Chapter 7
7
Liam rose early despite his restless night. It had been a week since his encounter with Penny in the library. They had studiously avoided each other, but he couldn’t escape her presence in his dreams. His erotic fantasies woke him in the middle of the night, hard as stone, desperate for the scent of vanilla and cloves, aching for a certain maid to blister him with her sharp tongue. Last night had been the worst so far.
Her Cupid’s bow mouth coasting over his heated skin, setting little fires everywhere she paused to lick, suck, bite. Her husky screams filling his room like the most exquisite symphony as he feasted on her body. Her strong fingers, so efficient and bold, gripping his aching length and stroking until his voice joined hers. The blaze of their passion reaching an inferno as sweat-slicked skin melded together in one pulsing quest for coalescence.
He splashed himself with cold water from the bowl on his dressing table, using the soft cloth and cake of soap to perform his morning ablutions, sternly demanding his cockstand to dissipate as he pulled his thoughts away from impossible dreams and tried to focus on his task for the day.
Meeting with the baron’s son, Charles Barrington. Reynard’s old chum from Eton.
Liam had been studying the letters Charles wrote to Reynard. It would seem they found camaraderie in their shared fate as second sons. Both strove for the wealth and power inherited by their older brothers and cruelly denied to them. The Devil’s Sons offered them a chance to claim the riches their fathers had refused to split between their heirs and spares.
All they needed to do was sell their souls and procure “product” for transfer to Europe. It also seemed they had an informant in Scotland Yard. Liam desperately wanted to uncover this man’s identity. While most names were coded and information was kept vague, there was enough evidence to make life incredibly uncomfortable for Charles should his father be made aware of his dealings.
Rumblings in the beau monde hinted at an already strained relationship between the baron and his second son. If he were to become privy to these letters and Charles’ involvement with the Devil’s Sons, Liam was certain Charles would be taking a one-way passage to the Americas.
He had sent an invitation to Charles several days ago requesting an early-morning meeting, hinting at the damning information Reynard had left behind. Charles’ quick reply left little doubt as to his motivation to keep his dealings with the Devil’s Sons hidden. But even with his bollocks in a vice, Charles’ arrogance was evident in his demand for a later time and change of venue to Whites. Liam refused. They would meet at the uncivil hour of eight in the morning at The King’s Cup. A grubby coffee house in Clerkenwell Green just off St James’ Walk catering to the working crowd. The time and location would ensure no members of the beau monde joined them. Liam expressed the value of such privacy when he sent his reply to Charles, refusing a change in time or location.
Charles had bragged in his letters to Reynard of late nights in some of London’s wildest gambling dens. Indeed, based on the one-sided conversation, it would seem Charles and Reynard competed most viciously over their ability to drink more gin, bed more women, and win more bets than the other. It was unlikely Charles’ activities had changed after Reynard’s death. The young lord was sure to still be a bit fishy around the gills from his late night, which was Liam’s real reason for insisting on such an early-morning meeting. Intimidating a man who was suffering a sore head from cheap gin and lack of sleep was an ungentlemanly tactic, but Liam wasn’t above fighting dirty.
Calling for his valet, Liam submitted to being shaved, combed, and dressed in bark-coloured breeches, a crisp shirt, bronze waistcoat, and forest-green coat.
He chose his brougham for the morning drive and strode out of the house, exhaling a relieved sigh at avoiding Miss Smith. He couldn’t possibly resist her tempting presence so swiftly on the heels of his fiery fantasies from the night before.
Distance. Distraction. Coffee.
As he settled against the velvet squabs of his compact carriage, the very woman plaguing his imagination passed by on the pavement. What the bloody hell was Miss Smith doing on the pathway so early in the morning?
Shouldn’t she be polishing silver? Lighting fires? Kissing me senseless?
Liam tugged on his suddenly tight breeches. Her shabby coat and beaten-up straw hat were hardly adequate for the chill spring weather, especially as the sky threatened to storm later.
She needs a new coat. Would her hazel eyes look greener if she were draped in deep emerald wool? Would her skin turn translucent against decadent crimson?
Liam bit his cheek and focused on the sharp pain. The last thing he needed was distraction from the task at hand. He should be thinking about all the ways to threaten a snivelling, snotty, squirming baron’s son. Not imagining how various hues of wool would look against Miss Smith’s cream-and-cinnamon skin. Or even better, how that skin would grow pink as he unwrapped her from that wool and used his own body to keep the chill away.
Not helpful!
Liam resisted the urge to lean out and tell his driver to follow Miss Smith. It was none of his concern where she went. Likely, it was her monthly day off. The poor woman could do what she wanted with her precious day free from responsibility.
Free from the inappropriate advances of her lusty employer.
But not unwanted advances. And that was the problem. Miss Smith wanted him as much as he wanted her. Even in the brief encounters they’d had since the fateful meeting in his library, attraction crackled between them as unpredictable and dangerous as a lightning storm. But he had neither time nor reason to follow her. Even if every fibre of his being screamed he do just that.
Instead, he leaned against the padded cushions and tried to replace his lust with the satisfaction of completing the initial part of his four-step plan. With any luck, the second step of securing an invitation into the Devil’s Sons would be accomplished by the time he finished his first mug of coffee. Convincing Charles to agree to the third step, ensuring his leader’s attendance at Liam’s masque ball and getting the man to speak with him, might be more challenging, but Liam was certain he could achieve his goal. Leaving only the fourth and most important step. Destroying the Devil’s Sons. That should be the one thing claiming his attention. Not the substandard quality of his maid’s coat and the subsequent risk she faced of catching a chill.
The brougham bumped over rough cobblestones and rutted roads as they left Belgrave Square heading east past St James’ Park. His driver manoeuvred through narrow streets blocked by large carts full of barrels carrying anything from ale to wheat to fish. Omnibuses drawn by six horses and hauling as many as fifteen or twenty middle-class men – crammed together on wooden benches – to their jobs as clerks and bookkeepers trundled by, uncaring of who they displaced on the road as they rushed to keep on schedule. The street vendors were setting up stalls, calling out greetings, yelling at urchin children willing to risk a boxed ear for a stolen apple or wedge of cheese. London in all its glory was waking up and readying itself for another busy day.
The brougham pulled in next to a sagging building on the corner of St James’ Walk and Aylesbury Street. The soot-stained bricks were chipped in places, but the sign displaying The King’s Cup in bold, black script was freshly painted. Large windows looked onto the street and showed tables inside the establishment, crowded together and already full of men enjoying a cup of coffee and spirited conversation before they went to work.
Liam entered and immediately found Charles at a corner table. The man’s head was in his hands and, by the state of his clothes, Liam would guess he hadn’t yet returned home from his revelries the night before. His jacket was wrinkled, his shirt stained, and a woman’s rouge was smudged on Charles’ neck.
‘Good lord. You look like shit.’ No point in false manners when they had dark business to discuss. Liam scraped back a chair and sat down. Flagging one of the serving boys, he ordered two cups of coffee.
Charles’ bloodshot eyes blinked in quick succession as he lifted his head and glared at Liam. ‘Your brother always said what a cruel bastard you could be. He was right.’ Scruff covered the man’s chin, the same shade of dirty dishwater brown as his thinning hair. It almost hid Charles’ weak jawline and an open sore on his mouth. The man should be more worried about his addictions than the letters in Liam’s pocket. Charles was not healthy. It was highly likely his lifestyle would kill him before his father could send him away.
Liam had no room for mercy in his heart. Not when dealing with someone willing to profit on the lives of innocent girls. Charles deserved whatever horrific end the fates decreed. ‘He was right. I am cruel. And I won’t hesitate to destroy you if I don’t get what I want.’
A young lad in breeches too short and a shirt too big paused by their table, distributing two mugs of steaming black liquid before rushing off to take another order.
Charles straightened. His hand shook as he gripped the mug. He sipped, no doubt burning his already wounded lip on the hot coffee. ‘Bugger!’
‘I have the letters you wrote to my brother.’ Liam pulled the package out, making sure to keep it from Charles’ grasp. The seal was clear as grey morning light filtered through the window. ‘If these found their way to your father…’ Liam shook his head and tsked, the threat clear.
‘What do you want? Obviously not money as you are flush, and I’ve seen better days. Something your brother knew all too well himself.’
‘I’m not here to discuss Reynard.’ The rush of rage surprised Liam. He was used to anger, but not when it originated from the memory of his brother. Still, something about this pompous wreck of an arse speaking so intimately about his brother highlighted how little Liam really knew Reynard. ‘Keep his name from your lips if you wish to leave this table with your nose unbroken.’
Penny’s words from a week ago echoed through his mind. Was he mourning the loss of who his brother could have been? The comradery they could have shared?
Would Reynard’s life have been different if I’d tried harder? Took more of an interest? Forced him to step away from his addictions?
But Liam knew it was a fool’s quest. Reynard was as stubborn and determined as Liam himself. He could no more force the man to follow his commands than he could change the tides or pull the sun from the sky.
Charles’ brown eyes widened. ‘Jesus, Renquist. I didn’t think you’d care. You two were never exactly close.’
‘Thinking isn’t a strength of yours, Charles. And I grow weary of this exchange. I want membership to the Devil’s Sons. And I want a meeting with the leader. In return, I will destroy these letters.’
Charles leaned back in his chair. His bleary eyes flicked from the packet of letters to Liam’s hard expression. ‘I can put forward your request for membership. But as to meeting with one of the leaders, that is beyond my scope.’ Charles took another sip of coffee, being careful to blow on the surface first. He winced as the liquid hit his lips, his tongue darting out to test the sore.
One of the leaders. There is more than one leader?
He couldn’t very well ask Charles who the leaders were and admit his ignorance. He needed the idiot to believe Liam already knew this information. In his experience, silence could be as sharp and skilled as a dagger at carving out answers. He tapped the packet of letters rhythmically on the table and waited.
A few tense seconds later, Charles exhaled, his chest deflating like a wine bladder. ‘Look, I don’t even know who the Crow is.’
You don’t know who the Crow is… but you know who the other leaders are, don’t you?
‘How can you possibly convince me to destroy these letters when you have nothing to bargain with, Charles?’ Liam lifted a brow and shook his head. He had no intention of destroying the letters. But false hope was a powerful thing, especially when one crushed it.
Charles ran a shaky hand through his oily hair. ‘I have no connection with the Wolf. But the Snake might agree to a meeting. Not in public and not unless he thinks you’re worth the risk, but maybe I can convince him. If you give me a reason why the meeting would benefit the Devil’s Sons.’
Fuck. Of course. The head of a crow, the body of a wolf, the tail of a snake. Three leaders.
Leaning into his bluff, Liam tucked the letters back into his pocket. ‘There you go thinking again. Dangerous pastime for someone with such limited skills, Charles.’
Fear leaked into Charles’ voice, lifting the pitch to a plaintive whine. ‘You can’t give those to my father. He won’t just banish me. He’ll kill me. Reynard told me about your father. You must under?—’
‘If your father’s cruelty is even an echo of mine’s, I imagine you will be very motivated to meet my demands.’ Liam kept his voice quiet, calm, and deadly cold though his blood boiled. Knowing his brother shared such embarrassing details about their childhood, that Charles knew the kind of cruelty Liam and Reynard endured, created a vulnerability in Liam he could not tolerate. Pushing the weakness into his depths, he leaned forward. ‘I’m hosting a masque. The Snake will meet me there to hear my business proposal. One which will be incredibly beneficial to the Devil’s Sons. And you will ensure this happens, or your father will find out just how worthless a second son is to his legacy.’
Charles’ already pale face whitened further. ‘I want to help you. Trust me, I do. But that’s not enough to take to the Snake.’
Liam pushed back his chair, readying to stand. ‘Then I suppose our meeting is at an end. I wonder if your father will be at White’s later. I’m sure I can find an excuse to bump into him.’
Charles almost knocked his mug of steaming coffee onto his lap as he reached out and grabbed Liam’s wrist. Liam froze, staring at Charles’ hand as if it were diseased.
It likely is diseased. Cupid’s disease, most certainly.
Charles removed his shaking fingers and flattened his hands on the scarred table. ‘I’m not saying I can’t do it. I just need more information. What kind of business proposal are you intending?’
Liam straightened his jacket before reclaiming his seat. ‘I’m hardly prepared to share the details with you. But it’s public knowledge I recently acquired Clark and Simpson Shipping.’
‘Rather gauche of you to lower yourself to the level of trade, don’t you think, Renquist?’
The idea that Charles found anything Liam did vulgar was laughable.
‘Hardly. Times are changing, Charles. Members of the peerage won’t long be able to depend on the rent of tenant farmers when so many are moving into the cities and finding jobs in industry. But I digress. I now have in my possession a number of ships. Use your limited brain capacity to imagine how that might benefit your brotherhood.’
Charles leaned back in his seat, frowning until comprehension dawned. He nodded his head, slowly at first, then with more enthusiasm, and smiled wide until the sore broke open and began to bleed. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, pressing the palm of his hand against his mouth.
Liam raised a brow at him, not trying to hide his disgust. ‘You should take care of that.’
‘Yes.’ Charles got to his feet and swayed a moment before regaining his balance. ‘I’ll extend your invitation to the brotherhood. I’m sure the Snake will want to discuss your proposal.’ He pulled his hand away and frowned at the blood before quickly reapplying the pressure to his mouth. ‘Those letters…’ He looked beseechingly at Liam’s pocket.
‘Ah yes. I’ll keep these safe until my meeting with the Snake.’
The spark of light in Charles’ eyes dimmed. ‘Yes, well. Just be sure to keep your promise, Renquist. You aren’t the only one with evidence that could cause embarrassment. Even if your brother is dead, his reputation can still be tarnished.’
Liam stood. He towered over Charles. ‘Threaten me again and you’ll quickly learn you need not live in fear of your father’s retribution. Not when you have instigated mine. I am quite adept at eliminating obstacles, Charles. I’m sure I have a captain or two happy enough to offload cargo in the middle of the soak. Food for the sharks. No one will ever find your body. You’ll just be one more feckless young man who disappears.’
Charles took an unsteady step backward into the large back of a man built for brawling. The man turned slowly, his light hair shorn close to his head and glinting nearly silver in the light. A ghastly scar cut down his face from his left temple to his right jaw. Glacial eyes pinned Charles before looking beyond the quaking fool to Liam. Recognition sparked.
‘Liam. I did not expect to see you here, especially not in such low company.’ His icy stare returned to Charles.
Another man stepped from the shadow cast by the blond giant. His black hair and green gaze were as familiar to Liam as his own reflection in the mirror.
Liam groaned. He had purposefully avoided reaching out to his oldest friends, Major General Beaufort Drake and Lieutenant General Robert Killian, because of their close ties to the prime minister. Once joined in every venture, he now found himself at odds with Killian and Drake. They stood on opposite sides of a clear line drawn by their monarch and the head of England’s government. But the fates had chosen this moment to intervene.
I fucking hate the fates.
Penny received one day off a month. It was a precious time where she alone controlled her activities. Today, she was determined to see her mother. She had been saving her wages to afford the sixpence passage on an omnibus from the corner of Hyde’s Park and Piccadilly East to the Fleet Street line before shifting north to the Islington line and getting off at Cold Bath Springs. With all the traffic and stops, it took close to an hour, but then she only had a five-minute walk from there to get to Coldbath Fields Prison.
After paying off the gaoler, a guard escorted her through the narrow, damp passageways reeking of human excrement, mould, and stagnant water to her mother’s cell.
‘You’ve an hour before I come back to get ye. Mind yerself, lassie.’ He spat, then scratched at a sore on his arm before lumbering away.
Penny did her best not to react to the drastic changes in her mother. Harriet’s hair was all grey now, her frame thin, and her skin pallid. When she reached out to clasp Penny in a ragged hug, Penny feared she might break her poor mother. The woman’s hands were chapped and cracking, her face lined like a roadmap of sorrow, but her eyes still sparkled with mischief, her once full lips turning up in a smile.
‘My girl! You shouldn’t have come. Waste of your wages travelling such a way to see me. Nothing changes here, love.’
‘Of course I came. And don’t worry about the cost. Things are looking up for me. I have a good job with a kind lord.’ Not exactly true, but there was no harm in spinning a pretty tale to ease her mother’s worries. ‘Look, I brought you a new coat.’ New to her mother, at least. When Penny’s roommate determined she needed a ready-made coat of soft grey felt, Penny took the girl’s cast-off cloak and patched it. The wool was a bit threadbare in places, but it would keep her mother warm in the impenetrable cold, dark cell.
Harriet had developed a worrisome, hacking cough. When Penny asked after her health, Harriet waved a frail hand. ‘I’m right as rain, m’dear. We Smith women are made of sturdy stuff. One of the guards sneaks me this and that when he can, so I makes my potions. Don’t you worry about your dear old mother. I can keep myself strong and ready for the day I get out of this hole. No reason to waste our time talking about me. How are you, my beautiful girl?’
They spent most of their hour together talking about Penny’s new job, her hopes for coming into enough coin to get her mother out of Coldbath Fields for good, and what they would do together when fortune finally shone down on the Smith women.
The guard seemed to come far too soon to usher Penny away. The women clung to each other, Penny pressing a kiss against her mother’s papery-thin skin.
‘I’ll be back soon. I promise.’
Harriet’s smile almost tore the heart from Penny’s chest. Pride glistened in her mother’s eyes, and a few tears, but Penny didn’t deserve any of it. ‘I know you will, darling. I’ll be thinking of you till the next time.’
As the guard raised his lantern to light the narrow path, he huffed out a breath. ‘You’re wasting your blunt coming ’ere to see ’er. Ain’t no way a girl like you’ll ever afford to get ’er out. Not unless you’re willing to give up more than the pittance you make polishing some toff’s wood.’ He leered at Penny, leaning close enough for her to smell the rot from his broken teeth. ‘I got a nob you can polish, luv.’
Penny reached into the pocket of her cloak, her fingers sliding into the brass knuckles – a gift from Constable Sweet and something she was never without on the streets of London. She clenched her fist, taking comfort in the bite of metal against her fingers. ‘No, thank you.’
‘You fink you’re too good for the likes of me? Maybe I should take meself to yer mother. She won’t turn me down. No one listens to the screams of prisoners in ’ere anyways. You might wanna fink about that.’
Bile rose up Penny’s throat as a cold rage washed through her.
How dare this filthy brute threaten my mother?
She pulled her hand free of her pocket, the brass feeling warm and powerful against her knuckles.
‘You’ve got the stink of this place on you, but don’t worry. I’ll get it off.’ He reached out to grope her breast, but before he could make contact, Penny struck hard and fast, her fist slamming into the guard’s throat.
He snatched back his hand, grasping his fat neck as he gasped for air. Before he could recover, she held both his shoulders and slammed her knee between his legs.
‘Ooooffff.’ He almost pinned her to the wall with his girth as he fell forward, but Penny was ready. She sidestepped him and let his heavy body splat onto the filthy stone floor. In a fluid movement, she kicked his face, his nose exploding in a spray of red.
Thank goodness my skirt is black. The blood spatter won’t show.
How quickly she reverted to the wild animal of her youth. She bent forward and grabbed the discarded lantern before crouching next to the writhing guard. Tucking the brass knuckles back in her pocket, Penny reached up and pulled out the hat pin holding her battered straw bonnet in place. Gripping the man’s greasy hair in her fist, she pressed the sharp end of the pin just under his eye. ‘Stay away from my mother or next time I visit, I’ll take out your eyes before you feel the edge of my blade slicing your throat, understand?’ She didn’t have a blade, but he didn’t need to know that.
The guard whimpered. She slammed his head against the ground.
‘Understand?’ Her voice was calm. Controlled. Completely contrasting the riot of fear, anger, and disgust filling her chest. At the guard. At herself. At the system making all of this necessary.
A high-pitched, pathetic squeak caused blood bubbles to froth from his shattered nose.
‘Good.’ Penny dropped his head, replaced the pin in her bonnet, and wiped her hands on her coat. She pushed the revulsion down deep.
I accuse Liam of being a monster, but what about me?
The darkness lurking inside her, ready to claw and bite and thrash its way to the surface would be a fitting mate for Lord Renquist’s beast, a creature of sins and shadows. But even in this, they were fated enemies. The wild vengeance haunting her bones was created because of Liam and men like him. Lofty, powerful members of the peerage writing laws to control those deemed lesser.
It didn’t matter how his gaze lit her skin on fire. How his lips brushed against her, petal-soft and wickedly sweet. How his regard made her feel seen. Special. Precious.
It was all a lie. He was a liar. And she would force his confession. Sell his black truth for the price of her mother’s freedom. No matter how the man’s actions contradicted the evidence she found.
I will do what I must to save the ones I love.
Penny knew what to do. She would continue searching for the bloody seal. That and the letters would be enough. It had to be enough to condemn the Marquess of Stoneway. His smouldering stare, sinful lips, and searing touch meant nothing to her. He must mean nothing to her.
‘I’ve bigger bastards to battle than you.’ Penny stepped over the fallen guard. Without glancing back, she quickly retraced her path through the maze of hallways until she reached the exit gate.
‘One of your guards fell ill while leading me out. I would check on him.’ Penny informed the gatekeeper as she walked through the stone portico leading her onto Baynes Row. She glanced up at a sky darkening with clouds as the iron gate screeched closed behind her. The streets would be a muddy mess when the rain came, but Penny welcomed the cold drops that would soon fall on her upturned face, cleansing her. She took a deep breath of the fresh air and wished her mother was beside her.
‘Soon, Mother. I’ll get you out soon. I promise.’