“Of course we trust you, Livie,” Kat replied, her eyes narrowing, whether in concern or misgivings, Livie wasn’t certain. “But you do tend to believe the best in others when you probably shouldn’t. And to be honest, I can’t think of a single gentleman who would be happy to fund a gazette solely focused on destroying the reputations of other gentlemen.”
“Trust me. That will not be a problem.” Because the man Livie intended to ask was no gentleman at all. No.
The Bastard of Baker Street was said to hail from the devil himself.
Chapter Two
London, May 1885
Sebastian Colver, the Bastard of Baker Street, or the King of the Rookeries, depending on who you asked, carefully folded up the note before he strode back to his desk and placed it on the polished mahogany surface. He was deliberate to maintain his usual air of outward nonchalance, even though the two men seated in the chairs across from his desk were men he trusted.
Well, as trusted as Seb would ever allow anyone to be. Life had taught him the hard way that one could never fully trust anyone.
So, as usual, he kept his thoughts to himself and sat in his brown leather upholstered chair, even though inwardly his curiosity had been stirred greatly by the letter. A rare occurrence nowadays, especially after all Seb had seen and done. But this woman, who would clearly not take no for an answer as she’d plainly enunciated in her latest letter, was certainly rousing it. Greatly.
It had been a long time since anyone had dared question his decisions. He didn’t know if this Lady Olivia was daft or simply as stubborn as a mule. Perhaps both.
He leaned back against the comfortable padding that had been sewn into his custom-made chair and glanced to both of his men, determined to get his mind back to business instead of the persistent woman. “How are we going with the Bunkerton deal?” Seb looked to Lance Trantor, his second in charge, and a man more like a brother to him than simply a childhood friend and employee.
“The owner is trying to play hardball, but he’ll sign the contract later today, of that I have no doubt,” Lance answered, confidence radiating from his gaze. “You will own Bunkerton’s shares in his railroad before nightfall.”
“Good. And what about you, Rowan?” Seb glanced over to the younger man seated next to Lance, his head buried in an accounts ledger. “Are we on track for the Fullerton Hotel buyout?”
“The numbers are good,” Rowan Drake spoke without looking up, his pencil flying across the page as he continued to tally figures. “And I’ve sent the contract over to the solicitor for a last check.” His hand paused on the page and he raised his eyes briefly to Seb’s. “Pending that, I imagine you’ll add it to your growing portfolio of hotels by the end of the week.”
The news didn’t fill Seb with the usual sense of satisfaction it once would have, which was disconcerting, particularly as his business empire was what he lived for, or at least it had been. “Has there been any more trouble on the wharfs?”
Seb was talking about a new gang that had recently popped up in the Rookeries, who called themselves the Lads of Leybrook Lane, and had caused a bit of trouble for his men. Nothing they all weren’t used to. After all, when there were those who had power as Seb did, there were always others who tried to take that power. Not that Seb had any intention of allowing anyone to do so.
“Nothing our men can’t handle,” Lance answered.
Seb had anticipated as much, though it was best to stamp out the issue before it became a real problem. “And have our informants discovered the leader’s identity yet?”
Lance’s jaw tensed as he leaned forward in his chair, his hands fisting by his sides. “Not yet, but when I find out who the wretch is, I promise you I’ll personally ensure his body never surfaces from the Thames.”
His friend had always been particularly protective over their territory in the Rookeries and took it as a personal affront that any man would dare try to usurp Seb’s, and by proxy, Lance’s authority.
And though this new gang was more of a bother than a true threat, they did seem to be more organized and zealous than others he had quashed in the past. Which was why Seb had tasked Lance with discovering the leader’s identity, a fact that was so far proving rather elusive to uncover and was obviously frustrating Lance to no end.
“Well, when you do find out his name, consult with me first before doing anything. Understood?” Seb stared steadily at Lance until he reluctantly nodded.
“I will, but you know a strong message will have to be sent to deter others from following suit,” Lance replied. “You can’t treat such a threat within the bounds of the law as you are now trying to do with your businesses.”
“I know.” And Seb did. For as much as he had made the company and all of his businesses as legitimate as he could, there were still unavoidable aspects of his businesses that couldn’t be masked behind the doors of supposed respectability. He was still the King of the Rookeries, and he still had to maintain order in his streets. And the only real way of doing so was with force and fear, a fact Seb had learned well over the years.
His response seemed to placate Lance, who sat back, releasing his clenched fists as his eyes darted over to the folded note on Seb’s desk. “Is the lady still demanding an audience with you?” There was a note of unbridled curiosity in his friend’s voice.
Lance was nothing if not nosy about Seb’s life, and especially perceptive. Only to be expected after they’d grown up together on the streets, each having the other’s back in many precarious situations over the years.
“Yes,” Seb confirmed.
“A tenacious little thing, isn’t she?” Lance’s mouth twitched up at the corners. “Isn’t that the fifth letter she’s sent you this past fortnight?”
“The sixth actually,” Seb replied, careful to maintain a bland face. As much as he trusted Lance, Seb didn’t want him to realize just how curious this lady was making him. “I didn’t know you were keeping track.”
Lance shrugged. “When has a real lady ever sent you a letter, let alone persisted in doing so, all in an effort to meet with you? I’m intrigued, to be honest.”
So was Seb, but he stayed silent.
“Why don’t you just agree to see her?” Lance suggested. “If she wants to risk her reputation by meeting with you, then who cares? It’s her own good name on the line, after all, not yours.”
“He’s too busy to deal with some bored Society miss who won’t take no for an answer.” Rowan spoke, leaving his head still firmly buried in the accounts book as he continued with his task. “Besides, the lady’s brother is one of Seb’s partners in an investment, so he won’t wish to jeopardize that, no matter how curious he might be.”
Rowan’s ability to add numbers and still follow a conversation was a trait that continually impressed him, and had since Seb had rescued Rowan from the streets when the boy was only ten years old. Even then it had been readily apparent that Rowan was an intelligent lad, which was why Seb had taught him to read and write. And in doing so, recognized the boy had a gift for numbers.
A gift Seb had made great use of, with Rowan now in charge of overseeing the account portfolios of Seb’s numerous investments and business endeavors. And considering Rowan was only twenty-six, having the Bastard of Baker Street’s confidence in matters of finance was a feat no one else had achieved. Even Lance, who Seb had known for twenty-five years, since they were boys of eight, wasn’t privy to Seb’s accounts.
A fact which had been a bone of contention initially, as Lance had been Seb’s right-hand man since Seb had become the leader of the Baker Street Boys gang when they were fourteen. But, eventually, Lance had come to accept Rowan’s gifts, especially as using them had almost immediately increased profits in the organization tens of times over, which benefited Lance, too, after Seb had turned the organization legitimate and listed his company on the London Stock Exchange, making them all a for
tune in the process.
“I did do a little bit of digging on the lady, though, as you asked, Seb,” Rowan said, pausing in his calculations.
“Ha! I knew it,” Lance crowed with a pointed look at Seb. “You are as curious about the chit as I am.” His attention turned back to Rowan. “What did you discover?”
“Not a great deal, apart from the fact that she has a limp and walks with a cane, and is the youngest spinster daughter of the Duke of Beresford.” Rowan pushed his glasses up farther on his nose and frowned. “She has three older brothers who would practically murder anyone if they dared to make fun of her for her ailment, the eldest brother being the one Seb already has a business deal with. Oh and her godmother is the Duchess of Calder, an apparent ogre in Society whom none dare offend.”
“What about her looks?” Lance asked. “My informants have not assisted with such information.”
“Your informants?” Seb raised a brow.
Lance winked. “As I said, you’re not the only one curious about the lady.”
“No, nothing about her looks,” Rowan answered. “Though one can assume she must not be right in the head for wanting an audience with Seb.”
Laughter burst out of Lance at Rowan’s statement, while Seb simply shook his head. His friends clearly thought it highly amusing that a lady would seek him out.
“I mean, seriously,” Rowan continued, “what ruddy duke’s daughter wants to meet with Seb? Clearly, she’s not of sound mind.”
“You think only a mentally unstable woman would wish to associate with me?” Seb asked, even though that very thought had crossed his own mind, regardless that the woman didn’t sound unstable in her letters; quite the opposite actually.
Rowan nodded. “She’s not just any woman, though, is she? She’s a duke’s daughter. Besides, if she’s heard only even a quarter of what has been bandied around about the stuff you’ve done in your time, she’d never approach you. And there isn’t a person in London who hasn’t heard of you. Even a duke’s daughter would have paid attention to some of the rumors, so the fact she’s still pressing to meet with you even after you’ve ignored her requests does make me question her sanity.”
“But that’s the thing, isn’t it,” Lance chipped in. “She’s a duke’s daughter. She would have been spoiled and pampered all her life, without ever being told no before. Mark my words, she’s only miffed Seb is ignoring her, and if she ever did meet you, she’d be scared shitless. Of that, I’d lay a wager on.”
Seb stood and strolled back to the windows overlooking Baker Street. The woman who’d penned those letters to him requesting a meeting was no scared wallflower, even if she was perhaps foolhardy.
Haphazardly, he glanced down at the passing carts and trams in the street below. London was always so busy, with nary a quiet moment. Usually, it invigorated him, but lately it was leaving him feeling somewhat caged in. “I’m thinking of meeting her.”
“What?” Lance sounded baffled. “Even after you’ve repeatedly said you wouldn’t? You never normally change your mind. Rowan’s right, you must indeed be bored.”
“Bored but also curious,” Rowan stated, unsurprised. “After all, how often does a duke’s daughter make contact with someone from the Rookeries, let alone the king of ’em?”
Rowan was right. And the more tenacious the lady got in her requests, the more Seb’s interest was stirred.
“Well, perhaps she is daft, but I still reckon she’d run for the hills if she ever met Seb. Anyhow, it’s time I head off and get to work,” Lance declared as he stood and wandered over to the office door. “Lots of gentlemen needing encouragement to gamble away their fortunes, after all.”
Seb turned from the window and glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was already five, which meant the night was fast approaching, and the night meant money for most of their business endeavors, a fact Lance always took seriously, unlike his other frivolous pursuits of ladies and liquor. Which was why Seb had placed him in charge of the overall running of Seb’s gambling and gentlemen’s clubs, along with ensuring that Seb’s other business endeavors within London’s underworld were running smoothly. Lance could be trusted to get a job done, and done to Seb’s liking.
“What are you willing to wager?” Seb asked as Lance pulled open the door to the office.
“Wager?” Lance stopped in front of the now open entrance and spun back to face him.
“Yes, a wager. You think Lady Olivia will be scared upon meeting me and flee, whereas I think the lady is made of sturdier stuff.”
Lance paused for a moment, his face lighting up with a grin. “You know I’m always up for a good wager. I’ll put down twenty pounds that as soon as this Lady Olivia claps sight of you, she won’t just be scared of you, she’ll hobble for the hills with that limp of hers, scared shitless of you.”
“I do hate to disappoint you,” the velvety smooth voice of a woman spoke from behind Lance, her crisp upper-class accent sending a shaft of awareness through Seb, placing all his senses on alert. “However, I have no intention of hobbling away scared of anyone.”
Lance spun around to the side, giving Seb a clear view of the doorway.
Seb swore under his breath. There, standing at the entrance to his office, stood a bloody angel. An angel dressed all in black, who had obviously been waiting in his outer rooms. She’d gotten past his clerk, Clint Kofsson, with the lad himself standing behind her, wringing his hands in distress.
He’d have to have a word with Clint later and remind him not to let anyone, even a woman as clearly striking as this one, get the best of him. Though, for a moment, Seb could understand the lad’s acquiescence, as he’d never seen a more compelling face than hers. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but there was something about her high cheekbones and creamy porcelain skin, along with the determined set of her chin, that gave her character.
And her eyes. Good Lord, they were sparkling crystal blue, clear across the room, and he was certain he could drown in the depths of them.
He was intrigued in spite of himself. But it wasn’t just her looks that had him fascinated. No, there was a keen intelligence and purpose radiating from her that was compelling. And, rather than taking offense at Lance’s words, there was instead wry amusement dancing in her gaze. An unusual woman to say the least.
“I’ve come to see Mr. Colver,” the woman continued, “and I have no intention of leaving until I do so. Now, which of the three of you is he?”
She deliberately walked into the room, her cane leading the way, a limp definitely noticeable as she strode past Lance to stand in the center of the space a few feet from Rowan, her gaze scanning the three of them.
He supposed some men would be put off by her gait, with her body swaying slightly to the right as she balanced her weight away from her bad leg. But there was certainly nothing haggish about the lady. She wielded her cane like an adept swordsman—effortlessly and as if the cane were connected to her.
Seb unconsciously found himself taking in a deep breath, aware of her as he hadn’t been of anyone in a long time. She was wearing a tailored black bodice and black dress that molded her curves to perfection, though gave her the definite appearance of a widow. Her golden blond hair was artfully piled high on her head, with a black bonnet perched jauntily atop, and small ringlets cascading down to frame her heart-shaped face.
If this was Lady Olivia, which he highly suspected it was, she was going to be trouble with a capital T.
Seb knew it all the way to his bloody toes.
Goddamnit.
Chapter Three
Livie stood at the threshold of what many called the devil’s den, eyeing the three men, who all appeared like intimidating Vikings as they stood towering around her, a decided lack of amusement on each of their expressions.
They were probably unused to being visited by a lady at a place of business, particularly when
the owner of the business and the building was Sebastian Colver, a man with a reputation of destroying any who came into his path.
But which of the three in this rather spacious and grandiose office was the notorious Mr. Colver?
The dossier she’d received about him hadn’t included a photograph, though it had included information on his right-hand men, Lance Trantor and Rowan Drake. Men who ensured all of Colver’s instructions and edicts were carried out to the letter.
Quickly, she took in a breath and squared her shoulders. She knew from her experience in dealing with her three older brothers that she had to maintain the upper hand, even if her stomach was rolling like an ocean steamer battling through hundred-foot waves.
“Let me hazard a guess,” Livie said, turning her head ever so slightly toward the man standing beside the door with an inquisitive expression in his brown eyes. The one who had agreed to the wager, saying she’d flee to the hills. “You must be the self-proclaimed ladies’ man, Lance Trantor?”
The man blinked. “How did you know that?”
Livie shrugged. “My informants tell me you have a penchant for wearing flamboyantly colored waistcoats with matching neckties, along with a proclivity for agreeing to wagers.” Her eyes flicked over his tailored charcoal suit with the bright purple silk waistcoat underneath. “I see they were correct on both accounts.” She was glad to observe an expression of consternation cross the man’s face.
“And you.” She swiveled her eyes over to the burly young man sitting in the chair to her left, who was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and peering at her with suspicion heavy in his hooded green gaze. “You must be Mr. Colver’s young protégé, Rowan Drake. A man particularly clever with numbers.”
“And who the hell are you?” Rowan spluttered, grabbing the ledger that had been on his lap and unfurling his tall form to stand.
The Bachelor Bargain Page 2
