Chapter 5
While he went over security details with his brother-in-law, Severin ‘Cadogan’, the Earl of Kilburn, Argyll surveyed the ordinary scene outside the newly installed pair of Georgian sash windows.
Prior to his role as head security at Forbidden Pleasures, Cadogan had been an assassin within the Home Office. The ruthless gentleman’s work and attention to detail now served Argyll’s pleasure. Had bringing the ruthless guard in as a new partner and owner driven out Latimer? Yes.
Did Argyll have regrets?
Absolutely not.
He regretted nothing. That held true for his recent business decision, as it did for every other aspect of life.
With the current war waging between Forbidden Pleasures, Lucifer’s Lair—operated by the Duke of Craven—the Hell and Sin Club, and The Devil’s Den, Argyll relished the army he’d single-handedly built.
Mac Diggory, former owner of The Devil’s Den and lord of the underworld, had controlled the streets of London for decades—until his death some five or so years ago.
But only the good died young—if at all. Rotters with souls as black as the Diggorys and Argylls of the world couldn’t be vanquished. They lived as the immortal damned.
“Have we had any further sightings?” Argyll asked, scanning the quiet Mayfair streets.
“None.” The six-paneled glass reflected Cadogan seated at the foot of Argyll’s desk, taking notes.
Next to him, taking it all in, sat DuMond, Argyll’s sole friend and loyal partner.
“All the witnesses questioned: the lords and ladies at Forbidden Pleasures at the time of the incident, as well as club patrons and the passersby to the fire. No one saw anything.”
The fire.
That event could have taken down everything Argyll cared about and toiled to build.
The incident being a brick tied to a burning cloth thrown clean through the front windows.
Fortunately, Argyll had received just enough warning from Malric Mauley, a former guard at The Devil’s Den, who’d come to collect a woman new to Argyll’s staff.
That’d allowed Argyll’s staff time to prepare for outside threats.
“No one saw anything?” Argyll loosened his cravat. “Or no one intends to speak about what they saw?”
“I suspect the latter.”
Yes, on account that speaking out against Diggory would see them with a dirk in their backs. When it came to murdering, raping, and kidnapping, Diggory didn’t discriminate between highborn and baseborn.
“There is a rumor circulating,” DuMond said, “that someone has assumed Diggory’s identity to coalesce power.”
Cadogan put an end to that wishful thinking on the world’s part. “Unlikely.”
“I was of the same opinion.” DuMond swirled the contents of his snifter. “Likely Diggory wants the world to believe he’s still dead.”
“That’d make it easier for him.” A cool smile touched Argyll’s lips.
“No doubt Dynevor’s thinking.” What fools Diggory and his spawn took them for.
The Earl of Dynevor, and future marquess, had been abducted as a boy.
Mac Diggory had raised the lad to be his son and head owner of rival gaming hell, The Devil’s Den.
Argyll, DuMond, and Cadogan were gentlemen born, but that was where the difference between them and Diggory started and ended. They dealt in the same manner of debauchery and vice, and they didn’t hesitate to end anyone who stood between them and supremacy over the gaming world.
Argyll redirected his focus from the window and looked at his partners. “I’ve been studying the books—”
“Numbers are up,” DuMond said.
“I’m aware.” Crossing to the same rose-inlaid mahogany sideboard DuMond helped himself to earlier, he contemplated his choices and poured himself a brandy. “Sin brings them in.” The greater the peril, the bigger the crowd. He held the bottle towards Cadogan.
His brother-in-law waved away the offer—as he always did. As he should and would, as long as employed as head of security. The gentleman didn’t allow himself any lapses.
And Argyll wouldn’t tolerate any.
“Diggory and Dynevor lit a fire under our sales.” There was no doubting the two worked in tandem. “Perhaps we should employ such thrills for our clients.” Argyll took a swallow of brandy, welcoming the smoky burn.
He saw the glance his partners exchanged. DuMond’s and Cadogan’s wives were frequent visitors. Particularly now, with Diggory back, and the gentlemen wanting their spouses within reach at all times.
A dark glint shone in Cadogan’s eyes. “If you even think about it—”
“I’ll kill you,” DuMond finished the vow. He’d do it too. As would Cadogan.
The two men had gone and—Argyll repressed a shudder—fallen in love. Poor, pathetic bastards.
Argyll sighed. “Do you truly believe I’d endanger your families?”
The looks they exchanged said they didn’t doubt anything where Argyll was concerned. Smart chaps.
Argyll pressed his spare palm to his chest. “Gentlemen, you wound me.”
“Enough with the Drury Lane performance,” DuMond said.
Cadogan’s dark gaze locked with Argyll’s. “They are your family too,” he said. Closing his notes, he leaned forward in his chair. “Lest you forget, I married your sister, and I’m now watching after your youngest one. For you.”
Argyll finished the rest of his drink. “I know better than to play with fire as a pleasure or pastime. I’m not Dynevor.” Once London’s worst arsonist under Diggory, the young earl’s reputation preceded him.
When their meeting neared its conclusion, DuMond checked his fob. “Are we done here?”
“Am I keeping you from something?” Argyll asked testily.
“My wife.”
How contemptible. This time, he didn’t bother hiding his disdain.
“Just as you’re keeping me from mine,” Cadogan added.
Another gentleman would take umbrage at being reminded Cadogan was eager to get back to his wife’s—and Argyll’s sister’s—bed.
But then real gentlemen wouldn’t have put Raina in close quarters with Cadogan to get them into bed, and into a forced marriage to strengthen his business, as Argyll had.
Speaking of which… “There is another matter I want to discuss.”
All business, Cadogan already snapped his notebook open.
Argyll carried his glass over to the sideboard and refilled his drink. “Miss Daria Kearsley.”
At his partners’ answering silence, he glanced back.
DuMond frowned. “Who?”
“Daria Kearsley.”
“Of the Kearsley family?” His friend sought further clarification.
Impatient, Argyll took a sip. “Yes, the Kearsleys. Is there another Kearsley family?”
“The brother, Viscount St. John, I recall from university. The fellow is a tired bore,” Cadogan said. “His father kicking off young and leaving the fellow to care for a gaggle of sisters would have that effect on any gentleman.”
Argyll grinned. “Not on me.”
“I said any gentleman,” Cadogan drawled.
DuMond laughed.
Argyll stuck his middle fingers up in a V in both men’s direction, pulling a bigger laugh from both of them.
When their amusement settled, Argyll brought them to the matter at hand.
“I want everything there is to know about Miss Daria Kearsley. Her friends. Her siblings. Who she keeps company with. How she takes her tea. And why a man like St. John lets a sister like that out of his sight.”
“Faith has mentioned the lady before.”
Argyll stood up straighter. “Oh?” Given Lady Faith was once an object of Society’s scorn, the lady would notice a kindred soul.
DuMond shrugged. “She mentioned Miss Kearsley went about in widow’s weeds and was mocked cruelly for her attire.”
“I assure you the lady’s peculiarity has more than to do with her garment selection,” he said under his breath.
DuMond angled his ear at Argyll. “What was that?”
Heading off that question, he took a swallow of his drink and returned to his spot overlooking the Mayfair streets. Argyll scoured for a hint of the unordinary. At this early morning hour, the occasional carriage rolled by as ton events emptied for the day.
The guards stationed outside the pillars leading up the drive, and another four strategically placed around the front of Argyll’s townhouse, had the place secured.
That said, there was no greater risk than complacency.
Cadogan spoke from behind him. “I’ll be the one to ask the question. Is there…a specific reason to explain your newfound interest in Miss Kearsley?”
“I’ll be the one to ask it even more clearly,” DuMond drawled. “Has the lady captured the untouchable Duke of Argyll’s affections?”
Argyll burst out laughing.
“…We are meant to wed one another…”
“Me married to her?”
“…I believe you misunderstand. I do not need to have relations with you, Gregory. I need to marry you…”
His amusement redoubled.
The bloody hilarity…
“…There was a witness…A gentleman. Two of them. You are close. And two…nay, three women now… One older. One younger. They are of the same face. And the other, of darker coloring. We were there together.” Her vacant eyes expanded.
“It is your office. So floral. So light. Your sisters were allowed to dec—They are your sisters…But…two fair and one dark…”
Argyll’s amusement died on a frosty chill. “Never,” he whispered.
“It would be helpful to know something about your relationship with the young woman,” Cadogan said, an emotionless fact-finder. “Something to add any relevance to help determine just what it is I’m looking for.”
“…Her family loves her too much to let you marry her, Gregory…”
“…And what of your family…” he drawled.
“I love them too much not to marry you.”
“The lady came seeking marriage,” he shared.
Silence met Argyll’s announcement.
“Interest in being a duchess, perhaps?” Cadogan ventured.
Argyll rolled tense shoulders. “It was not that.”
“How can you be certain?” DuMond asked. “Most women do want to be your duchess.”
“Not her.” This one put herself before him like some sort of sacrificial offering who regretted the idea of a union with him. That part he withheld to keep his friends from a fresh bout of amusement. Grimacing, Argyll tossed back his second brandy.
“Then what?”
“I don’t know, Cadogan,” he said impatiently.
“As master of prying a person’s secrets from them, that is your…
” His gaze caught not on the hired hackney rolling slowly past, but the discreet figure in black.
She moved amongst the dark with an otherworldly grace, like a ghost that naturally found the shadows.
“Argyll?”
“…I saw it, Gregory. All of it…”
He held a palm up and kept his eyes honed as the little specter breached his stone pillars.
Argyll registered his partners sliding into position beside him.
The pair of well-trained guards stationed outside snaked out behind the lady and caught either side of her arms.
The eerie chit angled her head to face her captors and disturbed her cloak, revealing the pale pallor of her complexion.
“Miss Kearsley, I presume?” Cadogan remarked.
The lady in question, trapped between Braxton and Bear, shifted her arms awkwardly.
Whatever she said brought the burly pair’s focus up to where Argyll stood flanked by Cadogan and DuMond.
An expressionless Miss Kearsley lifted her tied hands in greeting.
DuMond whistled. “Perhaps she’s just mad?”
“Yes, I think that’s safe to assume,” Argyll muttered. “But there’s more at play.”
“And what better way to find out than inviting her in,” Cadogan said.
“Exactly.”
Argyll nodded and gave the signal.
Loosening their hold, Braxton and Bear passed the peculiar chit on to the next set of waiting guards.
She gave a nod befitting the duchess she wished to be.
As the lady was escorted forward, Argyll’s butler let both double doors swing wide open in welcome.
Argyll and his men followed her approach.
“Are you going to need a hand with this interview?”
From anyone other than Cadogan, the query would have been delivered in jest. Cadogan’s came as the lethal offer it was. The assassin would perform a ruthless inquiry.
Argyll watched as the lady paused on the threshold. She lifted her creepily empty gaze to meet his own hooded stare.
A wave of some indistinguishable but palpable energy moved in the expanse between them.
“No,” he murmured. “You’re free to enjoy your wives.” He followed Miss Kearsley until she disappeared inside his residence. “I have this interview.” And he couldn’t settle on whether it was sickly eager anticipation or disgust that rose up inside him.