The Den Of Iniquity

He called it necessary.

But this, this arena of wealth and power, was his greatest accomplishment. Below men of every class—from distinguished titled gentlemen to commonplace elbow shakers—emptied their pockets, consumed drink and partook of iniquitous gratification with abandon, all for a price they willingly paid. The establishment might be labelled a hell, but for the participants it more genuinely resembled paradise.

Beyond these four walls, England remained ripe for economic and political strife. The recent Spa Field riots had encouraged a more vocal discord, many Englishmen anxious to seize control of banking and government, their main objective to deliver a petition to the Prince Regent requesting reform from their hardship and distress. But such change was slow in development and gambling offered a faster, more pleasurable option than opposing the powers of regulation.

The Underworld provided an attractive prescription for the injustice of society. The wagering offered within the hell was non-discriminatory and, more importantly, able to perpetuate the comely belief one could secure immeasurable wealth. And that was an immediate lure many could not resist.

He drew the heavy velvet curtains closed as if shutting away yet another dark secret and poured a glass of expensive brandy before he settled behind his desk, feet atop the inlaid mahogany. A long exhalation speaking more of supplication than victory broke the quiet and Ransom, his wolfhound at rest beneath the desk, followed with a bark in gruff reply.

Sinclair held little regard for society’s chosen. But of their money, he possessed a different opinion. Proud bastard that he was, it pleased him to watch earls and viscounts empty their pockets at his tables. He held their vowels and marked their accrued interest with a shrewd spark of pleasure in his eye, their careless spending having amassed him and his two partners impressive wealth.

Born on the wrong side of the blanket, sired by a jackal disguised as an earl, his childhood might have been the mundane and unfortunate tale of an aristocratic by-blow, neglected by fine society and otherwise forgotten, but Fate planned differently. By the persistence of his proud mother’s demand he received an excellent education, obtained through the attention of multiple tutors who visited their country home and instructed him in every masculine necessity from horsemanship to pistol shooting.

At her adamant insistence, he’d received formal schooling at Eton, tolerated by the ostentatious institution because his father held a title and paid a generous sum to have Sinclair’s error of birth overlooked. The exceptional conditions created by his mother’s love and father’s wealth ensured he’d had all the privilege and intelligence equal to peers of the realm, while the circumstance of his birth left him unbound by the rules of formal society.

Of course, all that changed upon his mother’s death.

A bitter sneer curled his mouth and he finished off his brandy, unwilling to open the unpleasant catalogue of memories that accompanied that last thought.

Three sharp knocks sounded, a signal used by Cole Hewitt, second investor in the exclusive West End hell, to announce his arrival; though Ransom had already detected someone approached with a low growl one half minute before Cole struck the door.

‘Enter.’ Sinclair replaced his empty glass atop the desk as the panel opened.

‘How does it go, Sin?’ Cole dropped onto the leather couch aligned with the left wall. He appeared exhausted, his collar undone and boots mud-covered. ‘I’ve obtained the information you’ve hunted, but you’re not going to like the result.’ He leaned his head back, allowing his eyes to close as if he regretted imparting the news and witnessing his friend’s disappointment. ‘I’ve located Rowley.’

Sinclair dropped his feet from the desktop and whipped around to pierce Cole’s reclined form with a hard stare. His pulse hammered as he curled his fingers into a fist. ‘And—’

The one word demanded an expedient answer.

‘You can visit him graveside in the courtyard of an ugly little church named All Hallows by the Tower on Byward Street. Dirt hole, little more—’

Sinclair let loose with a string of black curses that had Ransom up and snarling, his ears flat. ‘Settle.’ He reassured the hound with a rub to the neck. ‘A dirt grave is more than Rowley deserves.’ He scoffed. ‘All along the worthless scum was here in London under my nose.’

‘Under the ground now.’ Cole shifted his position and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he continued. ‘No reason to let it anger you. It’s one less task for you to undertake, whatever the cause.’

Sin remained silent and stood to pace. The revenge he sought was foul business enough without revealing his bloodlust to one of his closest friends. Cole battled his own demons, illegitimate birth the least of it. They had wealth in common too, although Cole possessed business acuity sharper than a dagger’s blade. Having fallen into each other’s company through a series of unlikely circumstances, they’d become fast comrades. Sin was the one in the trio with outreaching contacts and inward misery. Cole appeared better adjusted to life’s circumstance though one never knew what drove a man. He pulled his focus to his friend’s continued explanation.

‘And the reason it proved near impossible to find Rowley was he often went by his surname: Johns. With such a common moniker it sent me down more misleads than I’d care to confess, chasing after a shadow who turned out to be another man altogether.’

‘I did as well.’ Sinclair’s low mutter was lost in the slide of the curtain pull, once again opened to the world of gambling below. ‘Thank you. I never meant to involve you or occupy your time but while the news is unexpected, it’s appreciated. I’ll visit on the morrow for no other reason than to piss on his grave; though I would have preferred to step on his neck.’ Anger lit a flame to his blood. He’d wanted to be the one to end Johns’ life, see the fear in his eyes and relish the man’s last gasp as he pleaded for mercy, a request that would not be respected. Sinclair spanned his restless fingers in an exercise to release pent disappointment, though frenetic rage coursed through him with the news. There was a certain natural, powerful, satisfaction found in using one’s hands to exact revenge. Johns’ death denied him the pleasure.

In a strange twist of redemption as he crushed the ghosts of his past, Sinclair believed he’d somehow banish the darkest part of his anger and once again reclaim whatever normalcy of life was left his due.

‘You may want to rethink your plans, the pissing part, that is.’ Cole flashed a quick smile. ‘You’ll startle the elderly as they work to improve the gardens around the courtyard and I dare say these aren’t the same nuns found at Covent Garden.’

Sinclair chuckled at his friend’s self-deprecation. Cole enjoyed a brothel well.

‘Still the lovely old nosegents were generous with their information when I asked about the grave.’

‘I will pay heed to your suggestion and spit instead.’ His voice expressed resolute anger as Cole came to stand next to him at the glass.

‘We’re padding the coffers. Every elbow crooker in London has come out to roll dice tonight.’ The voiced observation settled Sin’s agitation somewhat. His friend was accomplished at distraction. They stood in companionable silence, intensely assessing the scene below.

Sin watched the fair-haired Mirabel as she delivered a drink and seductive glance to an attentive gentleman. She worked the floor better than any of the females in the hell’s employ; all the while she held her chin high despite the fact her services could be purchased and body shared. He’d accepted several of her alluring offers. Perhaps Mirabel would alleviate some of his caged frustration tonight. No sooner did the thought form than a beat of disapproval followed. Even she, a gentleman’s whore, deserved better than his empty detached rutting.

Somehow over the years, anger had suffocated all other emotion until revenge consumed every corner of his soul. How better to be unfeeling and hollow until he saw the last of it done. He blinked, uncomfortable with the truth. Still he had no answers and had come to realize long ago God didn’t waste time on the prayers of a sinner.

Chapter Two (#ulink_f37b5d82-6222-58e4-bbbc-3a251017dd23)

Vivienne pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the persistent wind determined to wrestle against her hood. With gladness she’d read the missive from the Samaritan Saviours, a charitable organization favoured by her mother and a cause that Vivienne intended to continue in loving memory. Her stepfather held little opinion of her involvement and in that she was thankful. Answering the call for charitable work supplied a reprieve in twofold from the oppressive gloom found at Nettlecombe. She’d gently reassert herself into the flow of society and simultaneously soothe the pain in her heart by carrying forth her mother’s honourable work.

Now with the hour growing late, the carriage stopped at a narrow avenue leading to Byward Street where the small chapel rested on a lazy hill. She exited, hurrying over the cobbles and through the iron gate. As if London mourned her efforts, clouds in various shades of grey threatened tears, not very different from the interior of home. She sent a small prayer skyward in hope that today she’d find joy in helping others. Something of interest was needed to deter her thoughts from loss and pain. In that much her stepfather’s words rang true. Her mother would never wish for her to continue suffering.

The sombre knell from the church tower resurrected memories of the funeral and she bit her lower lip to maintain composure. At times it seemed the smallest things, the scent of a flower or mention of a particular meal, shattered her tenuous hold on emotion. She shook her head, at once irritated as the motion sent her hood backward. With a steady hand she righted herself inside and out.

She’d almost reached the top of the hill where the nuns worked to replant annuals in the seasonal garden, the blooms then sold to raise funds for the poor. She gave a glance in each direction, disappointed the area remained vacant, and took the single-tiered staircase that led to the upper level of the property, closer to the tower and outreaching buildings. The railing, cold from the absence of sunlight, sent an unwelcome chill into her bones and she hurried faster. Beyond the church a small graveyard and priory stood quiet, a vigilant reminder life was fleeting.

Pausing to discern where the nuns were located and whether she’d arrived at the correct area, she listened but not a sound could be heard. Something seemed wrong. She didn’t have the missive, her reticule left under the bench of the family coach. With planting to be done, she’d travelled with nothing more than a pair of gloves and coin purse in her skirt pocket. Now she wished she’d brought the information.

Unwilling to remain stalled in the middle of the slates, she changed directions. With a disappointed sigh at the bleak emptiness of her surroundings, she moved beyond the gardens to explore the path that led to the priory in hope of meeting someone from Samaritan Saviours.

As she accomplished a bend and approached the graveyard a disturbance wrinkled the quiet, causing her heart to lurch with fear. Stray dogs and assorted vermin were common in all parts of London, but a graveyard offered the ideal place for a dangerous stray. One pernicious bite would send a healthy person into a hellish and often uncertain sickness.

A sharp bark sliced the air and her thoughts proceeded no further. In a blur of grey fur, a wolf appeared. The angry beast barked a rapid succession of complaints, bared its fangs and snarled, then set a direct line towards her. She whimpered, a tragic mixture of panic and fright, before her feet at last obeyed and she set into a run, the wind catching in her billowing black cloak to battle her progress. She should have taken a maid or footman, but out of consideration not to encumber a servant with boredom while she worked on the behalf of the poor, she’d foolishly come alone.

Her slipper caught on the edge of a broken slate and she tumbled forward, her palms scraping the stone in a sting of gravel and regret. With a firm push for leverage she rose in a tangle of skirts, forcing her cumbersome cloak aside as she ran further to accomplish the short stack of stairs. The insistent bark of the mongrel and accompanying steady footfalls thrummed in her ears.

Through a blinding sheen of tears she found the wrought-iron gate, the roadway clogged with carriages damning her to choose another means of escape. With a dodge to the left she angled her body behind a low-lying hedge where a stone wall blanketed with lush green ivy stood as a divider to the adjacent property. She pressed flat with hope the mongrel would continue its race to the street, past where she waited. Her lungs burst, but she hardly gave pause to inhale.

Time stretched. Slowly the pounding in her ears receded. She heard the discordant melody of a songbird as a lonely ray of sunlight broke the cloud cover and she narrowed her eyes in trepidation until the hairs on the back of her neck pricked to attention. Two elongated shadows darkened the corner. She didn’t dare move. Trapped, fear clogged her throat as she stared at the growing outline of blackness. She willed her courage to surface, for her brain to master control.

The wolf dog stood not two paces away, teeth exposed in a silent snarl that did more to her frantic pulse than the race across the churchyard. She had not a moment to consider it before a looming form appeared behind the animal. A man with a serious expression, hair left too long and wide shoulders tapering to a strong physique stepped closer to align with the dog as he looked straight into her eyes. For a half second, her soul quaked. Somehow, for no reason she could explain, the stranger’s piercing gaze seemed to look inside her. She could barely catch her breath, yet he appeared completely composed.

‘Settle.’

The sharp command calmed the animal and it withdrew to a place of quiet obedience at the man’s feet.

With great relief and a bit of awe, she raised her chin and matched eyes with the stranger who’d controlled the fierce animal with nothing more than a word. He didn’t appear dangerous, but then neither did her stepfather and of late, she possessed an unspoken wariness whenever they shared company at Nettlecombe.

This man demanded control with his presence, exuded power by silent force. He was handsome even with a scowl holding his jaw tight, his face harsh angles and sharp corners, as if he’d been carved not born. Add to that his impeccable attire, a brown cashmere greatcoat pulled taut across his muscular build, dark trousers and shiny boots, put her clothing to shame. Yet something told her he was no gentleman. She braced herself for an outlash of disapproval and accusation, the cause unknown.

‘My apologies.’

It was the last thing she expected him to say and her exhalation whispered free.

‘My dog grew agitated by my behaviour at the other side of the churchyard. When he sensed your approach he meant to protect.’ His rich tenor did strange things to her stomach.

‘Not me.’ Her soft-spoken response seemed to amuse him. One thick brow arched over eyes blacker than soot. Meanwhile her shoulders eased from their rigid position and she drew another breath, no longer afraid.