1. London, February 1834

LONDON, FEbrUARY 1834

C andlelight flickered over the scars on Leopold Beckworth's palms—minor really, mere scratches compared to the ones on his soul. He'd grabbed the wrong end of a knife a few too many times, in both the literal and figurative sense.

Staring at his hands, only half-focused on the meeting, Leopold contemplated their current plan—one that relied upon obtaining evidence rather than drawing blood. And that evidence needed to be strong enough to stand up in parliament; convincing enough to convict an aristocrat.

Smuggling. Opium. Tea . And it always led them back to the Duke of Crossings.

Leopold's gaze tracked the thick white line from the base of his right wrist to halfway up his pointer finger. Making a fist, he smirked.

Without a few scars, he'd be soft—or dead—or worst of all, penniless. He'd not trade his scars for the lessons he'd learned.

Because of those lessons, he'd survived to the age of three and thirty—at least, he believed himself three and thirty. Growing up on the docks, Leopold had only known seasons. He hadn't the luxury of tracking such trivialities as the days and the months.

He'd been too busy keeping himself alive.

To survive amongst those who lived without hope, a man quickly learned to be observant, vigilant, and always prepared to fight. But Leopold had hungered for more.

He'd wanted to rise above that perpetual desperation.

And so he'd taken risks.

It was this mentality that had ultimately brought him to the Domus Emporium, to consort with its proprietor, the shunned Duke of Malum. Those risks had earned him success, and that success ensured him a seat at a table alongside the most powerful men in London. Men whose hands were pale and manicured, men who'd been born into power and then collected even more.

In contrast, Leopold had earned his power, built his own empire, so to speak—importing and exporting, or as some liked to call it, smuggling.

To avoid being taxed into poverty, buyers and sellers came to him, and the King of Bond Street never failed to deliver. A highly lucrative service.

Still staring at his hands, unaffected by the scandalous statues and paintings around him, Leopold's mind buzzed as his colleagues strategized.

"It's been confirmed." Malum spoke in level tones. "Crossings has lost another shipment." Good news— even if they didn't know who was behind it.

"This is the third in as many months. It can't be coincidence." The Earl of Helton ran a hand through his dark brown hair, his eyes serious behind his spectacles. Helton, a serious nob, also owned the only two newspapers in London that mattered.

"My devil of a father-in-law is fit to be tied," Standish, another earl, added. Upon unexpectedly inheriting his title a few years back, Standish had married Crossings' youngest daughter. Another of their colleagues had married her older sister. These connections made for problematic complications in Leo's opinion, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"Pirates?" Helton pondered even as he shook his head.

Crossings' ships had been captained by mercenary bandits. Who would have the audacity to attack those ships?

More mercenary ones?

They were missing something, and they all knew it. But what the devil was it?

Two years prior, Malum had found the Duke of Crossings' newfound wealth more than suspicious. And so he'd asked around.

He hadn't been the only one, but most were willing to turn a blind eye. Except for the gentlemen who made up their team, the Rakes of Rotten Row. Or, in Leo's mind, the Rotten Rakes. It was easier. Shorter.

Less pretentious.

Working together, it hadn't taken long to discover that Crossings was operating opium farms in India and then paying smaller traders to smuggle it to China in exchange for tea. And he wasn't working alone. A devious network had been set up and unfortunately, those who'd been caught hadn't lived to provide any solid evidence—not the kind necessary to convict a duke.

As a result of their frustrations, Leopold and these lofty men were trying a different tactic—one that required a little more subterfuge.

Deceit.

Six months earlier, the two earls and the Marquess of Winterhope had entered into what appeared to be a devil's bargain. In exchange for some easy concessions, they'd convinced the Duke of Crossings that they had switched sides. It was a tricky business, but it provided them limited access to Crossings' inner circle, and that was already paying off. Winterhope had even convinced Crossings that he might invest. The entire scheme was dangerous, but necessary, since their adversary was a double-crossing opium smuggling bastard who needed to be stopped.

The duke was behind too many suspicious deaths, not to mention thousands of lives ruined by opium.

Leopold and this small band of English gents would make him pay.

Not for money or glory, but for the good of their country—and also other personal reasons they didn't exactly share with each other.

If Leopold were to hazard a guess, these titled blokes wanted honor and revenge.

Leopold, as the one amongst them not born into the aristocracy, was merely protecting his own endeavors. Crossings gave smugglers a bad name.

Leopold smuggled for a living, yes—artifacts, jewels, spices, silks, lace, and other rare commodities, but never opium. He had lost too many friends to the lure of the poppy. And just as Malum banned the use of opium in his establishment, Leopold took no part in its transportation.

News of the latest sinking, however, wasn't news to Leopold.

"Where did it go down?" Standish asked.

"Somewhere off the coast of Lisbon," Leopold supplied. "A few of my men heard accounts of a fire sighted from another vessel. If that's the case, I doubt anyone survived."

"Sleep with the devil, find yourself in hell," Helton said.

"With the lost shipments, Crossings finds himself backed against a wall." Winterhope tugged at his lace sleeve, shifting his gaze around the room. "And we know that doesn't bode well for those who are cornering him."

"Which poses a good news/bad news kind of dilemma," Malum exhaled, addressing the room.

"What kind of dilemma?" Leopold lifted his chin. What with traveling between Bond Street, the docks, and his estate on the southern coast, he was usually the first to identify any possible snags.

"When I last visited Crossings, I was left alone in his study," Winterhope explained. Crossings made a habit of keeping people waiting, so this came as no surprise, but always in the drawing room. "He'd left his books out." The marquess winced. "Lysander Crowley is a major investor."

Everyone who'd invested heavily had turned up dead.

"Lysander Crowley…" Standish grimaced. "As in the Marquess of Foxbourne?"

The information shouldn't be overly concerning.

Excepting, of course… The Marquess of Foxbourne was related to Winterhope's new bride.

"The marquess is my wife's uncle." Winterhope, although something of a dandy, more than pulled his weight when it came to their efforts. Unfortunately, the doting jackal was also recently married.

Leopold cursed silently as he waited for the other shoe to drop. Inevitably, romantic entanglement meant there would be even more complications.

"There was an opened letter in Crossings' top drawer—from Foxbourne. The idiot wrote to Crossings that, upon his arrival in London for the Season, he'd expect to collect his profits." Winterhope provided this little tidbit without blinking.

"Crossings won't pay," Helton speculated.

"Even when his coffers were filled, he never paid out," Standish said.

Apparently, Lord Foxbourne had walked right into Crossings' trap. It wasn't even a very creative one.

"Stupid of him," Leopold said. But the marquess's safety wasn't their problem. Or it oughtn't be, anyhow.

But these nobs weren't nearly as callous as Leopold.

"Foxbourne's an ass, that goes without saying." Winterhope plucked at his cravat. "As is his wife. But my concern isn't for them." He shifted a cool stare to Malum. "There have been threats to their daughter."

"Lady Amelia," Standish added with a thoughtful hum.

Hell.

Recalling the stunning young woman who had attended Winterhope's house party the previous autumn, Leopold tugged at the cravat he only ever wore for these meetings. He had visited the estate on business during those same few weeks. Uninvited.

And because Leopold shunned those sorts of gatherings as a rule, he'd not asked for, nor expected an introduction.

But he had noticed Lady Amelia Crowley. It would have been impossible not to; she was last year's Diamond of the Season , after all.

Recalling how she'd owned that title, Leopold shifted in his chair.

The golden-haired, blue-eyed vision possessed all the makings of a future duchess, flaunting herself in prim and proper gowns designed to tease but not hide the delicate curves of her slim figure.

Cool as ice, the entitled beauty had skimmed her gaze right over him.

But Winterhope wasn't finished and his agenda for this meeting gradually came to light. "With Foxbourne making trouble, she isn't safe under his protection," he said. "Clementine—my marchioness—has invited Lady Amelia for an extended visit to Winterhope Downs, but all her correspondence goes unanswered. If you recall, the Foxbournes hold Clem and I in contempt and it's likely the letters go straight into the bin."

"So, why bother then?" Leopold pressed.

"Last spring, there was talk of a match between Lady Amelia and myself. There was nothing official, but… Foxbourne saw things differently and holds my wife responsible." The Marquess hissed through clenched teeth. "Despite several attempts to explain, all but begging for a reconciliation, Clementine's letters to her cousin have gone unanswered. She's heartbroken already, and would be devastated if something were to happen to Lady Amelia." Winterhope, the lovesick devil, looked as fierce as ever. "Foxbourne's going to bring her to London for the Season."

"Why not just go to her?" Leopold was the opposite of eager to entertain this complication. "Explain that she's in danger and get her away from London?"

"The Foxbournes bloody hate Winterhope," Helton answered with a look implying it ought to be obvious. "If we go to Lady Amelia's father, fool that he is, odds are he'll simply take that information right back to Crossings—which could compromise everything."

"She needs protecting." Standish frowned. "But Helton's right, if she thinks Winterhope's involved, I doubt she'll cooperate. And unfortunately, we've all been introduced—at Winterhope's house party."

"Not all of us." Helton dipped his chin, staring at Leopold over his spectacles.

The room fell silent, all eyes on Leopold now.

"I was hoping you would be willing to secure Lady Amelia's safety." Malum spoke with cool detachment. "Whether the girl wants it or not."

Were they actually suggesting… "You want me to kidnap her?"

"Consider it more of a rescue," Malum added.

Leopold was more than accustomed to dealing with delicate situations, situations that skirted the law.

Fucking hell.

With all these Rotten Rakes married up now, and Malum at the helm of his emporium, even Leopold conceded that he was the obvious choice for this "rescue" mission. He wasn't encumbered like the others, and he also had the perfect location to keep Her Ladyship out of the duke's crosshairs.

"When?" he asked.

"The letter says Foxbourne is planning on travelling one week from Monday," Winterhope provided, already looking relieved. "Best she doesn't set foot in London."

"You all owe me big for this," Leopold reluctantly agreed.

"Absolutely, but Beckworth." Winterhope's voice cut into Leopold's plan.

What now? Already, his mind was walking through a strategy to seize last year's Diamond of the Season: the number of men he'd need, the weapons he'd use, the roads he'd take.

"I know you have your… issues … but don't forget that she's a lady."

"Right." Leopold nodded slowly, and then again. "Right." It was as much of a promise as he'd ever make.

The concept of honor was nothing more than an illusion.

With that, the meeting broke up and, filing out of Malum's office, each went their separate ways.

Leopold wasn't the one with issues . If not for these Rotten Rakes and their honor business, there'd be no reason to pick her up in the first place.

And yet…

Despite the prospect of a dozen or more inconveniences, Leopold couldn't deny that a part of him relished the challenge. Because he wasn't the only person who'd suffer a few inconveniences.

The memory of Lady Amelia Crowley's cool demeanor came to mind. She was a beauty, true, but where Leopold was concerned, the Rakes had nothing to worry about.

Women played a part in his life, but they only ever played with a clear set of rules. For them, but also for him.

As far as dishonorable intentions, Lady Amelia Crowley had nothing to worry about.

Leopold jammed the ridiculous top hat onto his head—another concession he made to blend in with the nobs at the Emporium—and sauntered towards his offices on Bond Street.