Chapter 8
August 9th, 1881Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York
The day Henry had been personally invited into Angelo’s house, the early-morning sun remained hidden behind low-hanging clouds, casting a dreary greyness across the city. Another grey day. Another week spent dragging himself through the flames of his personal hell.
As he walked the carpeted corridor of Angelo’s grand, opulent brownstone in Manhattan, Henry burned with shame and impatience. He was on the precipice of a major discovery, one that could provide him with the chance of gathering criminal evidence against his father, and although the opportunity had been hinted at, it had yet to come to fruition. He could only pray to God that this meeting with Angelo would finally bring him good fortune.
The butler he was following stopped before a grand set of gold-encrusted doors. After a quick rap at the door, Angelo’s commanding voice was heard on the other side. The butler promptly opened the door to reveal Angelo sitting in a large leather-bound chair with his shined shoes upon his desk and a thick cigar between his fingers. At the sight of Henry, he waved off his butler with a hand that glittered in gold. He hurried out and shut the door.
“Asheford,” Angelo said, his voice sultry and smooth.
“Angelo,” Henry said. “You have called upon me for a business matter?”
“I have called upon you to give you good news.”
“I see.”
Angelo brought his cigar to his lips. The way he sucked on the tip made Henry uncomfortable. Why must the man always try to seduce?
“You are not an easy one to please,” Angelo said.
The statement caught Henry off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I tell you there is good news, and you stare at me as if I have five heads. Tell me what pleases you?”
Home. True love. Freedom. “A fine whisky,” Henry said.
Angelo kicked his feet off the table. “I’m not talking about material things. Tell me what makes your heart beat faster and your cock hard.”
Henry forced his teeth together. The question was vulgar, designed to pry into his psyche and extract a certain kind of information for the man to play with, manipulate and weaponize. Henry would not give in that easily. He walked to the chair across the desk from Angelo, sat down and peered into Angelo’s curious black eyes.
“I did not take you for a man interested in psychology,” he said.
“I am a man of many interests.”
Pleased by Angelo’s impossible need to speak about himself, the corners of Henry’s mouth lifted. It was easy to steer the conversation.
“Are you?” Henry raised his brow. “It would seem what I know barely touches the surface of who Angelo Davenport really is.”
“That is true. We have not known one another for long, have we?” Angelo said, taking a pause to inhale a mouthful of smoke from his cigar.
He exhaled in Henry’s direction.
Henry’s fingertips dug into the leather armrests. Angelo behaved as rudely as Fanny. It was an annoying family trait.
“Do you want to know what makes my cock hard, apart from the obvious answer of more cocks?” Angelo said.
Probably power.
“Domination,” Angelo said.
“A much-needed characteristic for a crime lord of your stature,” Henry said with a tight-lipped smile. Always with the bloody domination.
“One cannot rise to the top without it,” Angelo said.
“Certainly not.”
Angelo rose to his feet and stepped around his imposing desk. He stood at the window and looked out at the growing city of New York.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you and I are the same,” Angelo said. “I’ve been watching you for a while.”
“Have you?”
Angelo turned to face him. “Yes. For one, you drag my sister around in a game of power. She is too forceful, too demanding in her needs, and it puts you off, does it not? So, you punish her with cruel silence and a lack of intimacy until she breaks beneath your hard, stubborn will. That, Asheford, is the darkness within you. You wish to have the power, you wish to dominate, and that is something I can certainly work with.”
Henry nearly snorted. Dear God, was that what the man saw? His hatred for Fanny was not power play. He simply had no desire to fake love with a woman he despised.
“You father has proven quite miserable to work with. His demands are too high, and he does not bend to my needs or Tsing’s,” Angelo declared with chaotic energy. “A week ago, you told me Edwin Asheford was stuck in his ways, and I believe you’re right. In this modern world, he does not understand how business works, how fast things can change, how easy it is to lose it all in the blink of an eye. I think Asheford Sons would benefit from fresh young blood, and you are the heir.”
Of all the things he expected Angelo to say, this was not it. Slowly, the magnitude of what Angelo was proposing dawned on him. He would be a fool not to explore the possibility.
“Do you speak of dethroning my father?” Henry said, narrowing his eyes.
“It can be arranged.”
A small, tense pause ensued.
“Before you reject the offer, consider this,” Angelo said. “I know how it is to live in the shadow of the weak. It was the same with my father. He was a weak man who dared not go the extra mile. Why wait for greatness when you can harness it yourself? Look at me. I have taken over the city and will soon expand the territory with your family’s stock of opium. Money is pouring in by the thousands. The people are bending to my will. The police are—” he paused and cleared his throat. “Together, you and I can do great things.”
Henry’s tongue grazed the ridges of his bottom teeth. It was an idea he had never considered. To remove his father by force and take over the company was the definition of irony. His father always wanted him to join his side as the heir. There was something seductively attractive in the concept of his father’s demise being a direct consequence of the monster he had worked so hard to create.
Henry tapped the armrest. He was simultaneously agitated and enlightened by the turn of events. This proposal had carved a new path into uncharted territory, but it was an idea that would take more effort, more time, and carried infinitely more risks. He had to think it through carefully.
“I can see the gears turning in that handsome head of yours. Consider the matter. The offer stands,” Angelo said.
Henry curtly nodded.
Angelo resumed his seat. He put out the cigar in the silver ashtray, clasped his hands over his stomach and regarded Henry with a warm smile.
“Now for the good news. Tsing is willing to make a deal if they speak with an ambassador of Asheford Sons, and I can’t think of a better patron than the heir himself. I want you to meet with Tsing this evening and convince him that Edwin Asheford is to be trusted.”
It was a faint blow to Henry’s chest. He was careful not to show his distaste at the idea of selling his father as a good and trustworthy businessman to the Chinese mob.
“And if I convince them, what happens?” Henry said.
“They will provide the gunpowder to manufacture the ammo and rockets.”
“Rockets?”
“Large, magnificent bundles of rockets. To be used as a distraction, of course. My shipment of pistols will be hidden in firework crates,” Angelo said. “We’ve done it that way before when transporting weapons up north, to Canada. I don’t see why it wouldn’t work for London.”
“So, my father gets pistols and ammo; you get opium. How does Tsing profit?”
“Tsing gets opium and jade.”
“Jade.”
“Specifically, Burmese jade,” Angelo said with a shake of his head. “The Chinese love their jade. I can’t imagine why. There are certainly better-looking rocks out there. Your father mentioned he had a certain statuette from some dead Chinese emperor, a white jade carving etched in gold of a dragon. Tsing was greatly intrigued by the mere mention of it.”
Henry narrowed his eyes. Knowing his family’s history of looting tombs, the statue was presumably stolen from some poor sod’s crypt, perhaps during the opium war in China thirty years back.
“Yet, they hesitate,” Henry said.
Angelo waved his hand dismissively. “It is all theatrics.”
“And what about the shipment? Will it not be inspected at the New York harbour?”
“Not at my harbour. I have paid the authorities to turn a blind eye. I trust your father has done the same in London?”
“Indeed he has.”
If only Angelo knew Edwin’s wharf and harbour activities were currently under extreme scrutiny by the police. Regardless, if the plan were to deliver the smuggled goods through the London harbour, that was a good indication his father did not suspect a police presence. Hope bloomed in Henry’s chest.
“I’m pleased by the news. Quite pleased, indeed.” Henry stood and held out his hand. With a wolfish smile, he would solidify the partnership with one last boot-licking comment. “All your talk of power has indeed made my cock hard. Allow me a few days to consider your proposal regarding the matter of my ... father.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“The meeting with Tsing is when, exactly?”
“This evening at eight. He will await you at his teahouse.” Angelo leaned forward to open a drawer in his desk. “Perhaps it is best you take him these.” He tossed a box onto the table.
“Chocolates?” Henry said.
“Parisian chocolates,” Angelo muttered. “The man has an awfully sweet tooth.”
***
Later that day, Henry sat in his bedchamber, contemplating Angelo’s offer. Dark, and void of sound, his room was a welcoming tomb. The heavy mahogany furniture and thick green curtains which, for the most part, were always closed, effectively shut off the city.
It offered him the chance to think.
And breathe.
He was rattled by Angelo’s proposal. With a heavy exhale, he lit a lone candle atop his writing desk and leaned back in his armchair to stare at the wall. He wished the navy damask wallpaper would swirl to shape the answer he needed.
The candle flickered. A shimmer of light caught the bottle of laudanum next to a stack of blank papers.
His fingers twitched with the need to take a hit. After a month of careful use, he had grown a quick dependency on the drug, not only for the sake of sleep but also to facilitate clear thinking. When under the influence, the ideas flowed better.
Of course they did.
Without the constant whirlwind brought on by anxiety, anyone could think better. With his last dose having been several hours ago, a slight tremble shook his right hand. That was a stark indication he was mere days away from losing control … if he hadn’t already. Frustrated by the thought, he took hold of the bottle and placed it in his desk drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. Now to think of how to approach the plan.
He placed his weary head in a palm.
Think.
A memory of Eva flashed in his mind.
Not that. God, anything but that.
As if to tease him, the memory rushed forward, painting an entrancing vision of his garden. Eva was beneath the canopy of wisteria vines with a smile marking her plush lips. He rushed to her, desperate to feel every inch of her body against his—
He shifted in his chair.
Christ.
It had been too long. Not only was he irritated by his entrapment, but he was also wound up every night by sensual thoughts of Eva. He was beginning to feel half-crazed by it all. Satisfaction could not be found by his own hand. Sleep was a laughable joke. He rolled between the sheets of his empty bed, thinking, hoping and dreaming of his future as a free man with a woman he would never have.
It was absolute madness.
And the only way to stop him from spiralling down the rabbit hole of insanity was to take more laudanum. Ironic that it led him down another spiral. One of sickness. And dependency. It was a vile, vicious circle. He had to get out of it.
He brought a tightened fist to his forehead.
Think, you fool. Think about how you’ll get yourself out of this mess alive. Should you accept Angelo’s proposal?
If he took over the reins of Asheford Sons, he could determine the future of the company. If the plan went according to Angelo’s suggestion, his father would be forcefully removed and quite possibly assassinated. But did he really want his father to die? It was an odd question. Yes, he wanted to cause hurt. Yes, he wanted nothing more than to see the old bastard suffer for the pain he had inflicted on his family, but death would almost seem too merciful an end for Edwin Asheford. Especially if it came from a Davenport assassin. His father deserved something more poetically violent than that.
Death by your hand?
Henry scowled. To kill his own father would be the ultimate act of vengeance. Still, he did not believe himself capable of the deed. He wanted to maintain whatever was left of his morality, which, if he were honest, was vanishing with every second he stayed trapped in this strange and angry world of crime. The sin of it all, outside the walls of his bedchamber, was truly taking a toll on his soul. He worried how this would permanently change him.
Angelo’s claims that Henry was a man who admired power also grated on his nerves. That was not true, was it? God, surely, he had a better morality than that. Angelo spoke with twisted manipulation, that was all. The man did not want a companion in crime, he wanted to expand his prospects his way, and that meant using Henry as his golden goose into English territory.
Henry’s jaw tightened.
That’s why the man has taken a liking to you.
He brought a tightened fist against his table.
Damn them all to hell.
For the freedom he desired, he must stay true to himself. That was the only way forward. And to do that, he had to think of what he wanted most: a life away from crime, a home to call his own, a woman he loved without question, and a sister who was safe. That was all he ever wanted.
He went to his trunk, unlocked it and removed his briefcase to fetch Clarkson’s letter within. He had received it days ago in response to his letter left at the White Lion pub in London before his journey to New York.
Dear Mr. Edwards,
Thank you for your correspondence. I hope this letter reaches the intended hotel and without much hassle. International communication can be fickle.
As for your intended plan of coordinating a deal, it may prove more difficult, given the sheer magnitude of the task. Nevertheless, I commend your efforts and will ensure my colleagues are well informed of the potential. When you can confirm something more, write to me. I can send help your way.
As added information, if you can deliver something substantial, know that we are ready to take necessary action on British soil. Furthermore, I cannot stress enough the importance of ensuring a check of the goods is done before shipping to London. We must be certain of the shipment’s illegality, otherwise we cannot go forth with our plan in arresting those responsible. It would also risk tainting further chances of ending this.
I eagerly await the next correspondence,
Clarkson
This had always been the answer. He knew in his heart it was. The quickest and shortest path to freedom was not dethroning his father and gaining control of the empire. It was to catch him in the act of smuggling in London. If the shipment of pistols left New York without getting flagged by authorities, Henry could send word to Clarkson that the ship was on its way to London. Clarkson could intercept the ship at the London harbour, thus giving the police the evidence needed to arrest and charge those involved. Furthermore, Henry could escape to France the same evening the shipment left the New York harbour, allowing him to fetch his sister before anyone caught wind of his desertion.
He returned to his desk and took hold of his pen. He would write two letters.
One to Clarkson, confirming the plan. The second to Lottie, informing her to leave early for France under the pretext of returning to school. He would write to her again shortly before he left New York with news of his plan to fetch her. Their father would not suspect anything was afoot until word got out that Henry had betrayed him. By then, he would be far away with Lottie by his side.
Before his meeting with Tsing that evening, he would post the letters himself, instead of entrusting his staff with the task. After all, a rat could never be too careful.
***
Henry stepped through the red doors of Tsing’s tea house with Vic and Robbie hot on his heels. Despite his hatred for the two men, he could not help but feel a bit safer having them on his side.
At Tsing’s office door, a short bald man flagged his need to search Henry. Swift like a butterfly, he prodded the length of Henry’s body. Around the arms of his black jacket, down his slate-grey waistcoat, around his beltline, and down his trouser legs, taking great care to dig his fingers into the edges of Henry’s black boots.
Once cleared, Henry was allowed through the door.
The first thing he noticed was the incense. Strongly aromatic, it tingled his nostrils. Not wanting to sneeze, he distracted himself by observing the room’s décor.
Tsing sat behind a large cherry-red mahogany desk of impressive craftsmanship. Amid a carved thicket of flowers and leaves, a dragon coiled around the desk’s legs. On the walls were paintings of exotic birds and shelves holding a variety of jewelled statues.
To Henry’s surprise, Tsing was an old man. He had thinning grey hair, narrow black eyes with deep crevices at the outside corners, and his skin was marked with dark-brown age spots. To his left sat a young woman who wore her hair in a tight black chignon on top of her head. Behind Tsing was a middle-aged man sitting on a golden chair, his hands clasped over his round belly. All three stared cautiously at Henry.
With a close-lipped smile, Tsing gestured for Henry to approach. His gaze was firmly fixed on the box of chocolates in Henry’s hand.
Ah.
Henry resisted the urge to smile. He did not want to insult the crime lord by laughing at his childlike wonder for a box of confectionery.
Tsing spoke.
His voice was barely audible and the words were foreign to Henry’s ear. Was it Mandarin or Cantonese? He wasn’t familiar with the language spoken in China.
“My father says to sit,” the woman said, gesturing to the seat in front of the desk. “My name is Li Tsing and this is my brother, Huang Tsing.”
Henry took a seat. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Henry Asheford and these men are—”
“Vic and Robbie,” Li said quickly, her expression hardening. “We know. They are Angelo’s men.”
Henry politely nodded. It seemed there was more tension between the crime families than Angelo had let on.
Tsing spoke again.
“My father asks about the box you hold,” Li said.
“Ah, yes, it is a gift for your father. Chocolates from Paris,” Henry said and set the box onto the table.
Tsing grabbed it and removed the lid. Within was a small black tray containing eight round truffles. His smile widened. He placed the box back on the table without taking a chocolate, leaned back and spoke again.
“He wishes to know more about you, Mr. Asheford. Tell us, do you work with your father, Edwin Asheford?” Li said.
Henry’s lips twitched. “I do.”
“For how long?”
“All my life,” Henry lied through his teeth. “Father liked to include his sons in the company’s activities. From an early age, we were taught many things about business and the nature of trade. However, I did not get involved in more prominent matters until this year.”
Tsing spoke.
“He asks about the word sons. Do you have a brother?” Li said.
“I did, yes,” Henry said, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “He passed away many years ago.”
“My condolences,” Tsing said, stumbling over the word.
Henry looked at the man with a softening expression. It had been a long while since anyone had said those words to him. He pressed his lips together and barely nodded.
“That makes you the heir, does it not?” Li said.
“Yes,” Henry said.
“Hence why you have a personal stake in the business.”
“That is correct.” It was scary how easily the lies rolled off his tongue. “And it is with utmost confidence when I say that I see it as a duty to uphold the virtues of a business, regardless of the legality of the trade.”
“Virtues?”
“Honesty, loyalty, fairness and, most of all, discretion,” Henry said.
Li turned to her father and spoke in their language. It was quick. Tsing slowly nodded as he kept his eyes glued on Henry. There was a pause before he jingled a hand bell and an old woman came through the door on the right.
The woman, no taller than a ten-year-old, stood next to the desk. Hunched over and wearing traditional red Chinese clothing, she nodded her head along with every word Tsing said.
“My father wishes to know your fortune. Please hold out your right palm,” Li announced.
“My fortune?” Henry said.
“It is our custom to conduct a fortune reading for every new business associate,” she explained.
Henry held out his hand. “Very well.”
The fortune teller grabbed it and forcefully stretched his fingers wide. There was a pang of trepidation in his chest as she brought her small palm against his.
He had once read about the tradition in Chinese culture. Palmistry was the act of studying the lines on the palm to decipher a person’s personality or fortune. It was a superstitious belief that Henry was greatly skeptical of. Then again, who was he to judge when he was a Christian with his own set of beliefs, some that may even be considered superstitious to the Chinese. Although, if he were perfectly honest, his religion was a dwindling act. These months, he seldom prayed; none of his prayers were ever answered. If they had been, he would not be sitting with the Chinese mob getting his palm read by a fortune teller. Alas, if this was Tsing’s way of judging his character, so be it.
The fortune teller spoke.
Li answered.
It grated on Henry’s nerves to be talked about in a foreign language. What were they saying?
The fortune teller’s finger slid down the side of his palm toward the base of his thumb. A frown etched her face, and she mumbled a few words.
“What does she say?” Henry said impatiently.
“Your lifeline is short and shallow. There are signs of strong vitality, but you may fall prey to illness and succumb to it,” Li said.
The corners of Henry’s mouth twitched.
“She also says your wisdom line is long and overlaps your lifeline. This indicates you are indecisive, and your worrying causes self-inflicted troubles. Your love line—”
Henry withdrew his hand and shut his palm into a fist. “That will be all, thank you.”
Tsing spoke.
“My father desires to know all of your fortune,” Li said.
“How is my love fortune relevant to our business dealings?” Henry said, with more spite than intended.
“It shows who you are as a person.” Li clasped her hands across the table. “And we do not do business with strangers.”
Reluctantly, Henry held out his palm once more. Do it for the damned business, you fool. It’s all falsehoods, anyway.
The fortune teller resumed her reading.
“You are passionate and have a willingness to sacrifice everything for love,” Li said. “Although your marriage will bring in massive wealth, there will be a separation during your relationship, but in the end, you will birth a daughter—”
The fortune teller spoke loudly.
“Two healthy headstrong daughters,” Li corrected.
Headstrong daughters? A chill took him at the thought of his daughters being copies of his wretched wife, headstrong in their pursuit to shop for useless bits and bobs with their teacup dogs trailing their skirts, defying every word he said. Dear God, no, he would continue to refuse the consummation of their marriage until the end of his days.
“She asks for your date of birth,” Li said.
“November twenty-eighth, 1852,” Henry said.
The fortune teller gasped. Her finger moved faster across the centre of his palm. A surprised smile revealing a few missing teeth gleamed across her wrinkled face. She spoke again, her excited words leaving her lips at an alarming rate.
Tsing gave a jovial laugh, and the two exchanged a few words.
Confused, Henry looked at Li. “What does the fortune teller say now?”
Li smiled. “That you are born the Year of the Rat with the element of water. That is a most prosperous and successful life. The fortune teller speaks of your cleverness, success and, above all, honesty.”
Henry blinked. A rat? A squeaking rat with a prosperous life? Surely this was a joke.
“You doubt yourself?” Li said.
He gave a tight-lipped smile. “I merely question the statement.”
“Those born in the Year of the Rat are trusted partners for those born in the Year of the Dragon, like my father. Whether you believe this or not is your decision, but it pleases my father to know your truth, and he is happy to do business with a rat,” Li said.
“Thank you,” Henry said, unsure of what else to say.
He’d had his fortune told, and make-believe secrets of his future life had been revealed. More importantly, he was once more branded a rat, which to Tsing was a sign of an easy fortune.
Henry nearly snorted with laughter.
It was nothing but superstitious hodgepodge. He had placed enough hope in the falsities of God and His spiritual powers. Like those who read the Bible and fell to their knees praying for good fortune, men who believed in the art of palmistry were equal fools.
Tsing smiled as he picked up a truffle and gestured with his free hand to the box of chocolates.
Henry gave a polite smile and selected the darkest chocolate.
Indeed, a fool.
If palmistry were real, the fortune teller would have spotted Henry’s deceitfulness. She would have seen his plan to escape. She would have sensed that Tsing would be used as bait to reach Henry’s goal. She would know his separation from his wife would be everlasting and no daughters would come from it.
With a curt nod, he joined Tsing in eating the chocolate, establishing the beginning of a trade deal that may twist the strings of fate for both of them.