Sneak Peak Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

March 1, 1841

Dolphin Square, London

Jordan Draper’s life revolved around figures; numbers were life blood to him. As the third son of a provincial man-of-business, he’d been exposed to the calculus of various types of enterprises from an early age. Consequently, it had surprised no one when, after completing grammar school, he’d taken to the business of accounts and estate management like a duck to water.

Then, utterly unexpectedly, for excellent and, indeed, commendable reasons, a scion of his father’s premier client family, the Delbraiths, who held the dukedom of Ridgware, elected to leave behind his life of dissolute comfort to become, of all things, London’s gambling king. The absurdity and the challenge appealed to Jordan, and he followed Neville Roscoe to London, becoming Roscoe’s man-of-business and, in all things managerial, Roscoe’s right-hand man. As such, Jordan watched over all the accounts pertaining to Roscoe’s vast entrepreneurial empire.

Despite there being more than a decade between them in age, Jordan and Roscoe had always got on. They understood each other at a level that meant that, in any situation, Jordan instinctively knew what Roscoe would want done. Over the years, the day-to-day excitements and never-ending challenges had ensured Jordan remained engaged and involved in the constantly evolving business that fell under Roscoe’s hand. That invariably, Roscoe stood on the side of justice and fairness made Jordan’s work considerably easier than might have been supposed.

Now, decades after Roscoe’s arrival in London, the authorities were entirely content to have the upper stratum of gambling establishments in the town firmly under Roscoe’s control.

With his position at Roscoe’s side assured and all running smoothly, Jordan found that his life had grown pleasant and comfortable, but rather less exciting and challenging.

There were times he wasn’t entirely sure if that was for the good.

On the first afternoon of March, toward the end of a rather dreary day, seated behind the desk in the accounts office in Roscoe’s sprawling mansion in Dolphin Square, Jordan was finalizing the last of the day’s correspondence when Mudd, one of Roscoe’s bodyguards, tapped on the open door.

“Boss wants to see you in his office,” Mudd rumbled.

Jordan nodded, tucked his pencil behind his right ear, and pushed back his chair. “Any clue as to why?”

Mudd stepped back and waited for Jordan to join him in the corridor. “Some letter that just came. Seems it’s a mite puzzling.”

Intrigued, Jordan walked beside Mudd, a hefty ex-bruiser closer to Roscoe’s age than Jordan’s and also one of the trusted few who made up Roscoe’s inner circle, down the elegantly appointed corridor to Roscoe’s large office.

The door stood open, and Jordan and Mudd walked in to find Roscoe, a dark-haired, elegantly handsome gentleman whose face testified to his aristocratic lineage, sitting behind his large mahogany desk and faintly frowning at the sheet of paper he held in one hand.

Leaning on one of Roscoe’s broad shoulders and also avidly scrutinizing the letter was Lady Miranda, Roscoe’s wife.

Another man, even taller and heavier than Mudd, stood before the curtained windows, attempting to look inconspicuous and failing. As Jordan crossed the thick carpet toward the desk, he grinned and tipped his head to Rawlings, another of the inner circle.

Both Roscoe and Miranda looked up as Jordan neared.

Miranda straightened and smiled, the gesture warming her pretty face.

Jordan smiled back, then met Roscoe’s eyes, which continued to hold a frown. “You wanted me?”

Roscoe’s gaze returned to the letter. “Remember Thomas Cardwell, Hemingway’s man-of-business?”

Jordan nodded. “We dealt with him in negotiating the Hemingways’ contract.”

Hemingways’ Linens supplied the linens to all of Roscoe’s various clubs. As far as Jordan was aware, the firm had always been reliable with no issues at all.

“Correct.” Roscoe held out the letter. “This just arrived, and I’m not sure what to make of it. What do you think?”

Jordan took the letter and quickly scanned the neat, businesslike script.

Thomas Cardwell had written:

Dear Sir,

I’ve stumbled upon a nefarious activity that I believe needs to be brought to the attention of the authorities. However, the situation is sensitive, and I have no connections in that sphere and do not know how to proceed. I am hoping that you might advise me as to what the best approach would be. I will be in my office from eight in the morning tomorrow or will willingly travel to Dolphin Square should you or one of your advisors be available to discuss the matter.

Yours sincerely, Thomas Cardwell.

“Nefarious?” Jordan could see why Roscoe was puzzled. “He could have been a trifle more forthcoming.”

“Indeed. That was my immediate reaction,” Roscoe confessed. “What on earth could Cardwell have stumbled upon?”

Still studying the scant lines, Jordan offered, “I assume labeling the situation ‘sensitive’ means this discovery involves one of his clients.”

“Possibly,” Miranda said, “but who’s to know?”

“Only one way to find out.” Jordan looked at Roscoe. “Do you want me to go to his office tomorrow and learn what this is about?”

Roscoe considered the question, then glanced at Mudd and Rawlings. “Have we heard anything about Hemingways’ recently?”

Both large men shook their heads.

“Not a peep,” Mudd confirmed. “Far as we know, they’re carrying on as usual with no dramas.”

Roscoe tapped one long finger on his blotter, then returned his gaze to Jordan. “One never can tell. Best you go and see Cardwell and find out what he’s uncovered.”

Miranda added, “We don’t want to suddenly discover the clubs are short on linens. And”—she caught Roscoe’s eye—“just in case there’s more to this than meets the eye at first glance, you might take Gelman with you.”

Gelman was in training to eventually assist Mudd and Rawlings with their duties.

Rawlings was quick to support Miranda’s suggestion. “The lad needs to get out and about and learn more of what the business covers.”

Mudd tacked on, “What he might be called on to do. He needs experience if he’s to step up to our level one day.”

Struggling to rein in his grin, Roscoe nodded to Jordan. “Yes, take Gelman with you. It won’t hurt for him to be put to wider use.”

Jordan folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “Gelman and I will head over to Cardwell’s first thing tomorrow.”

* * *

At eight o’clock the following morning, accompanied by John Gelman, Jordan left the big white mansion on the north side of Dolphin Square, hailed an idling hackney, and set off to cross London to Thomas Cardwell’s office in Broad Street, just north of the Bank of England.

Gelman was an average-sized man in his mid-thirties, perennially neatly and quietly dressed and keen to prove himself worthy of inclusion in Roscoe’s innermost circle. Like Mudd and Rawlings, he’d been a guard at one of Roscoe’s clubs and had shown himself to be a sensible man who understood the value of restraint and of using common sense to defuse fraught situations. He could be intimidating when required but also knew when to stand back and let the promise of his presence do the talking. Unlike Mudd and Rawlings, who with their crooked noses and cauliflower ears bore the signs of their previous lives in their faces, Gelman possessed an unremarkable appearance, which made him an excellent choice for this excursion.

In common with all of Roscoe’s men, Gelman wasn’t a natural chatterer, and Jordan spent the journey to Broad Street mentally constructing possible scenarios to account for Thomas Cardwell’s appeal.

The hackney drew up opposite Cardwell’s office. With muted eagerness, Jordan opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. Gelman followed and paid the jarvey.

When the carriage drew away, Jordan remained on the pavement and studied the three-story building across the street. It was typical of the area, having a wide façade with a central door that would give access to stairs leading to the apartments on the upper floors. The ground floor played host to two offices, each reached by doors flanking and at right angles to the central door, which was set back a yard or so from the pavement so that the three doors formed a rectangular alcove. Both offices had wide bow windows fronting the street, and above the window on the right, a discreet gold-lettered sign declared it to be the premises of Thom. Cardwell, Business Agent.

Jordan stepped onto the cobbles and, with Gelman at his shoulder, crossed to the opposite pavement and led the way to Cardwell’s door. Given it was half past eight, Jordan was unsurprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it and walked into a neat and welcoming office.

Three comfortable chairs arranged about a round table occupied the area closer to the window, while farther back, a wide solid desk sat squarely across the rear of the room. The three interior walls were lined with shelves holding account ledgers and books about accounting practices.

In one sweeping glance, Jordan took all of that in and found nothing out of place.

The sight that jarred him and brought him to a halt two paces beyond the door was the younger gentleman with his pale, slack-jawed face and horror-struck expression who was standing stock-still behind the desk and staring downward in utter shock.

Slowly, as if the movement required great effort, the younger man dragged his gaze from its fixation, looked at Jordan and Gelman, and, ashen-faced, stammered, “I… I didn’t…” He swallowed and blurted, almost on a wail, “I didn’t do it!”

Freed by the sound, Jordan swiftly went forward.

Gelman closed the door and followed.

They rounded the desk and halted, looking down at a sight that explained the gentleman’s distress.

A dark-haired man in a neat suit lay sprawled on his back, with blood seeping through his waistcoat from where the hilt of a letter knife protruded from his chest. With a sinking feeling, Jordan recognized Thomas Cardwell. Cardwell’s eyes were wide open, and his expression was one of surprise and shock. Judging by the position of the desk chair, Cardwell had been sitting in it when he was attacked and had subsequently fallen off to one side.

Jordan and Gelman both softly swore, and Jordan crouched and set his fingers to Cardwell’s neck to check for a pulse. There was none, but from the warmth of Cardwell’s skin and the still-oozing blood, he’d been dead for mere minutes.

Absorbing that fact, Jordan raised his gaze to the unknown younger man.

The man rushed to declare, “I only just got here! I arrived a bare minute before you two.”

Gelman stepped back to stand against the wall closer to the door. “No signs of a fight that I can see.”

Jordan returned his gaze to the body, then he straightened and looked more closely at the other man. Jordan suspected he knew the answer even though he asked, “Who are you?”

The younger man was having trouble breathing. “I… I’m his brother.” He hauled in a tight breath. “Thomas’s younger brother. Bobby Cardwell.”

The resemblance Jordan had observed borne out, he asked, “Why are you here?”

“I came to speak with him.” Bobby’s eyes were drawn once more to his brother’s corpse. “I got here just before you two, and I found him”—Bobby swallowed and gestured wildly—“like that!”

“He was already dead?” Jordan glanced around the area. As Gelman had said, there was no sign of any struggle.

“Yes!” Bobby calmed a fraction. “I checked, like you did. He was already gone.”

The door opened, drawing the three men’s attention.

A lady somewhere in her thirties carrying an armful of ledgers came bustling inside. She was of average height, slender but with well-formed curves filling out the dark-blue jacket and full skirt of her outfit. Her sable hair was gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck, and her black bonnet framed an oval face with large periwinkle-blue eyes, a straight nose, and a determined chin. She set the ledgers on the round table and blinked at Jordan and Gelman. Her lush, blush-pink lips formed a silent “Oh.”

Then her gaze passed on to Bobby, with his pale face and stunned expression, and puzzled concern infused her features. “Bobby? What are you doing here?” Her gaze flitted back to Jordan and Gelman. “Where’s Thomas?” When no one immediately answered, she focused on Bobby and, frowning, started for him. “What’s wrong?”

Both Jordan and Gelman shifted, their instinctive impulse being to block the lady’s sight of the slain man, but unsure who she was, both hesitated.

Then she neared Bobby, and he drew in a shuddering breath and pointed down behind the desk. “He’s dead!” He gulped and almost on a sob continued, “Oh God, Ruthie! Thomas is dead!”

“Wha—” The lady’s exclamation cut off as she reached Bobby and, with her gaze, followed his pointing finger. Her face drained of all color—every last vestige—then she made an inarticulate sound, pushed Bobby aside, crouched by the body, and as Jordan had, searched for a pulse.

When she found no trace, she slowly rocked back on her heels. Her hand rose to her throat. “Oh Lord. Who…?” Then her gaze snapped to Jordan and Gelman, and she rose. Her eyes full of suspicion, she demanded, “Who are you?”

Calmly, Jordan replied, “We came to keep an appointment Cardwell made. He invited us to call.”

Her eyes narrowing, she tipped up her chin and declared, “I know all my brother’s clients, and he didn’t mention meeting any new ones.”

So she was Cardwell’s sister. His older sister, Jordan suspected. Keen to see what she would make of it, he drew Cardwell’s letter from his pocket and held it out.

Ruth Cardwell seized the letter and read it.

Bobby had recovered somewhat and gathered his wits enough to say, “It’s true, Ruthie. They arrived just after I did.”

Watching a frown of even greater puzzlement invest Ruth’s face and deducing that she had no more notion of what had prompted her brother to write the letter than Jordan did, he reached over and filched the sheet back.

She frowned vaguely, but let him have it.

Bobby went on, “I got here just a minute or so before them and found Thomas”—Bobby’s breath hitched—“like that.” He looked at Jordan and Gelman and, unprompted, went on, “I came in, and I couldn’t see him. I looked around, then called his name as I came to the desk…” His memory rolled on, and his complexion lost what little color it had regained.

Jordan merely nodded and focused on Ruth Cardwell. Although white-faced and clearly deeply shocked, she appeared more in command of her faculties than Bobby. “When does Thomas normally unlock his door?”

“Eight o’clock, on the dot.” Ruth glanced at Jordan, but then her gaze returned to the body of her brother.

In a quiet voice, Bobby added, “He always said it was important for his clients that he was punctual.”

Jordan nodded, but his attention was on Ruth Cardwell’s face. She was staring at the body, sorrow filling her large eyes, but she was biting her lip, and even though grief was already etching her features, there was an element of concern in her expression that Jordan couldn’t quite reconcile.

“Is the letter knife his?” he asked.

She nodded. “It was usually lying on his desk.” She glanced at the desk and pointed at the top-right corner of the blotter. “Just there. He always kept it there.”

Jordan studied brother and sister. “Thomas had met me through the business of one of his clients. He knew I work for Neville Roscoe.”

Both Ruth’s and Bobby’s eyes widened. As Jordan had anticipated, even these innocents knew of Roscoe at least by name and reputation. He went on, “Thomas sent Roscoe that letter asking for advice about some particular activity he’d uncovered that he, Thomas, believed needed to be brought to the authorities’ attention.” Jordan arched a brow at Ruth and Bobby. “Do either of you know why your brother appealed to Roscoe for advice?”

Both remained deeply puzzled and shook their heads.

Ruth directed a frown at Jordan and Gelman. “Thomas never mentioned any dealings with Neville Roscoe.”

Suspicion was, once more, back in her eyes.

“It was Hemingways’ Linens,” Jordan said. “Roscoe has a large contract with them.”

“Ah. I see.” Ruth relaxed somewhat, which told Jordan that she did, indeed, know her brother’s clients.

Gelman shifted and glanced at Jordan. “So what now? Want me to fetch a bobby?”

Jordan considered the situation—in all its puzzling aspects—and shook his head. “Given Cardwell contacted us, this might be more than the local police can handle.” He looked at Ruth and Bobby. “We’ll arrange for Scotland Yard to be notified.” With a wave, he encouraged the pair to the door. “Until they send someone to take charge, Gelman will remain on guard to ensure nothing is touched or tampered with.”

Gelman inclined his head and stepped back against the wall.

Jordan had to physically crowd Ruth Cardwell to get her moving, but underneath her outward façade, she was shocked, shaken, and grief was quickly rising, and when Bobby took her arm, although patently reluctant to leave their dead brother, she went with Bobby to the door.

Jordan followed. “Your address?” When Ruth glanced blankly at him, he added, “The police will want it.”

Rather numbly, she said, “Number twenty-nine, Finsbury Circus. Just south of East Street.”

That was a pleasant area populated by the gentry.

Jordan nodded. “I’ll pass that on.”

He got the Cardwells out of the office and onto the pavement.

Bobby drew in a deeper breath and looked at Jordan. “It’s not far. We always just walk.”

Jordan watched as Ruth took firmer hold of Bobby’s arm, and together, walking slowly with their heads bowed, they set off for Finsbury Circus.

Once they’d turned down a side street and passed out of sight, Jordan hailed a passing hackney and ordered the jarvey to make for Dolphin Square with all speed.

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