by Darcy Burke
The man didn’t touch the paper; he merely scanned its content and disappeared. He reappeared a moment later, nodding to someone beyond Harry.
Harry turned, scanning the tavern for what the man had motioned at, his eyes falling on a familiar face, shrouded by shadows. He instantly recognized Malik. The man unfolded from his seat with the grace of a tiger and saluted Harry with a pint as he approached him.
Harry blinked. So Malik had figured it out as well? That meant Harry was in the right place. Ophelia had been right about the painting. And the five shillings that amounted to a crown did point to this tavern. How had Malik solved the mystery without the betting book? Why had he not alerted Harry immediately? Or perhaps he had, and Harry had missed the missive on his way here? Given the timing of Malik’s presence, it seemed the likeliest explanation.
“Avondale,” he murmured, leaning over to peer at the note Harry had removed from his pocket. “Didn’t think you’d figure it out.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, a bit insulted.
“Malik, did you only just discover the answer as well? What coincidental timing.”
“No.”
No?
“No? No, what?”
“It is not coincidental timing.”
Harry frowned. “What the devil do you mean by that, Malik? I’ve been going mad with riddles, man. I do not need another. What the hell is going on?” Harry growled.
“Follow me.”
Harry wasn’t in the mood. “First, tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Follow me, and I’ll explain.”
Harry grunted with frustration but followed Malik through a door that led to the back office, then through a series of passageways and doors that led them further into the belly of the establishment, which stretched beyond what Harry would have thought. Before long, they were stepping through a door and descending into an underground tunnel. Malik lit a candle. Careful planning had gone into the architecture of the impressive passages. But the pathways were not new; the walls were more than a century old.
“We own the entire block,” Malik said as if reading Harry’s thoughts. “All the buildings are connected through underground tunnels.”
“We? Who exactly is we?”
Malik slowed his pace before coming to a halt. He stood aside and motioned to the door in front of them. A cold chill ran down his spine. What had his father gotten into?
“Why do I get the impression that if I open that door, my life is never going to be the same again?”
Malik lifted a brow. “Is your life the same as it was yesterday?”
Harry thought of Ophelia, her spellbinding laughter and bewitching presence. He thought of the touch of her skin against his and the raw honesty in her voice as she confessed her feelings. He thought of the ring burning in his pocket.
“That’s not the bloody point,” he said to Malik. But he had to know the truth, had to push forward. For her.
Harry shoved the door. Particles of dust swirled around him as it swung open.
They entered a chilly space that smelled of old, moldy wood. The room was silent but for their boots crunching into the ground. Harry squinted his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but then Malik raised the candlestick. The room was illuminated in a warm glow.
Harry had been right. This would change his life forever. Already he felt the threads of his existence unraveling. For he could never unsee what he then saw.
Row upon row of barrels. Stacked from floor to ceiling. Barrels as far as his eye could see. For a moment, it looked like art, the barrels flowing like hills and valleys over one another. But there was some actual art too. In a corner, paintings were covered in silk and stacked alongside a few sculptures.
What the bloody hell?
“What is this?” Harry breathed, sweeping his gaze over the room. Part of him knew, but he needed it confirmed.
“Our family operation, Avondale, stretching back generations.”
Malik’s statement stopped Harry’s thoughts in their tracks. He was not expecting that. “Our family operation? What do you mean our?”
“Remarkable, isn’t it?”
“No.” Harry shook his head. “My father bought paintings, art pieces. Spent every last penny on them. I assume those are the paintings in the corner. I expect you to tell me that he was swept up in some contraband plot and you want to extort me now, but you cannot possibly tell me that my family ran an operation or whatever this is.”
“The paintings were a front, Avondale. Your father, along with mine, inherited this business from their fathers and those before them. It’s been passed down through the generations.”
“Smuggling?”
Malik shrugged.
“No,” Harry repeated. He shook his head. “This is illegal. My father was an aristocrat.”
“And titled folk would never dabble in filth, correct?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Malik,” Harry growled.
“Narrow-minded arrogance does not look well on you either.”
Harry narrowed his eyes on the man. “I paid you, and you were lying to me this entire time?”
“Never cashed your banknotes.”
Harry glared at the man. “That is not the entirety of my point. Why didn’t you inform me of this operation when I first approached you? Better yet, why didn’t my father tell me himself?”
“Your father did not want this life for you. When our ancestors first started the business, your forefather was young, titled, and destitute. He met my great grandfather at a tavern—The Crown—and the idea for their business was born.”
Sweat broke out on Harry’s brow.
He had been lied to his entire life.
“From what I’ve gathered,” Malik continued, “your father was leaving the trade. He had amassed enough for you to continue growing your wealth without any more involvement. This,” he motioned to barrels, “was his last purchase. Unfortunately, he passed away before the contraband could be sold and the profits sent to your coffers.”
The walls closed in on Harry. Had his father, his grandfather, and all the generations before them truly made their fortunes through smuggling? Why the hell hadn’t they married for wealth? Had they enjoyed the thrill of moving illegal contraband too much?
How could his father keep this from him? Carry the burden alone? Harry could have helped. He would have parted the heavens for the man.
“My father was a confused man, not in his right senses toward the end. He drank himself to oblivion each night. Why didn’t you help him if he wanted out? Why did you let him make one last purchase?”
Malik sighed, and for the first time, Harry saw the man’s features soften fractionally as emotion flashed over the harsh planes of his face. But in an instant it was gone like it had never happened.
“Yes, your father was sick and in pain. No amount of laudanum helped what ailed him. Beyond that, Avondale, there was nothing wrong with his mind. Your father only informed me of his plans after the fact.”
His father drank for the pain? What pain? What ailment?
Harry’s brows furrowed. “What was wrong with my father?”
“Stomach ulcers.”
Bile rose.
More secrets. More lies.
“Why the devil did you not tell me any of this when I contracted you to find my father’s purchases? Purchases, I might add, of which you knew the whereabouts all along!”
“I was asked not to.”
“By whom? My father? And what if I didn’t figure it out, given that I had no starting point to begin with?” Harry demanded.
“You were never supposed to figure it out. I would have sold the contraband and return your fortune.”
“Bloody hell, Malik.” Harry dragged a hand through his hair. “Then it’s a good thing I discovered his cryptic wagers.”
Malik frowned. “The betting book.”
“Yes, the betting book.” Sarcasm dripped from Harry’s voice. “I expect you to bloody answer me, Malik. Who
told you not to tell me?”
“I did.”
Harry and Malik turned to the new voice that entered the fray. And truly, Harry could not have been more shocked if Prinny himself had appeared in the tunnel.
“Mother?”
In a mere second, life could look so utterly different.
Never mind a minute, an hour, or a day. A second was all it took.
Earring in hand, Ophelia knew there was no explaining this to her father. Hanover was still unconscious but now sprawled on a divan where her father and Charles had deposited him.
Hanover, the rat, looked peaceful with his eyes shut. Not like the wretched man he became once they opened. It made explaining his villainy even more difficult.
“Ophelia,” her father said, his tone not once wavering even as his gaze dropped to take in her disheveled clothes. “Would you care to explain what the devil happened here? Is Hanover’s claim the truth? Did you sneak into White’s and steal the betting book?”
Ophelia’s lowered eyes whipped up to meet her father’s.
How . . .
“When did you speak with Hanover?”
“He cornered me in White’s last evening. Naturally, I demanded proof of his claims, which he said he could provide. He made quite a compelling point.” He frowned at Hanover before turning back to her. “I gather that he doesn’t have that proof any longer?”
Ophelia blinked at her father, who arched a single dark brow in response.
“I do not want this rapscallion as a son-in-law, Ophelia. Did you recover the proof?”
Ophelia nodded, at a loss for words.
Her father gave a curt nod. “And the book?”
She inhaled deeply. “That will not be my problem much longer.”
“Good.”
“Good?” Ophelia’s voice cracked. “Are you not going to reprimand me?”
“Do you want to be scolded?”
“No,” Ophelia croaked, shaking her head. “What about him? He might not have proof, but the man has a tongue.”
“I have a bigger one.”
Ophelia turned to her father. “I’m sorry if I have disappointed you, Papa. I was not thinking about you or Mama when I took the book.”
The earl’s face softened. “I heard about the list, Ophelia. You have made me proud. You stood up for yourself. I might not agree on the method, but I applaud your bravery.”
“But . . .” Ophelia trailed off. “I’ve caused so much trouble.”
Her father leaned against his desk, crossing one leg over the other. “Have I ever told you about the day I met your mother?”
Ophelia shook her head. “Mother always tells the story of how you swept her off her feet with your dashing smile and irresistible charm. I always thought she borrowed that line from a romance novel.”
Her father chuckled. “I did sweep your mother off her feet—quite literally, in fact.”
Ophelia arched a questioning brow.
“She was foxed as a sailor and didn’t watch her step.” Her father smiled fondly. “Would have tumbled down the main staircase of Drury Lane had I not caught her in my arms.”
“That is how you met Mother?” Ophelia shook her head, bemused. “Well, Mother does enjoy her port.”
“And her cheroots, though I made her give that up after you were conceived.”
“Mother smoked cheroots?” Ophelia asked, stunned.
“Your mother was quite the independent woman—a lot like you,” her father admitted, a soft smile curling his lips. “I fell in love with her the moment our eyes met and she smiled up at me. I have never recovered from that smile. Not to this day. I never wanted just an advantageous match for you, Ophelia. I have always hoped you would discover what your mother and I share.”
“Even though you dull her port?” Ophelia asked. Emotion welled up in her throat. She wanted the same connection—had found it with Avondale.
“I dull your mother’s wine because it gives her gout in her toes,” the earl murmured with a shake of his head. “And she refuses to stop drinking the stuff.”
Ophelia laughed.
A groan from the divan drew their attention to Hanover.
“I want to find that,” Ophelia said, belatedly responding to her father’s comment as she glanced at him. “I think I did.”
“Avondale.”
Ophelia started. “How did you know?”
“I’m your father, Ophelia, but I’m also a man. I have an instinct for these things.”
“You heard rumors, didn’t you?” Ophelia said dryly.
“Your mother is an endless source of gossip.”
From the chair, Hanover groaned again, this time more loudly. Ophelia and her father turned to the scoundrel, their arms crossed, waiting for him to wake.
“What happened?” Hanover moaned. Then he shot out of the chair as though he’d been stung by a bee. “You,” he growled at Ophelia, “What did you do?”
“That is no way to speak to my daughter, Hanover.”
Hanover turned his furious gaze to Ophelia’s father. “Rhodes, your daughter is ruined. There is only one way to save her reputation, and that is to grant me her hand in marriage.”
“Then I presume you brought the proof of your absurd claims?”
Hanover nodded and reached into his pocket. He scowled and started to pat down his body before he directed accusatory eyes to Ophelia. “You did this. You and that servant of yours!”
“Is this some kind of jest?” the Earl of Rhodes demanded. “I will not stand for this, Hanover.”
Hanover paled a little. “I swear to you, I had the earring on me. Your daughter must have taken it!”
“Me?” Ophelia asked innocently. “How could I have possibly mastered all that you claim?”
“This is the second time you have accused my daughter of thievery, Hanover. I would tread carefully if I were you.”
The man jabbed a finger at Ophelia. “Look at how she is dressed. Scandalous! And you will believe her word above mine?”
“My daughter and her friends are acting in a play. There is nothing wrong with how she is dressed.”
Ophelia nodded for emphasis.
Hanover flicked his gaze between father and daughter, who stood united. Ophelia withheld a smirk. She had won, by the skin of her teeth, but she had won.
“Hanover,” her father said deadpan, straightening to his full height. “I will give you this warning only once. If you ever come within spitting distance of my daughter again, I will ruin what little foothold you have left in polite society and whatever chance you have of securing a respectable wife. Now get the hell out of my sight before I lose my temper and remove you myself.”
Ophelia stood firm, head held high, forcing herself to watch Hanover’s departure. She noted the slight pinch of pity she felt. She was human, after all. And there was something pitiful about watching a man shrivel up and slump away wounded. As though he did not quite fit the category of man but belonged to a different kind altogether.
Yet Ophelia’s relief was too great to feel that pinch for longer than a second.
She would not have to marry Hanover.
Her father turned to her. “Are you done with your life of crime, Ophelia?”
Ophelia nodded. “Quite.”
“That’s a relief to hear.” He circled his desk to lower into the chair.
Ophelia smiled and turned to leave.
“One last thing,” her father said, his voice gruff. Ophelia turned back. “Avondale—are you sure about him?”
Ophelia smiled. She couldn’t wait to find Harry and tell him all about the episode with Hanover. Kiss him. Drag her fingers through his hair. Demand some answers.
She smiled. “I’ve never been so sure about anyone in my life.”
Chapter 19
For the rest of his life, Harry would never forget the moment he had turned to find his mother standing in the underbelly of The Crown. Swathed in a pale velvet cloak, a pinched look on her features, she had turned accusi
ng eyes on Malik.
“I did not want to tarnish your memory of your father, Harry. I wanted you to marry, have children, enjoy an ordinary life without the knowledge of this family’s crimes.”
“You would have forced me to marry for wealth!”
“We needed time for Malik to sell the contraband.”
“And then what? Lie to me about how it had been retrieved?”
Silence.
“What about father’s illness? That was the reason he drank himself into oblivion. He was in pain, wasn’t he?”
“Harry.”
“Wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you keep the truth from me? Did I not have the right to at least know that?”
“Your father did not wish to worry you.”
“What about after his death? Did I not have the right to know then? You made me believe he lost his faculties!”
“I would have told you everything, dear. You were in mourning—”
“I am still in mourning, Mother. Keeping me in the dark is not protecting me.”
Harry had stalked out after that. Livid. Disappointed. Betrayed.
Of course his mother had known about his father’s dealings all along; she had known the entire length of their marriage. How she must have felt to have lived with the knowledge. Always fearful, always worrying that her husband might be tossed into prison and shipped off in exile at any moment, forever unsure how long their secret would remain undiscovered . . . It must have been nerve-racking.
In a way, Harry understood why his father and ultimately his mother hadn’t wished to burden him with the knowledge of their family history, though Harry did not have to agree with them. He was part of the family too.
But his father’s ailment? Stomach ulcers? Painful. Incurable. Intolerable. The reason he had drank so much—to dull the pain—is what slayed Harry.
Harry wanted to punch a fist in the wall.
He could, if he tried hard, attempt to understand that too. What he resented the hell out of was that his parents had robbed him of a chance to help.
Harry shut his eyes against the burn gathering in their depths. With all these revelations, Harry’s world as he knew it had come to a swift end. Of course, his world as he knew it had come to an end before his mother’s arrival. It had ended the moment he’d stepped over the threshold into that room.
