A Treacherous Bastard

Jack Wit was a man of many secrets. First and foremost, his actual name was neither Jack nor Wit. It was Lord John Foxcroft, Earl of Marlborough.

His favorite uncle had called him Jack. Even from a young age, the rest of his family had called him Foxcroft. And his father… he'd called Jack bastard.

His father was convinced that his mother had had an affair in which Jack had been conceived, and nothing had galled the old earl more than having an heir conceived by another man.

Of course, when Jack had joined the service of the king and became a spy, the old earl had not been pleased with that either.

"If you're going to take over my title, the least you could do is stay alive longer than myself."

"Think how happy you'd be to learn I'd died," he replied. It had been the last words he'd ever spoken to the man he'd publicly acknowledged as father.

Jack had been on assignment and hadn't attended his father's funeral.

Now that he was the earl, the King had been encouraging him to leave his position in the service behind and return to the ranks of the elite.

And by encourage, the King had mostly just yelled. But Jack was used to men of power trying to intimidate him. Or attempt to. So he'd only smiled at his king, smoked his cheroot, and answered in a near-bored voice. "I'm very close to defeating the man who calls himself the ‘King' of criminal trade here in England. You really wish for me to stop now?"

Jack knew that the real King very much wanted this self-declared "king" captured. Not only did the man skim tax profits from the country, it was a personal affront to their sovereign leader to declare oneself a king.

"A month. Two, tops. If you haven't finished this business, you retire, and I'm not asking. I'll see your sisters married to toads."

Jack grimaced. His sisters were his one negotiating weakness.

Both younger, they'd been no more liked by their father than himself, and Jack had declared himself their protector from an early age. "You play dirty."

"I am the King. I play exactly how I wish."

Jack had grunted. Being given a timeline made his job more challenging, but he'd have to persevere.

The question was how to draw a smuggler out.

Jack had a few ideas…

But he'd need help.

It took him a fortnight of precious time, but he convinced Fulton Smith, a partner of his, to lend him some of the finest Italian wine Fulton could find. Which meant it was some of the best. Fulton owned a vineyard in Italy and had access to the finest products.

Then, he'd coerced his good friend, Lord James Bancroft, to transport the wine on one of the Smith brothers' ships.

The plan: Make it known that they were looking to make a quick buck outside the Smith operation by selling the wine on a side deal. There was only one man who sold Italian wine under the King's nose in London and that was the other "king."

The criminals would know it was a trap. But it was too tempting of a deal for his enemies to refuse.

And Jack had been right.

A week after making the inquiries, a buyer came to the pub where he conducted business.

"I hear you're looking to sell some wine."

"I am," he answered. "Quiet though. No noise."

The man that Jack had never met, but immediately didn't like, made a pishing noise. He was rough fellow, with greasy hair and the kind of beady eyes that made him look as shifty as his profession implied. He smiled, showing several missing teeth. "Quiet or real loud? Everyone knows you want my boss. This isn't a trap, is it?"

Jack had lounged back in his chair. "There is only one way to find out."

"There's more than one…" The man had pulled out a gold necklace with a locket at the end.

For a moment, Jack's heart pounded in his chest. What would he find in that locket?

Did it have to do with his sisters?

The man flicked open the locket, revealing two pictures. The first he didn't recognize nor the second.

His brows rose. "Who are they?"

"You don't know?"

"Am I supposed to?" A smile spread across his lips. Had these buffoons taken the wrong women in an attempt to threaten him?

The man flipped the small hinges on the second picture, revealing a third. That woman he did recognize. Isabelle Armstrong.

Wife of his good friend, Bode. A woman of strength, character, and a commitment to her sisters that matched his own.

His breath held.

Because an inkling of who those first two girls were, made his chest tight.

"We couldn't get to your sister, protected by the king, so we've taken the next best thing. You can explain to Bode Armstrong how you got his sisters-in-law killed, or you can hand over the wine in exchange for the ladies."

"Fuck," he whispered under his breath. Because it wasn't much of a choice at all…