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
