Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2) Page 2

  If the previous Earl of Kent hadn’t unexpectedly died in the middle of the soup course over three years ago, Alexandra would have considered parricide. This entire stupid mess was his fault.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Alexandra told her brother. “It’s only The Times. You don’t even enjoy reading it.”

  “No,” Richard admitted, drinking his coffee. “I’m not expecting any notable insight from a Tory newspaper. But I do require some knowledge of their views.”

  “Yes, well, their current view is that I’m a reflection of the continued degradation of traditional values. They question my sanity and have suggested that once James returns from his honeymoon he ought to consider having me sent to an asylum. There. What else shall I tell you from this lovely Tory newspaper?”

  Richard sighed. “Alexandra.”

  “What?” When her brother only raised an eyebrow at her, she made a face. “I told you not to look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” He shrugged and poured himself some coffee. “I’m not looking at you any particular way.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “This is the sixth broadsheet I’ve managed to save from you. The other twelve are, sadly, ashes in the fireplace. Now let me look at this without your input.” He shuffled through the pages until he found the one that caused her ire. “Ah.”

  At that precise moment, Richard’s wife, Anne, strolled into the room, humming a soft ditty. “Oh, is that The Times? May I see that?” Without waiting for Richard’s response, Anne plucked the paper out of his hands and stared down at the page. “Ah,” she said softly.

  “Ah? Why does everyone say ah?” Alexandra grumbled, setting down her knife with a clatter. “It’s a silly illustration drawn by a man of middling talent.”

  Anne pressed her lips together and settled in her chair. “The drawing is . . .” She looked to Richard, as if for help.

  “Interesting,” he finished, hiding his wince behind his teacup. “The horns, particularly. It’s very, erm, animated.”

  “It means nothing,” Anne smoothed over, eyeing her husband. “They depicted me as a crying mess outside the courthouse. The illustrations are always unflattering.”

  Anne’s father, the prime minister, had confessed to covering up the crimes of a key ally in parliament—and Anne’s former fiancé. Anne and Richard exposed both men’s crimes, causing an ongoing parliamentary upheaval.

  Prime Minister Sheffield leaked Alexandra’s secret marriage to the dailies in the hope of destroying the Grey family name. It had almost worked. In the following months, articles painted Anne as responsible for the political chaos. Richard paid and intimidated columnists to print articles depicting the truth: that Anne had come forward against her father at great personal risk.

  Richard was rewarded for his efforts. He and Anne received piles of invitations to every house party, event, and ball in Britain. It seemed everyone was dying to know how Anne had fared living in her father’s brutal home.

  While Richard had been able to rehabilitate his wife’s image in the public eye, he couldn’t do the same for his sister. Not without revealing that their own father orchestrated her disastrous union.

  “Even charities are turning me away because they don’t wish to be the subject of malicious gossip,” Alexandra muttered.

  “Oh,” Anne said with a grimace.

  “They were perfectly nice about it when they shut their door in my face, at least.”

  “Good god, you need to get out of London,” Richard said immediately. He went to the sideboard to gather his wife some breakfast. “Anne and I have an invitation to the Churchill house party in Yorkshire. Say the word and we’ll take you along.”

  “I can’t.”

  Anne took the plate from Richard. “Why not? I hear Yorkshire is lovely in autumn.”

  “I have work,” Alexandra reminded them. “All my sources are here. I’m in the middle of a manuscript.” One that would create more scandal if it came out, but they didn’t need to know that.

  “Fortunately for you,” Richard said, “the Churchill house party is a mere fortnight. I’m certain your work will survive the hiatus.”

  Alexandra sighed. “Very well, I won’t mince words: Lady Churchill hates me. I once called her husband a bloviating imbecile.” At Richard’s raised eyebrow, she said, “He told me that women didn’t have the knowledge or depth of thought to understand political matters. It doesn’t help that their cousins, the Astleys, run factories I have criticized over a lack of safety for workers, and—”Anne and Richard gave each other a considering look, which Alexandra intercepted. “I see the both of you thinking at each other, in the obscene way people in love do. Spit it out.”

  “New tack,” Richard said. “Is there anyone who doesn’t hate you?”

  “Richard.” Anne elbowed him in the side. “What he means is . . . dear, is there anyone we may call upon? The sooner we have support, the better.”

  Alexandra set her cup of tea down. “I have friends.” Anne and Richard almost looked relieved until Alexandra spoke again. “They’ve asked that I keep my distance. They’ve no wish to be associated with the wife of a gaming hell owner. It would ruin their marriage prospects.”

  Richard looked uneasy. “Thorne is an ally—”

  “He’s your ally.” Alexandra stood, placing her napkin on the table. “From what I understand he’s a useful associate to have, if you wish to intimidate someone. He’s good for little else.” Richard opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand. “Recall that I have an entire box of the articles he’s submitted to newspapers criticizing my work. He might be a decent ally, but he’s a lousy husband.”

  Her brother let out a breath. “Fair enough.”

  “Just . . . take care that he’s not using you, Richard. I’ve some experience with the sting of his betrayal.” She glanced at Anne and gestured at the broadsheet. “May I have that? I’d find it cathartic to watch it go up in flames.”

  Anne moved to pass it over, squinting at the drawing. “Well,” she said, “at least you seem to have the devil in your thrall, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I suppose I do. After all, the devil is my husband.”

  Chapter 2

  The Brimstone was Thorne’s pride and joy.

  Those in Whitechapel often desired a place of their own—but few managed to get out from under the boot of a landlord. It was the cold, hard reality of the East End that you were born with nothing, you lived with nothing, and you died with nothing. Possessions were as easy to keep as a fistful of sand. There wasn’t a thing you owned that wasn’t up for sale to pay the landlord, just to ease that boot off your neck for a short while.

  That could have been Thorne’s fate, had it not been for Lady Alexandra Grey’s money.

  That fortune had helped make him the most powerful man in the East End—in all of London, some claimed.

  But Thorne didn’t give a shit about the rest of London. He surveyed his club from the balcony of his private wing, watching as rich men spent their money. He used that income to pay his workers. To take care of the people in his streets. To house them, feed them, and put clothes on their backs if they needed.

  They called him King of the East End. The moniker chafed; monarchs, after all, built fortunes off the exploitation of laborers. Thorne was a Republican through and through—an Irishman, after all—but he knew the burden that came with being responsible for people. He took it seriously.

  And all he’d lost to gain this immense fortune was a woman’s trust. Some might consider that trifling. What did trust matter compared to security, food, money, power? So much to gain, such a small thing to sacrifice.

  Except for one problem: Thorne had been fool enough to fall in love with her.

  He thought of Alex too often these days. He heard her name whispered in dark corners of his club where members thought he couldn’t hear.

  Lady Alexandra Grey and Nicholas Thorne. Secret marriage. Gretna Green four years ago. Can you believe a l
ady marrying that bastard? Pfft. Not a lady, anyway, she’s a fucking suffragette with nice tits and a shrill mouth.

  Thorne had taken a lord outside for that last one. Asked which arm he favored.

  And broke it.

  “Looks like you could use a drink,” said a familiar voice behind Thorne.

  Leo O’Sullivan, Thorne’s factotum, was an almost constant presence around the club. Like Thorne, he committed to running the place like a perfectly wound timepiece. The former pugilist had grown up with Thorne on the streets of the Nichol. As children they had stolen together, paid their debts together. Nearly died together.

  There were few people Thorne trusted with his life, but O’Sullivan was one of them.

  “How can you tell?” Thorne asked dryly.

  “Might be because you’re scowling at the customers like a fucking gargoyle.”

  O’Sullivan came to stand beside Thorne at the balcony, gazing down to the crowd below. He stood a head taller than Thorne, and was broader, more muscled. It wasn’t his physique people focused on first, but O’Sullivan’s face. Many women had described as so pretty that it intimidated.

  Course, pretty faces made it easier to hide broken people. Thorne knew that better than anyone.

  “I’m not scowling,” Thorne said, leaning against the railing of the balcony. “I’m watching.”

  O’Sullivan let out a chuckle. “Sure, boss.”

  Thorne gave him a look, then returned his attention to the floor. He focused on the sounds of his club: the chatter of patrons, shuffles of card decks, laughing men deep in their cups. The scent of cigar smoke mingled with spirits: fine brandy, whiskey, and port. He loved this, the buzzing of his business, the noise and smells, the excitement. It heated his blood. They spent money; he profited.

  Without it, Thorne was just another lad raised in the Nichol, surviving with O’Sullivan and the others in that filthy, dark cellar. Being let out at night to do terrible things for terrible men.

  That was in the past. He wasn’t under the control of anyone, not anymore. This place, and everything in it, belonged to him. Now some of the richest and most powerful men in London owed him their debts.

  Which some of those sods struggled to pay up.

  He made an irritated noise. “Latimer’s playing deep again.”

  “Should I remove him?” O’Sullivan asked. “That stupid bastard has the highest number in the books.”

  Thorne shook his head. “He wants to destroy his life, let him. If he can’t pay up, go with the lads to his home. Take some antiquities off his hands.”

  O’Sullivan snorted. “Assuming they cover what he owes. I’ve seen that fool get shite deep in a single night.”

  “Then take the house,” Thorne said simply.

  He monitored the hazard tables closely. Players had tells if they were cheating, and two of those blokes looked nervous. He signaled below to one of his employees, a slight raise of one finger, then two, with a nod to the men of interest.

  He didn’t need to explain his reasoning. The Brimstone ran like a tight ship, every employee loyal to its owner. They understood his moods, his gestures, his every need. In return, Thorne paid them better wages than any other job they’d find in Whitechapel. He supported their families, their children, their wives. His protection didn’t come with a price. Unlike Whelan, he didn’t demand they steal or kill for him.

  What did they offer in return? Respect, that was all.

  That was the only thing he ever wanted.

  “Shipments come in?” he asked O’Sullivan.

  “Whiskey, cards, chips accounted for. Food shipment’s late and Burke’s got his dander up. You might want to avoid the kitchens tonight.”

  Burke was their cook. He was damned temperamental about his cuisine, with good reason. The man didn’t have formal training—Burke was born and raised a mere stones throw from the Brimstone—but he created some of the most mouthwatering platters in London. Now he had a reputation to uphold.

  Thorne couldn’t fault Burke for wanting to keep the lofty opinions of these toffs. He knew the game as well as anyone. If Thorne wanted them to spend a fortune every night, he had to work for their approval. That meant providing comfort: good food, good drink, proximity to brothels, and greasing a few palms to keep coppers from raiding. Gambling was illegal, but even police weren’t above making exceptions in exchange for a bit of blunt.

  “Damn,” Thorne muttered. “All right. Get ‘em drunk and bring in some of the ladies from Maxine’s. With a woman in their laps they won’t give a shit about eating.”

  O’Sullivan chuckled. “Anything else?”

  Thorne spotted a familiar face in the crowd, one that made him swear and push away from the balcony. “Yeah. Tell Matty that if he’s late with that food shipment one more time, I’ll break his face.”

  He strode down the public staircase to the main floor, passing the hazard tables.

  People greeted him—his employees; a few Members of Parliament; some aristos. He wasn’t friends with them, but this was his establishment. If they treated him with respect, they got to stay. A few forgot that from time to time. He didn’t always answer disrespect with a fist; there were other ways to destroy a man. Thorne was a master at it.

  Some of that skill he learned from Richard Grey. Sure, his brother-in-law looked like a gentleman, talked like a gentleman, played cards with the incompetence of a gentleman, but Thorne knew better. Grey was one of the most accomplished political schemers Thorne knew. They’d worked together from time to time when a bill needed to be whipped. Thorne’s involvement in politics was for the benefit of the East End. God knew Members of Parliament didn’t do a damn thing out of the goodness of their hearts. He and Grey had proven the only thing that motivated those men were money and threats.

  ‘Course, at the time, Grey wasn’t aware that Thorne was his brother-in-law. Thorne had been expecting this particular visit for a while.

  He leaned against the table. “Got something to say to me, Grey?”

  The blond man leaned back and surveyed his cards. “Just visiting my brother-in-law’s establishment.”

  The other aristos at the table looked over in shock at the reminder. By now the entire damn city knew Thorne had married Alexandra Grey. Four years ago, she had demanded they hide it—and Thorne, still sick from betraying her, had agreed.

  Could Thorne blame her? No. She’d gone to the anvil thinking she’d married a lord, and left married to a criminal. He deserved her disgust, had grown used to being her shameful secret.

  Then Richard had made an enemy of the former prime minister, and Stanton Sheffield had not left his office without one last act of spite. He’d revealed Alex’s marriage to Thorne—and ruined her. Didn’t take much for toffs to turn on their own. They were about as loyal to one another as a flock of gulls fighting over a rat corpse.

  Thorne clapped Richard on the shoulder and beckoned with his fingers. “Deal him out, Doyle.”

  “I was enjoying that game,” Richard said as he followed Thorne to his private wing.

  “You were about to lose one hundred pounds.”

  “Money I could stand to lose, for the enjoyment of seeing you this angry at my presence.”

  Thorne whirled on Richard. They were alone in the hallway. It was as good a place as any to have words with his brother-in-law. “You want to lose one hundred quid and line my pockets just to annoy me, have at it.”

  Richard leaned his shoulder against the wall. “If you wanted me to do that, you ought to have left me to the game. I’ve never been terribly good at whist.”

  Thorne made an irritated sound. “You aristos and money. Wasting it is about the only thing you’re good for.”

  “Nicholas Thorne criticizing another man for having too much money.” Richard gave a laugh. “Now that’s hypocrisy. You’re one of the richest men in England.”

  “Having too much blunt is one thing, squandering it is another.” He crossed his arms. “Now stop wasting my time. Finish i
t. Hit me in the face.”

  Richard raised an eyebrow. “Are you drunk?”

  “If only,” Thorne muttered. “See, I figure I owe you two punches: one for not telling you Alex was my wife, the other for the hell she must be going through. Go on.”

  “Jesus Christ, I’m not here to beat the shit out of you. I’m here to tell you to go see my sister. She’s a mess, Thorne.”

  “She’ll be fine once things have settled. Not having her bastard husband in her life will make it easier.”

  His brother-in-law pushed off the wall. “Once things have settled? You really are a stupid sod. I hadn’t planned to punch you in the face, but perhaps I should.”

  “Do it, then.” Thorne spread his arms.

  “Listen to me, you obstinate son of a bitch,” Richard hissed, moving closer. “This needs to start getting settled now. Alexandra refuses to withdraw to the country because of her work, and I can’t leave her alone in London. I have no idea where my brother is or when he plans to return from his honeymoon.”

  “Then stay in London until Kent returns. Easy.”

  Richard ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t,” he said, surprising Thorne. Then his expression softened. “Anne is with child. She’s not showing yet, but she’ll need to enter confinement soon. We’re planning to stay in Hampshire until next season.”

  “My congratulations.” Thorne’s voice sounded more detached than he felt. Sometimes, he thought about what it would have been like with Alexandra if he weren’t such a bad husband. Would they have had children? Did she even want them?

  “Go see Alexandra,” Richard repeated, tiredly. “Act like a husband, for once.”

  Thorne held back a flinch. How could he be a husband to her? His reputation had shredded hers. “Her maids talk, Grey. I know she’s been cut by every bloody friend she’s ever made. You might have given her some warning that you’d made an enemy of the prime minister.”