Page 6 of Tempting the Scoundrel
O’Sullivan let out a chuckle. “Sure, boss.”
Thorne gave him a look, then returned his attention to the floor. He focused on the sounds of his club: the chatter of patrons, shuffles of card decks, laughing men deep in their cups. The scent of cigar smoke mingled with spirits: fine brandy, whiskey, and port. He loved this, the buzzing of his business, the noise and smells, the excitement. It heated his blood. They spent money; he profited.
Without it, Thorne was just another lad raised in the Nichol, surviving with O’Sullivan and the others in that filthy, dark cellar. Being let out at night to do terrible things for terrible men.
That was in the past. He wasn’t under the control of anyone, not anymore. This place, and everything in it, belonged to him. Now some of the richest and most powerful men in London owed him their debts.
Which some of those sods struggled to pay up.
He made an irritated noise. “Latimer’s playing deep again.”
“Should I remove him?” O’Sullivan asked. “That stupid bastard has the highest number in the books.”
Thorne shook his head. “He wants to destroy his life, let him. If he can’t pay up, go with the lads to his home. Take some antiquities off his hands.”
O’Sullivan snorted. “Assuming they cover what he owes. I’ve seen that fool get shite deep in a single night.”
“Then take the house,” Thorne said simply.
He monitored the hazard tables closely. Players had tells if they were cheating, and two of those blokes looked nervous. He signaled below to one of his employees, a slight raise of one finger, then two, with a nod to the men of interest.
He didn’t need to explain his reasoning. The Brimstone ran like a tight ship, every employee loyal to its owner. They understood his moods, his gestures, his every need. In return, Thorne paid them better wages than any other job they’d find in Whitechapel. He supported their families, their children, their wives. His protection didn’t come with a price. Unlike Whelan, he didn’t demand they steal or kill for him.
What did they offer in return? Respect, that was all.
That was the only thing he ever wanted.
“Shipments come in?” he asked O’Sullivan.
“Whiskey, cards, chips accounted for. Food shipment’s late and Burke’s got his dander up. You might want to avoid the kitchens tonight.”
Burke was their cook. He was damned temperamental about his cuisine, with good reason. The man didn’t have formal training—Burke was born and raised a mere stones throw from the Brimstone—but he created some of the most mouthwatering platters in London. Now he had a reputation to uphold.
Thorne couldn’t fault Burke for wanting to keep the lofty opinions of these toffs. He knew the game as well as anyone. If Thorne wanted them to spend a fortune every night, he had to work for their approval. That meant providing comfort: good food, good drink, proximity to brothels, and greasing a few palms to keep coppers from raiding. Gambling was illegal, but even police weren’t above making exceptions in exchange for a bit of blunt.
“Damn,” Thorne muttered. “All right. Get ‘em drunk and bring in some of the ladies from Maxine’s. With a woman in their laps they won’t give a shit about eating.”
O’Sullivan chuckled. “Anything else?”
Thorne spotted a familiar face in the crowd, one that made him swear and push away from the balcony. “Yeah. Tell Matty that if he’s late with that food shipment one more time, I’ll break his face.”
He strode down the public staircase to the main floor, passing the hazard tables.
People greeted him—his employees; a few Members of Parliament; some aristos. He wasn’t friends with them, but this was his establishment. If they treated him with respect, they got to stay. A few forgot that from time to time. He didn’t always answer disrespect with a fist; there were other ways to destroy a man. Thorne was a master at it.
Some of that skill he learned from Richard Grey. Sure, his brother-in-law looked like a gentleman, talked like a gentleman, played cards with the incompetence of a gentleman, but Thorne knew better. Grey was one of the most accomplished political schemers Thorne knew. They’d worked together from time to time when a bill needed to be whipped. Thorne’s involvement in politics was for the benefit of the East End. God knew Members of Parliament didn’t do a damn thing out of the goodness of their hearts. He and Grey had proven the only thing that motivated those men were money and threats.
‘Course, at the time, Grey wasn’t aware that Thorne was his brother-in-law. Thorne had been expecting this particular visit for a while.
He leaned against the table. “Got something to say to me, Grey?”
The blond man leaned back and surveyed his cards. “Just visiting my brother-in-law’s establishment.”
The other aristos at the table looked over in shock at the reminder. By now the entire damn city knew Thorne had married Alexandra Grey. Four years ago, she had demanded they hide it—and Thorne, still sick from betraying her, had agreed.
Could Thorne blame her? No. She’d gone to the anvil thinking she’d married a lord, and left married to a criminal. He deserved her disgust, had grown used to being her shameful secret.
Then Richard had made an enemy of the former prime minister, and Stanton Sheffield had not left his office without one last act of spite. He’d revealed Alex’s marriage to Thorne—and ruined her. Didn’t take much for toffs to turn on their own. They were about as loyal to one another as a flock of gulls fighting over a rat corpse.
