Page 7 of The Return of the Rake

She made a scathing sound and shook her head but didn’t argue. “Tomorrow, then. At eleven.”

King nodded, escorted her to the door, and called for one of his men to ensure she got where she was going safely. Closing the door on her, he returned to his desk and opened the case, staring at the rubies with fascination.

It was strange how things worked out. In the years after he made it big, he’d bought the old hotel in the town of his birth. Little Valentine was a quaint place, so nice and respectable it made his teeth hurt. But respectable only meant people had enough money to hide their sins. It didn’t make them better.

There were as many decent, kind people in St Giles as there had ever been in Little Valentine, and as many heartless, selfish devils too. But enough judgemental people in that pretty town had made up their minds about the bastard son of Joe King, and nothing he or anyone else did or said would ever change that.

Not that he hadn’t done a good deal to deserve his reputation, only in those days he was not as black as he’d been painted. Not that protesting his innocence had done a whit of good. As far as those good people were concerned, he was bad to the bone, born that way, and everyone expected him to go to the devil. Well, King never liked to disappoint people, he thought with a sneer.

When he’d bought the old hotel, he’d had ideas about doing it up and making it a fancy home and then returning to face the people who’d run him out of town, coming back as the big man, shoving his wealth and his power in everyone’s faces until it damn well choked them.

He’d never done it, though.

King told himself it was because he didn’t care what they thought of him, of who he’d been then or who he was now. He had better things to do than take time to rub his success in the noses of the spiteful old tabbies who had accused him of wrongdoing just because he was good looking and devil may care, and his face fit the crime… but he had a disquieting sensation in his gut that he was not being entirely honest.

No matter. The hotel was sitting empty, and it was a lovely building, fine and large with beautiful views of the sea. As he pictured it in his mind’s eye, King felt a sudden and unexpected ache in his chest, a longing to stand before that great expanse of water and fill his lungs with the purity of the air, to taste the tang of salt upon his lips. But no. The Mermaid’s Tale was someone else’s future, not his. And it would be a pity to see such a beautiful building fall to pieces.

Besides, this young woman would like it there and it sounded as if she deserved a bit of good fortune. If she was the respectable lady Hilda reckoned she was, she’d fit right in. He’d be just fine right here, King of the Rookeries, with his coffers filled to the brim, daring anyone who fancied themselves to come and knock him down.

Chapter 1

The devil is always a welcome diversion.

Six years later…

King’s Lodge, Soho Square, London,1st October 1815.

King set down the book he’d been reading and scowled, glaring across the superbly decorated sitting room at the door upon which someone had just had the temerity to knock. He felt very certain he had demanded no one disturb him. It had been a trying day, and he wanted to shut it all out, to lose himself in the story of another man’s life, one, he hoped, that might have a happier ending than the one he was fast heading for.

Anyone viewing the scene from a distance might presume he was just another gentleman, enjoying the pleasures of a cigar and a glass of fine brandy, perhaps awaiting his lady wife before sitting down to dinner. A little closer and they would realise their mistake at once, if for no other reason than the diamond stud he wore in his ear. Strange, really, how hard he had worked to ape the mannerisms of his betters, only to give the game away before he even opened his mouth. But that was King all over, contrary to his bones. Just because he could pass for a gentleman—albeit one who had spent too long in the afternoon sun—it didn’t mean he wanted to.

“What?” he demanded irritably, too annoyed to have his little idyll interrupted to pretend he had any manners.

There was a second of hesitation before the door opened. “I beg your pardon, sir,” his butler Repton said, looking pained as well he might. “I would not have dreamed of interrupting your quiet evening, only—”

“Yes, yes, spit it out, why don’t you?”

Repton nodded. “It’s only that the boy, Jimmy, has discovered a rather troubling bit of information. I would not have brought it to your attention with such alacrity, only it concerns Mr Marwick. I know after the last time he worked for you, you considered yourself greatly indebted to him, if I am not mistaken.”

King frowned down at the expensive binding on his new copy of Guy Mannering, a tale of lost inheritance, kidnap and smugglers. He had been enjoying it, finding something remarkably like common ground with Harry Betram, though he was no long-lost heir to a Scottish estate. “Marwick?”

“Just so, sir, and knowing as I do how deeply you dislike being indebted to anyone—”

King set the book aside with regret but regarded his butler with interest. “Quite right, Repton. What’s the young fool in for?”

“It appears there is a price upon his head. As I understand it, Silas Mourney has discovered who was responsible for certain missing items on the night of Lady Erskine’s ball. Seeing as how many of his men were clapped up for a job they did not profit from, I believe he is rather aggrieved and has placed the sum of one hundred pounds to be given to any man who brings him Mr Alfred Marwick.”

“Alive or dead,” King mused, one dark eyebrow lifting.

“I don’t believe Mr Mourney made any such distinction, nor much cares,” Repton replied calmly.

King regarded Repton with a jaundiced eye, knowing exactly what he was in for. The old man had taken a liking to Mr Marwick. Not a hard thing to do, for the fellow was entirely too likeable, but he was also a blessed nuisance. Sometimes King heartily wished their paths had never crossed, but Repton was right. Alfred Marwick had been invaluable in setting up a scheme that would free King from the ties that bound him and reap vengeance on his enemies at the same time. Whenever he thought of his plan, of all the wheels that had been put in motion and were turning even now, a surge of grim satisfaction filled him. That being the case, he’d do whatever he could to help Alfie, for he did indeed owe him a considerable debt. Still, there was no point in looking too eager about it.

“I suppose you think I should do something,” he said, somewhat resentfully.

Repton, who had been an actor all his life until drink and too many hard knocks had left him destitute, returned a guileless expression. “I could not say, sir. I only know that you will.”

King snorted. He had picked Horace Repton up out of the gutter into which he had fallen and given him a chance to play the part he was born for. No proper butler with such a wealth of haughty airs and graces would have worked for him, not without treating him like he was no better than the dirt beneath their nails, no matter the generosity of the wage. Repton, however, lent the house and King a priceless depth of verisimilitude, and had repaid him by enduring the torments of the damned to sober up and stay that way, learning his job to a nicety, and being entirely too grateful for King’s comfort.