Chapter 7
Finn O’Leary wound his way through the narrow alleys that led to the house he owned on the corner of Great St. Andrew Street and Queen Street. He’d offered the owners more than the run-down place was worth with the stipulation they pack up and leave within the hour.
His reason behind the purchase was purely strategic. After carefully scouting the various parts of London, he’d chosen the heart of Seven Dials for his base. Surrounded by criminals, the location provided him a high level of security — a barrier few would dare cross to seek him out.
An icy gust of wind swept past him, bringing the putrid stench of refuse with it.
He scrunched his nose and dipped his chin, hunching his back as he picked up his pace.
The rain that had started an hour before had since turned the packed dirt to mud and left his shoes filthy.
Droplets fell from the brim of his cap and sank their icy teeth into his nose and cheeks.
He brushed them away with the back of one hand and with the other, tightened his grip on the bag he carried.
Food he’d purchased for himself and his men at a bakery several streets over.
It had been fresh and hot when he’d bought it.
He prayed it wouldn’t be chilled and soggy by the time he reached his destination.
The homeless huddled in corners and doorways, seeking whatever shelter they could find beneath various overhangs, earned a glare if he even bothered to glance their way.
As far as he was concerned they could all rot.
Work could be found if one was willing and able.
Poorhouses were an option for those who weren’t.
He saw no reason to throw away good coin or sympathy on those who refused to make an effort to get off the street.
With his meticulous plan for revenge already in motion, he had no mind for charity. To be honest, he was slightly surprised by how easy it had been for him to lure Croft back to Town. And now his wife was here too. A boon that allowed him to move things along more swiftly than he’d expected.
He turned a corner and crossed the street to avoid a cart blocking his path.
If he’d had a choice he’d have stayed in Dublin, but duty had long since forced him to set his sights on London and the vengeance that awaited him here.
Nearly two decades. That was how long he’d waited for this moment.
For the right time to arrive, when he’d be old enough, strong enough, and experienced enough to take on the Crofts.
Only brash fools run head-first into a fight. Wise men stop to consider their options.
Papa’s words echoed at the core of his being. None had been cleverer than he, none more ruthless. He’d taught Finn the advantage of being patient, of gathering information, and using it to his advantage. To weaken his opponents’ defenses before choosing to strike.
With Croft’s import business under attack, he’d be forced to cover the cost of the stolen goods or risk losing the trust his clients placed in him. Either way, he’d be too busy fixing the problem to notice the next attack before it was too late.
Water splashed as Finn strode through one of the deeper puddles. The grey building up ahead invited him closer despite the peeling paint and tarnished windows. A fire would be burning inside. Finn had made sure of it.
He reached the partially rotted front door and banged on it with his fist while pressing up close to the wall in an effort to shield himself from the quickening downpour.
A brief wait and he heard the bolt slide back. He was already pushing his way inside before Brian Kelly was able to pull the door wide. A full head taller than Finn, his brawny lieutenant stood at nearly seven feet and was forced to duck when moving between the rooms in the house.
“Sustenance,” Finn declared, showing off the bag he’d brought while wiping his feet on a rag laid out on the floor.
Brian took the bag so Finn could peel off his jacket. “I should ’uv gone instead of yourself.”
“I was needing the walk.” Finn hung his jacket on a hook and pulled off his sodden cap. “Give me a minute to dry off and I’ll meet you in the parlor.”
Leaving Brian to manage the food, Finn plodded up the sagging stairs to the room he’d taken for himself.
Small and sparsely furnished, it was made more dismal by the dim light seeping in from the grey outdoors.
A metal frame bed took up most of the space along with the dresser that stood by the door.
On top sat an ashtray, some samples of various tobacco, and a near-empty glass of gin.
He grabbed the glass and downed the last of its contents, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started undressing.
The clothes ended up in a heap on the floor since they’d have to be laundered anyway.
From the dresser he removed a clean shirt and a pair of trousers along with a fresh cravat.
After pulling on the waistcoat that hung from a peg on the back of the door, he stepped before an oval mirror and combed back his hair until he was satisfied with his appearance.
Despite his shabby surroundings, he prided himself on looking his best without drawing attention — to not stand out as someone with money although he had plenty of it.
Better to keep to the shadows when hunting prey and preserve the element of surprise.
The edge of his mouth lifted into a partial smirk.
While Croft had known Finn’s father, he’d never crossed paths with Finn and would have no idea of what to expect.
Where Michael O’Leary had been both calculating and ruthless, he’d not been fueled by the loathing that ran through Finn’s veins.
Careful to lock his bedchamber door as he left, Finn returned downstairs and entered the parlor where the warmth from a crackling fire awaited. The three men Finn had brought with him from Ireland turned their gazes toward him.
“Some tea?” Brian asked, gesturing toward a pot that sat on the table. He’d brought plates which contained the pies Finn had purchased. One for each man.
Finn nodded and accepted the cup Brian gave him before directing his attention to Sean Gallager and Patrick Sullivan.
Sean, one of the many illegitimate children Finn’s father had sired, shared the same dark blond hair and a similar build. His features were softer, however, with a less defined jaw-line and narrower mouth with fuller lips.
By contrast, Patrick had a weathered face and a stocky body built for fighting. Two decades older than the rest of the group, he’d worked for Finn’s father, and had come to Finn directly with a request to help him take down Croft.
“Let’s have your reports,” Finn said before sipping his tea.
“Bow Street seized the stolen crates,” Sean said. “Croft never made an appearance.”
“Didn’t expect him to,” Finn said. “All that matters is that the theft put him on alert and brought him back to London. Makes it easier for us to toy with him.”
“The loss is important too,” Patrick said. “Ruins his credibility.”
Patrick wasn’t wrong, but the game had since changed and Finn intended to take advantage. Before addressing that, however, he said, “Did you also stop by the brothel?”
Finn had set up the business in a townhouse he’d rented near Covent Garden.
A fancier spot than where he chose to live, it allowed him the means by which to add to his war chest. Especially since it also provided customers with a quiet spot in which to enjoy the opium sought by so many.
Finn offered them a catalogue of hard-to-come-by goods that he and his men could provide. At the right price.
The place was run by two tough women. Sean and Patrick’s wives.
“The profits are more than enough to cover the rent and set aside savings,” Patrick said. “I brought twenty pounds back with me and put them in the lockbox.”
Finn nodded his thanks and invited the men to start eating. None of them uttered another word until they were done. Only then did Sean ask, “Have you decided on the next course of action?”
Finn stood and went to collect a glass from the cabinet that sat in one corner. He retrieved a bottle as well and proceeded to pour himself a measure of whiskey.
“Will we be leading Bow Street to the gaming hells and brothels under Croft’s protection?” Patrick asked after sharing a look with Sean and Brian.
That had been the next part of the plan in their effort to cut off Croft’s sources of income. To cripple him financially before going in for the kill.
Finn knocked back his drink and hissed in response to the sharp burn it produced in his throat, then gave his attention to his colleagues.
“With Mrs. Croft back in Town, I think we can do much better than that,” Finn murmured. “Especially now that we know she’s expecting.”
“Nothing will make a man tremble with fear quite as much as threatening his family,” Brian said, a sly smile curling his lips.
“Mother and child,” Patrick murmured, his expression turning thoughtful. “Handled correctly, they could be a shortcut to Croft’s destruction.”
“Right you are,” Finn said. “They’re the strings we’ll use to make Croft dance to our tune.”
* * *
Dressed in a black wool coat and his favorite beaver hat, the gentleman crossed the street and entered Hyde Park.
The rain from earlier in the day had finally ceased, leaving the air crisp and devoid of the putrid smells that usually permeated it.
Ordinarily, he would have remained at his country estate until Parliament was in session, but a private matter had brought him back to Town sooner than he’d expected.
Lengthening his stride as he started along Rotten Row, he hunched his shoulders against an oncoming gust of wind and held onto his hat.
He wasn’t the only person who’d chosen to get some fresh afternoon air.
There were others about though not many, for which he was grateful.
He much preferred a peaceful walk without the need for stopping to greet those he knew, most of whom had yet to return to Town.
Until then, he’d savor the quiet.
Another gust of wind had the naked trees waving their spindly branches at him. Truth was, it was bloody cold, especially at night so chances were the ground would be covered in spots of ice later after the rain. A blessing that he would return to a comfortable well-heated home later.
Someone on an adjacent path to his right called out a greeting, prompting him to respond with a wave that allowed him to keep on moving.
There were matters for him to consider, which was part of the reason he’d come here.
He often found that exercise helped put his thoughts in order.
At least it was better than sitting at home in his parlor or heading to his club, neither of which provided the clarity he was after.
It certainly didn’t ease his concerns. And he was concerned by the fact that Croft had spent the entire winter away from London. Had he been here, there was a chance the most recent murder wouldn’t have happened. That the killer wouldn’t have dared risk his wrath.
Supposition of course, given the nature of the crime.
According to the details his Bow Street informant had described, the murder was either carried out by a madwoman, or by someone with a very personal score to settle.
Either way, it was unlikely anything could have dissuaded them from their path. Not even Croft.
At least he was here now and would hopefully help that fool, Kendrick, catch the guilty party and make them pay.
Aside from this incident, the gentleman sensed a shift in the City’s criminal climate.
The thefts seemed fewer and there was an overall feeling of being able to roam the streets without any threat.
It was almost as though everyone had breathed a collective sigh of relief, and he had no doubt it was thanks to the keen awareness that Croft had become the protector of those who couldn’t protect themselves — that he would destroy those who threatened innocent lives.
Word had swiftly spread through every parlor and drawing room, down to the servants in the kitchen, and out into the streets beyond, faster than a raging fire.
The rumors that swirled were many and it was now believed that Croft had killed Clive Newton and hung him from St. Bartholomew’s church tower, that he had deliberately murdered Benjamin Lawrence, and that he was also responsible for Mrs. Hillford’s disappearance.
The fact that he’d done all of this without anyone having concrete proof was worthy of admiration. Most importantly, it proved how powerful and dangerous he truly was, which in turn helped keep the rest of the scoundrels milling about in check.
It was what the gentleman had hoped to provide the City – the reason he’d had Croft’s sister killed. So Croft would fill the gap his father had left and thus retain the balance that was required, instead of relocating to the country.
As it turned out, the situation the gentleman had created had made Croft more capable in that regard than his father had ever been. Where his sire had once struck fear in the hearts of aristocrats who misbehaved, the new King of Portman Square sent vermin scurrying at the mention of his name.
One indestructible crime lord to hold the rest to account.