Chapter 3

3

A drian Croft was still restless when he returned from his morning ride. He'd given the horse its head and savored the rush of cold air on his face while they'd galloped through Hyde Park.

The exercise usually helped clear his mind, but today was different. Uneasiness gripped his bones on account of the news that had reached him before he'd gone out. Another victim had just been named in what had become a horrific series of murders. Miss Alice Irvine was dead.

Knowing the villain remained at large increased his concerns for his sister's security. His stomach clenched with the idea of her encountering any sort of danger when she ventured out of the house.

Setting his jaw, he climbed the stairs and entered his room. His valet, James Murry, was already there, waiting with a bath and a clean change of clothes. He greeted Adrian and proceeded to help him remove his jacket.

"Have my father and sister arisen?" Adrian asked while Murry began untying his cravat. He flexed his fingers, enjoying the strain the action produced in his joints and tendons.

"Your father is already in his study," Murry informed him. "The bell from your sister's room rang just before you arrived. I believe Emma is helping her dress as we speak."

"Thank you, Murry." The cravat was undone and unwound. Murry removed it, leaving Adrian to unbutton his forest green waistcoat. He started to shuck it. "I want a footman with her whenever she leaves the house. At least until the man who's murdering upper-class women has been apprehended."

"Perhaps it would be wise of you to warn her against going out," Murry suggested. He'd been employed by Adrian ten years ago and had not only earned his master's absolute trust in that time but had since become more than his job title claimed him to be. "At least for the foreseeable future."

Adrian glanced at him. "She'll never listen."

Evelyn was stubborn that way, and who could blame her? She was eleven years younger than he and had recently made her debut. Of course she wished to go out and attend social functions. She wanted to dance and consider her marital options.

Adrian tensed on that thought. Did the world possess a man good enough for her?

His thoughts shifted to Edward, his closest friend, and the tension in Adrian's body eased. Yes, he decided. Just the one. Provided Evelyn took the time to notice the admiration with which Edward watched her.

He shook his head and tugged at his shirt's front closure, undoing the tie before pulling the garment free from his breeches.

"I'll see about the footmen then," Murry told him.

"Thank you. That will be all for now." Murry left and Adrian finished undressing before stepping into his bath. As usual, there was much for him to accomplish today. Those who depended upon his father's good graces had to be kept in check.

With this in mind, he bathed quickly and toweled off, his thoughts returning to Miss Irvine and the two other victims who'd come before. The notion of someone preying on innocent women made his blood boil. Whoever this murderous bastard was, he had to be stopped so Evie could be safe.

As was too often the case, Bow Street didn't appear to be making progress in that regard. The first victim, Miss Fairchild, was murdered two months ago, yet the killer had yet to be captured.

Adrian muttered a curse and snatched up the shirt that had been laid on his bed then proceeded to dress. After donning his trousers and waistcoat, he called for Murry to assist him with his cravat.

Once ready, he went to locate his sister, who was now in the dining room enjoying her breakfast.

"I wanted to wish you a pleasant day before heading out," he informed her.

"You're not eating?" She slid her gaze toward him, abandoning the paper she'd been reading. A hint of a smile tugged at her lips.

"I did so before my ride."

"Of course." Disappointment filled her dark gaze. "I suppose I'll see you later then?"

"Tonight," he confirmed. "At supper. Until then, there are matters I need to attend to. In the meantime, I'd like to ask that you don't go out."

"A bit hypocritical of you, wouldn't you say?" She arched her brows before turning her attention to her tea and taking a sip. "I've a scheduled meeting with Rose and Louise. We're to go shopping together."

"Call it off." He doubted the women she spoke of were genuine friends of hers anyway. Most people, he'd learned from his father, hoped to gain an advantage from the connections they made. Experience had taught him that this was true, with only a few rare exceptions.

"Whatever for?"

Adrian gripped the doorframe. "There's a murderer on the loose. It isn't safe."

She raised her chin. "According to the articles I have read on the matter, all three women were killed in the evening while on their own. It's daytime now and I shan't be alone. There's no need for you to worry."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered. Unlike him, she'd been spared from dealing with villains and cutthroats – men who'd sell their own daughters into a life of whoring if they stood to gain from such a transaction. He'd seen the bleak side of London, the shadowy corners where crime thrived and death prevailed. There was no escaping it in his line of work, but he supposed his sister did make a reasonable point. Nevertheless, he felt inclined to tell her, "I'll not argue further if one of our footmen goes with you."

Her gaze snapped to his and held for a second before she finally answered. "Fine."

Expelling the breath he'd been holding, he eased his grip on the doorframe and wished her a pleasant day before stopping by his father's study on the way out.

"I'm off to speak with Macintyre and Goldie," he told him from the doorway.

Papa glanced up briefly from the ledger in which he was writing. Of stocky build, George Croftstill conveyed an intimidating amount of strength and power, despite having reached his seventieth year. His features, however, had slackened a little with age, and the hair that had once been black had faded to grey.

"Let's get some results this time, shall we?" Papa's quill scratched the paper as he made a note. "Your men's last effort was laughable at best."

Adrian gritted his teeth. "I'll handle it myself this time. Rest assured, I know what needs to be done."

Papa's steely blue gaze returned to him once more, and this time it held. "I should bloody well hope so."

Without adding anything further, Adrian took a step back and shut the door. He then went to let Murry know about Evie's plans to go out, before setting off for the gaming hell Macintyre ran.

The place had been transformed from a filthy, dimly lit dump only those who lacked class and pride would frequent, to an elegant place of business where several upper-class gentlemen now chose to risk their fortunes. All at the Croft family's expense.

With several weapons concealed on his person, including a long narrow blade tucked into a specially crafted channel located in the sleeve of his jacket, Adrian alit from the carriage when it pulled up in front of The Devil's Den. Keeping all senses on full alert, he moved toward the front door with swift strides and, finding it locked, proceeded to knock.

A sleepy-eyed woman answered his call. Dressed in a red satin robe, she looked as though she belonged to the brothel where he would be heading next. Her lips drew into a saucy smile as her gaze swept the length of his body.

"You're a welcome morning surprise," she purred, stepping a bit too close for comfort. If only she knew how he loathed the cloying perfume of roses.

He nudged her aside with his shoulder and entered the building, his gaze quickly moving toward the gaming room that stood beyond the foyer. "Where's Macintyre?"

A dainty hand slid over his arm as the woman, having briefly stumbled when Adrian passed her, approached him once more. "Somewhere nearby, I expect. How about we find him together after I show you how a good hostess should greet men like you?"

He scowled at her. "I've no interest in what you're offering."

"But—"

Eager to be done with his task, he stalked toward a pair of glass doors and flung them open so hard he heard their frames crack. "Macintyre?"

Not finding him in the gaming room, Adrian turned on his heel and shouted for him once more. "Macintyre?"

A thud came from somewhere upstairs. Adrian glanced at the woman, who suddenly blocked his path. "Get out of my way."

"Please, don't hurt him."

He didn't have time for this nonsense. Grabbing her upper arm, he yanked her sideways so he could pass then dashed up the stairs while she screamed words of warning to Adrian's quarry. Maybe he should have tied her up and gagged her first. The last thing he felt like right now was a rooftop chase.

Turning left, he started along the hallway, thrusting doors open as he went, searching for the man who'd indebted himself to his father. He found him soon enough, half dressed and with one leg out an open window.

Adrian leapt forward and grabbed him by the shirt collar, yanking him inside with so much momentum they fell back together, onto the floor. Macintyre grunted and started to scramble, still hell-bent on his escape.

Unwilling to let that happen, Adrian jammed his fist into Macintyre's shoulder, knocking the man sideways just enough to let Adrian pin him down.

"Please, please, please," Macintyre cried. "I'll do whatever you—"

Adrian's fist connected with Macintyre's jaw, splitting his lip and sending a thin stream of blood down his chin. "You've said so before."

Another punch to Macintyre's face cracked his nose with an unpleasant crunch. Adrian beat him until he stopped struggling and his head lolled to one side. Only then did he grab him by the front of his shirt and haul him upright so he could deposit him on a chair.

Adrian leaned in, his eyes boring deep into Macintyre's soul. "Everything you own has been paid for by the Crofts. We've built you up and we'll tear you down if you don't meet the terms of our agreement."

"I'm trying," Macintyre wheezed.

"Try harder," Adrian growled. "The club has been thriving these last three months since it was reopened. Your payment to us is long overdue. I want names, details, and fifty percent of the profits."

Just to be sure the man understood how serious he was, Adrian drew the blade he'd concealed in his sleeve and held it against his throat. Macintyre's eyes bulged. He started to tremble, and then the pungent smell of urine filled the air. He'd bloody well gone and pissed himself.

Good.

The greater his fear, the simpler this would be. Adrian pressed the blade closer, until he knew Macintyre felt a sting. "Well?"

"The Earl of Elmhurst cheated last night," Macintyre rasped. "Paid me a hundred pounds to let the incident slide when I drew him aside."

"That's not the kind of information I'm after," Adrian hissed. He already knew the earl to be underhanded. A series of similar incidents filled the file he'd gathered on him.

"All right…all right…" Macintyre's gaze darted toward the door. He leaned back slightly, away from the blade, but Arian only pressed it harder against his throat. "One of the serving girls overheard something about Lord Glendale being pro-French."

Adrian eased the blade a little. This was better. If word got out that the man who'd led a campaign against Napoleon's army and lost might have done so on purpose, he'd be arrested and hanged for treason.

Adrian stepped back, removing his blade from Macintyre's throat in the process. "I'll take the fifty percent now."

"But I—"

"Before you finish that sentence, I urge you to consider what will happen to you if you tell me you don't have the blunt."

"Right. Yes. Of course. I'll fetch it for you right now."

"And don't try to cheat me," Adrian warned. "I know how much you make on average per night."

He left The Devil's Den ten minutes later with nearly three thousand pounds in his pocket, and headed toward his next destination.

* * *

"You did well today," Papa told Adrian later when the two men removed themselves to the study for after dinner drinks. "I'm proud of you."

Adrian almost snorted with disdain. He hated what he'd done, hated the person his father had turned him into, and the fact that this hadn't been a one-time occurrence. He'd been his father's enforcer for years now and knew how to make those indebted to him pay their dues.

Thankfully, most of them gave up quickly. Only a few had forced Adrian to resort to real violence. And then there were those who'd betrayed the family – those who'd been taken care of for good.

He set his glass to his lips and downed the contents before saying what had been preying upon his mind for too long.

"I want out."

Stillness filled the room. Adrian forced himself to look at his father, unmoved for once by the anger that burned in his eyes. "There is no out. Not when you're my only son – the heir to everything built by generations of men who came before you. My God, boy. You're supposed to be King of Portman Square after me."

Disgust curdled Adrian's blood. That moniker would not apply to him. "I never asked for any of this."

"And you think I did?" Papa scoffed. "This is a matter of building wealth and power, and the best way to do that is by having the upper hand on everyone else."

Adrian glanced at the cabinet where the files were kept; hundreds of detailed accounts on England's most prominent men, to be used for extortion whenever the need arose. "There's also the assistance we've offered criminals, our blackmailing efforts, the smuggling, and other endeavors the law won't look favorably on."

Hell, if someone were to investigate them and actually manage to prove their criminal undertakings, the House of Croft would crumble.

"Bah." Papa waved a dismissive hand and downed the contents of his glass before pushing himself to his feet. He crossed to the sideboard where he proceeded to refill his tumbler. "You know as well as I that there's nothing more beneficial than putting others in debt. As for the goods we acquire, I'm a firm believer in every man having the God-given right to procure whatever he wants at the lowest cost. But there's a group of puffed-up peacocks who've decided to raise the price of imported corn so none can afford it, ensuring English landowners profit instead. Besides, why should the government take a cut when we're the ones doing all the work?"

"Because it's the law?" Adrian tried.

"A law made by those attempting to gain control over the masses." Papa huffed a breath while flexing the fingers of his left hand. He frowned before quietly adding, "I'll not be subject to that."

"And I'll not hold another blade to another man's throat on your behalf," Adrian countered. "I want more for myself than that."

"More for yourself?" Papa snapped, his face darkening with splotches of red. He shook his glass of brandy, sloshing the contents over the sides. "How bloody ungrateful of you. After all your ancestors and I have done to secure your life of luxury – your future. And here I was, prepared for you to take on more responsibility. Lord knows it's time. You're almost thirty. But I'll be damned if you make a mockery of your good name by going soft."

"It's got nothing to do with going soft," Adrian said, his voice as hard as the blade he'd threatened Macintyre with that morning. He stood, even as Papa's expression contorted. "This is about me wanting to live a life free from all this. It's about wanting to marry and raise a family without my wrongdoings forever nipping at my heels."

Papa took a sharp breath. He staggered slightly, as though he'd been pushed off balance. Jaw tight, he reached for the bookcase behind him and steadied himself with one hand. Still, his gaze, sharp and unyielding, never strayed from his son.

"In case you're unaware, you'll never be free from all this," Papa spat. "Not as long as my blood runs through your veins."

"I—"

Papa suddenly groaned and his features twisted. He dropped his glass, which exploded upon the floor, sending shards of crystal and brandy across the Aubusson rug. A raspy intake of air followed. He suddenly clutched his chest with one hand.

Adrian rushed to his aid and wound one arm around him, his intention to help him into a chair. "What's wrong?"

Papa's lips parted but no words came. It sounded as though his breath was lodged in his throat. Until it wheezed from his lungs. His eyes went impossibly wide.

Without further warning, he pitched forward, breaking free from Adrian's grasp as he fell to the floor with a thud.

* * *

Adrian stood immobile, his posture rigid as the velvet-clad casket was lowered into the family vault beneath St. Paul's. Although the day was temperate, the cool granite with which the tomb had been built made the occasion uncomfortably chilly.

Evie, who suffered the loss of their father more fiercely than he, sniffed as she dabbed away tears. For Adrian, Papa's death had come as a shock. He'd not expected it to happen yet. Despite his age. Papa had not appeared to suffer from declining health. He had, however, been a difficult man for Adrian to love. In fact, he could not say that he missed him.

"Are you ready?" he asked once the pallbearers had left him and Evie to mourn alone, their retreating footsteps echoing the loneliness of this subterranean place. This would be the last time a Croft was confined to eternity here. In future they would be laid to rest outdoors, surrounded by life. He'd make sure of it.

Evie nodded. "Yes."

Taking her arm to lend support, Adrian guided her through the long stone hallway toward the stairs, then up into the north transept of the church and out into the bright afternoon sunlight. There, he escorted her to their waiting carriage and helped her climb in.

She leaned on him the entire way home, quietly weeping while he said nothing. For what could he say? The father she'd known had been so very different from the one who'd ordered Adrian to drown an unwanted litter of kittens when he was but ten years old. He bore no resemblance to the brute who'd whipped him whenever he'd cried or to the unforgiving authoritarian who'd raised him to be ruthless.

Gritting his teeth, he clenched one fist until his nails dug into his palms. He loathed himself for not rebelling sooner, for the real concern and dread he'd experienced on behalf of this man when he'd realized he was unwell. It had waned soon after, but that did not erase the fact that in a brief instant, he'd felt more for his father than what he'd deserved.

"What shall we do now?" Evie asked as they removed their outerwear a short while later and handed them to Elks, their butler. The older man was not quite fifty years old, yet his neatly combed hair was as white as the snug cravat adorning his neck. Soft features accompanied by a pair of warm brown eyes afforded him with a kind appearance that only a fool would misjudge as weakness.

"I recommend tea in the parlor." There was much for them to discuss, most notably Evie's future. Adrian's fondest wish was to see her happily married, not for convenience as Papa would have wished, but to a man of her choosing. "I'll just have a quick word with Cummings first. Shouldn't take long."

He dropped a kiss on Evie's cheek and strode to the study where he was unsurprised to find his father's secretary waiting. After years of service to the family, Cummings, like most of the senior staff, was more than an average servant. He'd been one of Papa's closest confidants.

As expected, he stood upon Adrian's arrival.

"Sir. May I offer my sincerest condolences once more?"

Adrian bristled. "That's really not necessary."

"The service was lovely," Cummings pressed. He and the rest of the household had been in attendance until it was time for George Croft to be interred.

Choosing not to comment, Adrian hardened his gaze. It was time to defy his father once and for all. "There's work to be done now, Cummings. For starters, I want the Croft files destroyed."