Chapter 1

Boyd Lockton swiped his hand across the table, scattering the pile of coins in front of him across the top, many of them bouncing to the floor. With a deep rumble of frustration, he stood assessing the mess he'd just created, knowing that his fit of temper meant he'd not be leaving the club for a while yet.

This was his third attempt to count the nightly earnings, but his concentration kept drifting. If he were being honest, he'd always struggled with tasks such as counting coins or keeping figures. Give him something to lift, a gun to fire, a fight to break up, a few heads to crack. That was where he shined.

But here, in the quiet dark, counting coin? He'd rather be in a ballroom dancing. Or mucking out a pig's stall.

All around him candles flickered, the dark quiet of the night not helping him complete the task. When had being a criminal become so mundanely bureaucratic?

Exhaustion pulled at his limbs as he dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, then he sat back down. He did the same tasks day in and day out. Open the gaming hell, stock the liquor, hand out the assignments and the cards, keep the peace, count the money.

And all in the dark. When was the last time he'd been out in the light?

Days.

This was supposed to be fun. He could have been home in Scotland farming. He'd told himself that he didn't want the monotony, the back breaking work. But if he'd been working the land, at least he'd experience some light that wasn't only the flicker of a candle. He'd breathe fresh air, bask in the sunshine, and enjoy decent ale looking at the fields at the end of the day.

He grunted, bending over to pick the money he'd scattered to the floor. He almost wished a customer would start a brawl.

At least that would be interesting. Something different, a fresh problem to solve and the use of his muscles beyond the lifting of crates containing liquor.

But Boyd had established a no-nonsense reputation the moment he'd taken over the management of Purgatory from the Smith brothers. Which meant, the customers mostly stayed in line.

And he mostly counted money, paid bills, and stocked the bar.

Fulton Smith ran a shipping company.

Maybe he'd have a job for Boyd on one of the boats. The sea had storms and pirates. And sun… And he'd bet he didn't have to count coins on the ship. Just cargo.

Stooping low, he picked up several more coins, placing them on the table, grumbling to himself.

"Get it done and done right, and you can go home. Maybe you'll see the sunrise on the way. It's better than?—"

But his words were interrupted by the clearing of a throat.

He picked his head up, noting two figures in the doorway. "Who goes there?" In one fluid motion, he stood, pulling out his pistol and cocking back the hammer.

"Lockton," a deep voice rumbled as one figure stepped forward, hands rising in the air. "It's me. Bode Armstrong."

Armstrong ran the whorehouse just down the street. His association with the Smith brothers was well known, and he and Lockton had helped each other out a time or two. Not that Armstrong had much trouble with customers misbehaving either. Raised on the streets of London, he bore thick scars on his face from his childhood, and he now had the temperament to match the scars. Rough as they came.

He'd been in the business of whores for a long time and the men of the East End knew Armstrong was not a man with whom to tangle.

Boyd dropped his pistol as he glared at the other man. "Christ, Armstrong. You can't sneak up on a fellow in the middle of the night like that."

"My apologies," Armstrong stepped to the side, waving the second person forward. A woman shuffled through the door, shoulders hunched, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Boyd couldn't make out any details, not that he cared, though it was curious why Armstrong might have brought a woman here in the middle of the night.

A tingle of anticipation hummed down his spine as Armstrong cleared his throat. "But I needed a bit of assistance."

Boyd's brows rose in question and he crossed his arms over his chest. If men knew not to mess with Armstrong, the women of the East End had learned a different lesson…Armstrong protected his girls with a ferocity that kept his customers in line always.

Honestly, Boyd wasn't certain how the man stayed in business. The women only worked when they wanted and left when they wished. Most of them even got married and made a life outside their unorthodox occupation.

All well and good, but as the lady at his side shrunk further into herself, Boyd just knew…Armstrong's philosophy was about to be Boyd's problem.

And much as he craved some change in the monotony of his life, taking on a woman's problems was not what he'd had in mind.

"This is Annie." Armstrong pointed to the woman as a thick braid of near-black hair fell over her shoulder. She'd kept her face down, her shoulders hunched. "Annie tells me she is in trouble. She needs a bit of help."

Boyd rumbled with dissatisfaction. "Ye know I appreciated your help a few months back with that brawl but…"

Armstrong raised up his hand to silence Boyd. "This is not the usual ask for help. You know the Smiths and I have battled a mutual problem over the past several months."

Boyd turned his face to the side, considering those words. This club hadn't had any issues. But the Smiths owned several other gaming hells and just last week two of them had been attacked by a rival club owner. Makem.

Mean as a snake, the man had done his best to rob, cheat, and steal from the Smiths in an attempt to put them out of business. Maybe they had pirates after all. "What does that have to do with this?" He pointed at the woman who'd huddled in her shawl. She looked as though she were in nothing but a night rail underneath.

That detail only made him more uneasy.

"Annie is Makem's niece." Armstrong paused, letting that detail sink in as Boyd's mind swirled with the possibilities. Had she run away? Been kidnapped? She looked scared but calm… "She's come to help us, and in return, we're going to help her. Isn't that right, Annie?"

* * *

Annie looked up at Armstrong, her gut twisting into a thousand knots, thinking about the events that had brought her here tonight and the risk she was taking. She knew plenty. She knew that her uncle was the villain, as cold and calculating as he was cruel.

And she knew that if she'd stayed with him, she'd end up like every woman who crossed her uncle's path. Broken or dead.

She also knew that Armstrong had a reputation for being a fierce protector. Which had made her decision easy enough. When a door in her uncle's house had been left open, she'd escaped. She'd waited months for a chance like that, and when it had presented itself, she'd taken it. It didn't matter that she was in a night rail and her feet were bare.

She'd grabbed a shawl from the hook by the kitchen door and a few carefully selected books from atop her uncle's desk. Then she'd pressed out into the night and slipped down back alleys and through gardens until she'd come to Bode Armstrong's brothel, where she'd knocked on the kitchen door.

And that's when it hit her. She'd stolen valuable items from her uncle, taken them directly to his enemy.

She clutched the books tighter under her shawl. She hadn't actually mentioned she had the ledgers to Armstrong. Just that she had helpful information.

Because what she didn't know was the extent to which these men would actually help her.

And that was a huge risk.

The other thing she had no idea about…Boyd Lockton. Good, bad, indifferent. This man held her entire fate in his hands.

At least they were very large hands. Masculine. Just like the rest of him. Thickly muscled with a massive neck and a square jaw, he looked like a building, like a wall of man, which Annie appreciated. She very much wished to hide.

And she knew he had a fierce reputation. He'd killed one of her uncle's partners, so many men had tried, but he'd been the only one who had been successful. She'd heard her uncle speak of Boyd Lockton. The Scandalous Scot was one of the few men with whom Makem seemed legitimately afraid to tangle. A real point in Lockton's favor.

"Ye're Makem's niece?" the Scot asked, his brow furrowing as he dropped another handful of coins on the table.

She nodded, eyeing him with skeptical interest. "That's right."

He studied her with a deep frown, his questions evident. As she waited, her eyes drifted back to the coin. There had to be a thousand pounds on the table and fifty more scattered across the floor.

She was good at that sort of thing. Quickly tallying numbers.

A fact her uncle had enjoyed. Well not anymore…

"And ye want us to hide ye?"

"Just until…" She shook her head. Until what? She came up with a plan? Left the city? As good as she was with numbers, she ought to have spent a bit of time drafting some ideas. But she'd thought to never get out and foreplaning had never been her strength. "Until I can decide where to go. What to do…"

Lockton snorted, looking at Armstrong. "Just so that we're clear…this is an indefinite arrangement?"

Armstrong raised his hands in a gesture of peace or surrender. "I'll find somewhere else for her. Send her to the Duke of Upton in the North, or the Earl of Somersworth, or Lord Rath. I just need a few days to speak with the brothers, make a plan, and then safely transport her."

"And what do I get if I agree?"

Armstrong's jaw clenched. "I'd owe you a large favor."

"And why would you do that for her?" Lockton pointed at Annie, who only clutched the two ledgers tighter to her chest.

"Not for her…" Armstrong grimaced. "I've had two girls attacked by Makem's men. They don't even try to hide their identities, whom they worked for. They are attacking the clubs. And just so we're clear, yours could be next. Have you considered that?"

Boyd straightened then, his head cocking to the side. "Self-preservation then. That's what I get? I'm not certain I'm interested. Even if they do attack, I can hold my own."

"We all know that Lockton. But wouldn't you rather beat Makem before he has a chance to come at you?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I could use a change of pace and an attack might be just the thing I'm looking for."

"You want Makem to attack the club?" Armstrong asked, scratching at the scars on his cheek. "Really?"

Lockton waved his hand. "No, yer right. I don't. But I do have something I want."

"What's that?"

"I'd like to be reassigned." He straightened up, his chest expanding so that he looked even larger.

"What do you mean?" Armstrong asked, his voice filled with incredulity. "You run their most successful club in the entire operation. The one where no trouble ever happens."

"I'm aware," Lockton answered.

"Then why…"

Lockton grimaced down at the table. "I had no idea being a criminal would involve this much…arithmetic."

Annie suppressed a smile, the first in hours, days, weeks. It was funny. But also, she'd noted what Armstrong said. This man kept his club safe. Could he do the same for her? It was time to make herself useful. "Would you like me to count them for you?"

He snorted. "The niece of Makem, counting the coin? Ye must be mad."

She removed her shawl, being careful to wrap the ledgers within so as they remained hidden.

Setting the shawl on the only other chair in the room, she slipped off the overlarge boots, a pair Armstrong had given her when she'd arrived barefoot. "I have no pockets, no place to hold coin. I can count this for you in less than a quarter hour."

"Ye jest."

"I don't." She looked at Armstrong, wondering if he was going to be able to convince Lockton to take her in. She'd hoped to stay at the brothel with a man she knew protected women. But she'd hardly passed through his door and he shuffled her out again.

Said his club had too many busy mouths to ever keep a secret. The less people who knew she'd come to Armstrong, the better.

The only other person she'd met was an older woman named Mama Rose. When she'd asked Armstrong about her, he'd only smiled. "That woman is a vault. Don't you worry about her."

She looked back at Lockton, her hands opening wide. "I'm happy to help."

"And then what?" he asked, his lip curling. "Am I to take her home with me? Bring her to work?"

Armstrong scowled. "You can't leave her alone…she's too vulnerable."

"You want me to bring a woman to a gaming hell?"

"Take a day off," Armstrong lifted his shoulders. "Judging by your request, I think you need one anyway."

"That won't be suspicious." He snorted, his sarcasm evident.

"Claim to be ill. No one will question it."

"How long?"

"A day? Two. I'll find Gris tomorrow. He owes you a favor as well."

"A large one." Lockton swiped a hand down his face. "Why not bring her to him, then? He's the obvious choice. She would be safe in his house, I'm sure."

"We'd be endangering the children. Gris has both his and Fulton's at the house currently."

Something unwound in Annie to think that these men worried about her and the innocent children. She'd made the right choice.

She hoped.

Padding forward, she quickly began arranging the coins into stacks of ten. He'd yet to agree to her offer but she couldn't stand there any longer. She needed this man's help.

Her fingers were deft, she'd always enjoyed tasks like this. Making quick work, she arranged all the coin in a neat line.

Lockton didn't stop her, both men silently watching her work. She glanced down to see Lockton still held the pistol in his hand. Even if she'd considered stealing from these men, and she hadn't, she wasn't fool enough to try anything now.

But it still begged the question, had she made the right choice? Because she'd just placed her hands in the life of a stranger. Her uncle's enemy…