On coming up to town, moved by a distantly perceived, possible, but vague need, Malcolm had amused himself by setting up his alias and his accounts with Drayton, initially as a means of concealing, and at the same time doing something useful with, the sizeable sum he’d amassed through his years at Oxford.
Young gentlemen liked to wager, to play cards for exorbitant sums, sums those who gambled with Malcolm usually lost. Honorably, legitimately—he never resorted to cheating. That was the thrill, the test, the challenge. Over the years, he’d come to view his role in the light of teaching his colleagues a valuable lesson—one sadly few took to heart. Unless one was a whiz with figures, it was unwise to play with one who was.
But what had started as an amusement had grown to an absorbing interest. Malcolm now knew that finance and making money was the area in which he excelled, and which gave him the greatest satisfaction.
Well and good. As a consequence, however, Thomas Glendow
er and his portfolio now meant a great deal to Malcolm; they were creations of his he would fight to protect.
His more superficial mind reported that Drayton had been his usual hardworking, indeed inspired, self. That was what had drawn him to the man—like Malcolm, he was motivated as much by the thrill of successful investment as the money. As he invariably did while sitting in Drayton’s chair listening to his enthusiastic report, Malcolm congratulated himself for his foresight in choosing Drayton—and in setting up such an excellent way of quietly salting away large sums of cash.
Drayton came to an end. “Excellent!” Malcolm smiled, still aloof but showing his approval. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a wad of notes—the cut he’d skimmed from the payment for the last two women passed to the white slaver traders.
Despite his perennial desire for cash, Henry was exceedingly lax about keeping a close eye on what should have been his; he’d made no attempt to check the amount Malcolm had stated they received in return for handing over the prettiest maids in London, snatched from the households of lords and dukes. As always arrogantly certain—forever arrogantly blind—Henry blithely believed Malcolm handed over the full sum.
Such naïveté had Malcolm inwardly shaking his head every time he thought of it. In reality, fifty percent of the cash handed over had from the first made its way into Mr. Thomas Glendower’s accounts.
Nonchalantly dropping the notes on Drayton’s desk, Malcolm stated, “Add that to my account. Invest it as seems fit. That opportunity with the Northern Canal, for example, might suit.”
Drayton’s eyes had lit. He reached for the money. “Indeed, sir—an excellent choice.”
While Drayton counted the notes and directed his clerks to enter the sum into various ledgers, Malcolm let his mind return to the aspect of his current enterprise that, increasingly, was preying on his mind.
Henry, arrogant and blind, was a potential liability. When, with becoming meekness, Malcolm had speculated on the dangers of depositing sums of cash received from crime into one’s own bank account, Henry had laughed contemptuously; his reputation and position, he claimed, would forever protect him from any investigation.
Perhaps in the past that had been so, but Malcolm had heard enough whispers to suggest that the authorities were becoming more vigilant, certainly less laissez-faire. But while Malcolm could and would quite happily turn his back on the white slavers and walk away—he didn’t need their money; he preferred to make his by safer means—Henry was another matter. He was now addicted to the funds their association with the trade brought in—or more specifically, addicted to the pistols that money allowed him to buy.
Unfortunately, he was also being a pig-headed fool and refusing to take the obvious precautions.
Malcolm abhorred fools, and pig-headed ones were the worst. But what he really didn’t like—what preyed on his mind—was the potential weakness in his own defenses that Henry now represented.
So…
Drayton spoke; Malcolm looked at him, smiled, and rose. Their business concluded, he allowed Drayton to show him out. The instant the office door shut behind him, he let his mind refocus on the problem he could see looming.
Henry would run his own race, and there was nothing Malcolm could do, nor felt compelled to do, in that regard. He and Henry had managed to rub along for nearly fifteen years; it was time to move on. As soon as he turned twenty-one, in just a few short weeks, and assumed control of the fortune his father had left in Henry’s charge, he would act, and step out from Henry’s shadow—sever the umbilical cord that had until now kept him tied.
Meanwhile, however…descending the stairs to the ground floor, Malcolm narrowed his eyes. It would be wise to give some thought to shoring up his own position in the event that Henry was caught.
Tricky, but there were ways and means, and in the circumstances he wasn’t at all averse to using them to ensure he didn’t get caught, too. Considering his options, he pushed open the front door and strolled out into the street.
“Three rescues in one week—that’s a record!”
Phoebe clinked her glass with Deverell’s; smiling delightedly, she beamed at their small band gathered around the agency’s kitchen. “Thanks to our excellent team—Birtles, Fergus, Scatcher, Grainger, and Deverell”—she inclined her head to each in turn—“all three went off smoothly. And thanks to Emmeline, Loftus, Audrey, Edith, and myself, we already have one of our special clients placed, and potential positions to pursue for the other two.”
Birtles raised his tankard high. “To the Athena Agency!”
Everyone cheered and drank.
Lowering his mug, Deverell looked around at their unlikely crew. Goodwill and high spirits overflowed on all sides; three rescues in such a short period was indeed an achievement.
Scatcher, the owner of the shop to the left, a clearing house for antiques and antiquities of dubious provenance, was an unprepossessing rogue whose rather grubby exterior hid a heart of considerable warmth. He’d been highly wary of Deverell but had accepted him on Phoebe’s word; for his part, Deverell was willing to admit that despite Scatcher’s questionable business practices, his sharp eyes, quick wits, and well-honed instinct for self-preservation were of excellent value in a lookout.
On their last rescue, Scatcher had spotted the watch in good time to prevent them being discovered.
The notion of Scatcher and Audrey, let alone Edith, rubbing shoulders was a flight of fancy Deverell had never imagined he’d see, but there they were, all three earnestly debating the positions they were lining up for the girls they’d rescued.
Loftus stood beside Audrey—or rather she stood beside him. His aunt invariably gravitated to Loftus’s side, but no matter how carefully he watched, Deverell couldn’t tell whether her interest was driven purely by curiosity or…something else. Regardless, he’d never seen Audrey’s usually peripatetic attention so consistently focused on one object.