his other men, scattered around the room, took note and maneuvered toward the three men.

Brandon eased away from the wall. His job was done now. "I'll leave you to it." Keeping his head down, he started for the door at the back of the crowded room.

"One moment." Phipps pressed a folded paper into his hand. "Condolences," he muttered.

Brandon automatically closed his fist around the note and shoved it into his pocket. "Why?"

But Phipps had already disappeared into the crowd surging toward the ring. A scuffle on the far side had broken out, and was growing larger as more men turned from the staged—and probably fixed—match between the African and the flagging Irishman, and enthusiastically joined in the fight among the spectators.

He had no interest in that. His responsibility had only been to keep an eye on things until Phipps could arrive to arrest his suspects. Sir Thomas Broughton, senior partner of Stowe and Broughton Bank, had grown alarmed by some forged stock certificates presented at his bank, which had been signed by two clerks, brothers Albert and Henry Blackwood. But they couldn’t have engineered the entire scheme, and Sir Thomas was anxious to catch the primary thief before the bank suffered a catastrophic loss. He had turned to John Stafford, chief clerk of the Bow Street Magistrates Court and spymaster for the Home Office, and Stafford had set Brandon to watching the Blackwoods.

Watching was Brandon's specialty. Patiently and silently, he had followed the brothers to every pub, cockfighting pit, and street fair in London, trying to discover their conspirator. After several weeks of dogged monitoring, he had an answer: Simon Pearce, partner in the same bank.

This, he knew, would cause a furor. Pearce’s father was a Rear Admiral of the White, politically well connected. Pearce himself was ambitious, gregarious, charming—and a rabid gambler. Accusing him of embezzlement would require delicacy.

Or perhaps. . . not.

Despite Stafford’s pontificating about justice and the law, Brandon had seen too much while working for him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Admiral Pearce put his oar in, paid off Broughton, and only the Blackwood brothers would see the inside of Newgate while Simon Pearce quietly resigned his position. And all Brandon’s careful watching and sleuthing would have gained was a prison sentence for two idiot clerks.

The roar of the crowd grew louder, punctuated by cracks of a whip as the fight organizers tried to keep order. The African was being assaulted from outside the ring as well as from within, as the Irishman's supporters realized how close their bets were to being lost. Phipps's men were probably taking advantage of the fight to cover their purpose, if they hadn't started the brawl in the first place.