Page 5 of Tempting the Scoundrel
“New tack,” Richard said. “Is there anyone whodoesn’thate you?”
“Richard.” Anne elbowed him in the side. “What he means is . . . dear, is there anyone we may call upon? The sooner we have support, the better.”
Alexandra set her cup of tea down. “I have friends.” Anne and Richard almost looked relieved until Alexandra spoke again. “They’ve asked that I keep my distance. They’ve no wish to be associated with the wife of a gaming hell owner. It would ruin their marriage prospects.”
Richard looked uneasy. “Thorne is an ally—”
“He’syourally.” Alexandra stood, placing her napkin on the table. “From what I understand he’s a useful associate to have, if you wish to intimidate someone. He’s good for little else.” Richard opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand. “Recall that I have an entire box of the articles he’s submitted to newspapers criticizing my work. He might be a decent ally, but he’s a lousy husband.”
Her brother let out a breath. “Fair enough.”
“Just . . . take care that he’s not using you, Richard. I’ve some experience with the sting of his betrayal.” She glanced at Anne and gestured at the broadsheet. “May I have that? I’d find it cathartic to watch it go up in flames.”
Anne moved to pass it over, squinting at the drawing. “Well,” she said, “at least you seem to have the devil in your thrall, don’t you?”
“Oh, I suppose I do. After all, the devil is my husband.”
Chapter 2
The Brimstone was Thorne’s pride and joy.
Those in Whitechapel often desired a place of their own—but few managed to get out from under the boot of a landlord. It was the cold, hard reality of the East End that you were born with nothing, you lived with nothing, and you died with nothing. Possessions were as easy to keep as a fistful of sand. There wasn’t a thing you owned that wasn’t up for sale to pay the landlord, just to ease that boot off your neck for a short while.
That could have been Thorne’s fate, had it not been for Lady Alexandra Grey’s money.
That fortune had helped make him the most powerful man in the East End—in all of London, some claimed.
But Thorne didn’t give a shit about the rest of London. He surveyed his club from the balcony of his private wing, watching as rich men spent their money. He used that income to pay his workers. To take care of the people in his streets. To house them, feed them, and put clothes on their backs if they needed.
They called him King of the East End. The moniker chafed; monarchs, after all, built fortunes off the exploitation of laborers. Thorne was a Republican through and through—an Irishman, after all—but he knew the burden that came with being responsible for people. He took it seriously.
And all he’d lost to gain this immense fortune was a woman’s trust. Some might consider that trifling. What did trust matter compared to security, food, money, power? So much to gain, such a small thing to sacrifice.
Except for one problem: Thorne had been fool enough to fall in love with her.
He thought of Alex too often these days. He heard her name whispered in dark corners of his club where members thought he couldn’t hear.
Lady Alexandra Grey and Nicholas Thorne. Secret marriage. Gretna Green four years ago. Can you believe a lady marrying that bastard? Pfft. Not a lady, anyway, she’s a fucking suffragette with nice tits and a shrill mouth.
Thorne had taken a lord outside for that last one. Asked which arm he favored.
And broke it.
“Looks like you could use a drink,” said a familiar voice behind Thorne.
Leo O’Sullivan, Thorne’s factotum, was an almost constant presence around the club. Like Thorne, he committed to running the place like a perfectly wound timepiece. The former pugilist had grown up with Thorne on the streets of the Nichol. As children they had stolen together, paid their debts together. Nearly died together.
There were few people Thorne trusted with his life, but O’Sullivan was one of them.
“How can you tell?” Thorne asked dryly.
“Might be because you’re scowling at the customers like a fucking gargoyle.”
O’Sullivan came to stand beside Thorne at the balcony, gazing down to the crowd below. He stood a head taller than Thorne, and was broader, more muscled. It wasn’t his physique people focused on first, but O’Sullivan’s face. Many women had described as so pretty that it intimidated.
Course, pretty faces made it easier to hide broken people. Thorne knew that better than anyone.
“I’m not scowling,” Thorne said, leaning against the railing of the balcony. “I’m watching.”
