14. The Devil’s in the Details

THE DEVIL'S IN THE DETAILS

L eopold stared at the two sheets of parchment laid out on his desk. The one on the left was marked with the bastardized version of Malum's ducal seal—the letter ‘M', embellished with the initials of his private club, the Domus Emporium. Malum's own personal slight to his heritage.

Despite the fancy stationery, the writing was gibberish—as was intended.

The plain page on the right was covered with Fitz's much neater writing—the message decoded.

According to Malum, upon arriving in London, rather than report Lady Amelia's abduction to the authorities, Foxbourne and his wife had gone right to Crossings—accusing him of taking their daughter. One of the Rotten Rakes, by design, had been present to witness the confrontation. Crossings, devil that he was, had not denied his involvement in the kidnapping. Instead, he'd twisted it to his own advantage.

"Foxbourne is an idiot," Leopold said.

Lady Amelia's father was threatening to expose the illegal trade if Crossings didn't hand over his daughter—but also the money he was due.

The marquess, it seemed, was still oblivious to Crossings' power.

Malum had men watching Foxbourne's Mayfair townhouse, and Crossings was being monitored as well. It was something of a stand-off, with both parties bluffing.

Because Crossings didn't have Lady Amelia—Leopold did. Furthermore, the duke was running low on funds.

And for once, it seemed, the Rotten Rakes held all the cards.

After reading through the message, a slow smile stretched Leopold's mouth.

"Good news, eh?" Fitz was leaning forward from the opposite side of Leopold's desk.

"Promising," Leopold answered. But he knew better than to count his chickens before the eggs had hatched, so to speak.

"I'll send a message informing Malum that we've arrived, then?"

"Yes, but." Reaching into his pocket, Leopold removed the trinket he'd kept in his pocket. "Send him this as well."

At Fitz's confusion, Leopold added, "It belongs to Lady Amelia. When the time comes, it will disprove Crossings' claim."

Looking slightly impressed, Fitz tucked it safely into one of his pockets. "Good thinking, Boss."

Handing it off, Leopold refused to acknowledge an odd pang for letting go of it. Really, though, he ought to have sent it to London before.

He fisted his hands and turned to stare out his window.

With the manor set high above the cliffs, the sea stretched for miles. And that view had provided clarity on more than one occasion.

"What's the status of the Francesca?" Their latest shipment had been due to arrive this week. Landing the goods on the beach, however, could prove dicey at times.

"She's holding her position," Fitz answered. "Winds have been high, but they've calmed down. I imagine they'll bring it in tonight."

Leopold nodded in approval. By avoiding the docks, they avoided the taxes, but on occasion, nature claimed its own due. Too much fog and the boats risked getting caught up on the rocks. Too much moonlight and their operations were vulnerable to exposure.

"Anything else?"

"Yes." He paid a handful of locals to act as watchmen. Still… "Tell the team to keep an eye out for anything unusual."

He was ninety-nine percent confident Crossings had no way of knowing Lady Amelia was at Smuggler's Manor, but it was that one percent, if ignored, that caught a person off-guard.

If he let it.

Fitz departed to carry out his orders, and for a while afterwards, Leopold remained in his office to read through the audits from a handful of his other investments. Aside from a few small discrepancies, he was generally satisfied.

So why the sinking feeling?

Leopold ran a hand through his hair, annoyed that he'd let it get to him.

That he'd let her get to him. It wasn't just the damned pendant.

It was her expression when Smuggler's Manor came into view.

Her disappointment .

With a single sigh, she'd sent him back to that day at Winterhope's estate, when he'd caught that first glance of her. The feeling of his heart expanding and then instantly deflating.

Leopold was, and would always be, a commoner and a criminal. But though he might be going to hell someday, he'd be damned if he'd be ashamed of Smuggler's Manor. If it wasn't to her liking, then her ladyship could rot.

But this reminder didn't stop him from comparing Winter Castle or Lord Helton's Black Hall to his own manor.

Such structures were built to impress, to show off one's superior status and wealth, but he'd never seen the value in that sort of posturing. His home served his needs and was plenty comfortable for him, his team, and the few guests he entertained from time to time, so why bother beyond that?

And yet… Even Malum, a duke who'd very deliberately shunned society, had spared no expense when he'd built his club.

The Domus Emporium featured sparkling crystal chandeliers, velvet wallcoverings, hand-carved molding, and luxurious furnishings which managed to be both appealing to the eye and sinfully comfortable. Hell, Leopold figured the floors alone—polished marble covered in handmade oriental rugs that flowed artfully throughout the entire establishment—had cost thousands of pounds.

But it all came together to create what Leopold realized must be a very calculated sort of atmosphere: both decadent and relaxed, the design was rich and thoughtful enough to inspire trust in the Emporium's typical patrons. To encourage the lowering of both inhibitions and defenses.

Leopold shifted. Everything Malum did was deliberate.

But then footsteps in the foyer outside of his office brought him back to reality.

The Domus Emporium was meant to be seen. Smuggler's Manor was meant to be invisible.

Just as he'd been when he'd first noticed Lady Amelia.

A few knocks sounded and Leopold hastily bid whoever it was to enter, welcoming a distraction from such unproductive thoughts.

Only… she wasn't the distraction he needed.

"Are you busy?" Lady Amelia peered inside, but rather than send her away, Leopold found himself rising from his desk.

Like a bloody gentleman .

"Not at all. Come in." And then he braced himself for her complaints. No doubt, she was used to more lavish accommodations and was realizing she needed much more than her needle and thread to make herself comfortable.

She went to close the door, but rather than allow it to latch, left an opening of about an inch. She didn't turn right around, however, hovering for a few beats with her hand still on the handle, but then shrugged and closed it all the way.

All the while Leopold appreciated the view her hesitation provided him, particularly the way her hips flared beneath her gown. Without a corset, she looked softer—like a woman ought to look.

"I don't suppose it matters if I'm alone behind closed doors with you," she supplied in explanation. She then turned, approaching his desk hesitantly, and Leopold, who'd remained standing, gestured toward the chair Fitz had occupied.

"I don't suppose it does," he agreed, lowering himself once she was seated. "Do you have a problem with your chamber?"

"Not at all. Was the modern plumbing your doing?"

Taken aback, Leopold nodded.

"My father said it wasn't necessary. But, I think it's rather wonderful, having hot and cold water so easily available. The room is lovely as well—and Bessie's introduced me to a few of your maids. Everyone is so nice." She glanced around Leopold's office, and as her eyes lingered on the meager decor—or lack thereof, rather—Leopold found that he was holding his breath.

In distinct contrast to what she must be accustomed to, Leopold's study was not lined with bookshelves filled with volumes he didn't have time to read. Even more notably, not a single priceless painting hung to boast of long dead ancestors who had come before him.

"Everything is so…" She met his stare. "Clean," she finished brightly.

Whereas he expected to see the same disappointment she'd shown earlier, her eyes had lit up with… approval?

He swallowed around an unexpected lump in his throat. "I don't see the purpose of clutter." He liked clean. He liked open space. And he liked knowing it belonged to him.

"Why would you, with such a magnificent view?" She was staring beyond his shoulder. "It's stunning."

He shouldn't care that she liked it. He had no business caring, damn it.

And yet, his chest seemed to expand.

"You should have seen it before…" Recalling the splintered floorboards, parts of the ceiling that had caved in, and the broken windows. The list went on and on… "The previous owner, a baron, fell broke when his mines closed. Couldn't afford to keep it up."

She nodded. "It happens. Before my father got into shipping, he had no choice but to sell off some valuables. I didn't notice, myself; I was too young to care, I suppose. But Mother still complains about having to sell some of her jewelry. And there are a few obviously empty spots on the wall. But all that changed after Dashiell left for the tropics." She met his gaze again, looking a touch startled. "You're surprisingly easy to talk to sometimes. Did you know that?"

"It's only because there's no need to impress me." A little hypocritical of him to say, considering how much her disappointment in Smuggler's Manor had ruffled his feathers. "Who is Dashiell?" The name was unfamiliar.

"My brother, Viscount Warbane." The corners of her mouth tilted up. But then she rolled her lips together. "After traveling to Jamaica, Dash discovered that my father's manager was keeping over half the profits for himself."

"Your father owns a plantation," Leopold guessed. But he couldn't approve.

"Yes. They grow sugar. And tobacco." She stared down at her hands and, for a moment, seemed to squirm in her chair. She must know, then, that those profits were made off the backs of slaves. At some point over the last few days, he'd allowed himself to forget exactly who she was.

Regardless, it wasn't his business to make her see the evil in it. Or to educate her. Her time at Smuggler's Manor was temporary, and in a matter of weeks she'd go back to being untouchable. She was the daughter of a marquess. What would she care so long as her needs were met in the manner to which she was accustomed?

And staring at her now, noticing her flawless skin, eyes as blue as the sky behind him, and her delightful heart-shaped face, some of the contempt he'd imagined he'd have for her returned.

He was grateful for the reminder. His body might still feel a very natural tug of desire, but actually liking the woman felt… dangerous.

Leopold shuttered his expression. "Does your brother return to England often?"

"He was here over the holidays."

Which meant…

Finally, something interesting. It was the same time Crossings had visited Cherrywood Park, which made it more than likely the brother was in as deep as the father. Possibly more so.

If nothing else, it might provide them with another possible lead to follow.

"Do you miss him?" Leopold asked.

"Not as much as I did at first. He's quite a bit older than me. But it's impossible not to worry when he's away for so long." She sighed, and her expression wavered. "And of course, I love him…"

"But...?"

She winced. "I…"

Leopold held perfectly still as he waited for her to continue.

And then, as though she'd weighed an important decision, she sighed. "I often go over my father's ledgers—to check his sums and whatnot." She met his stare. "I started doing it when I was young, more for my own sake than his. But he's come to rely on me." She shrugged.

Leopold flattened his expression and waited.

"When Dash was home," she explained, "He left the plantation's ledgers on my father's desk, so I took a look at them." And then worry tugged at her eyes. "But they weren't like the estate accounts."

"Why not?"

She blinked, staring straight ahead, as if she was visualizing the itemized lists in the air just over his shoulder. "There were housing costs. Food costs. Tools. Legal fees. And all the expenses of transportation. I went over them three times. But I couldn't account for…"

"Labor," Leopold finished for her.

She jerked her stare back to him. "Exactly. But that can't be right, can it? It—slavery—is not only wrong, but it was made illegal last year. When I asked my brother about it, he simply said things were run differently in Jamaica." She seemed to deflate at this admission.

So perhaps she hadn't known, not until recently anyway, and not with certainty.

"Is that why you took me?" she asked. "Does it have something to do with my father's plantation?"

Leopold sighed, taking a moment to reorganize his thoughts.

Lady Amelia was na?ve, spoiled, and only marginally aware of her own privileged lifestyle, but it appeared she was also, in all likelihood, an innocent where Crossings was concerned. Despite this recent revelation, she seemed oblivious to her father's more nefarious business dealings...

Well, then.

She'd searched him out this afternoon, not to complain, but to ask if her father's plantation was the reason for this so-called kidnapping.

Leopold rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to decide how much he should tell her. Yes, her father was operating outside the law, but it was more than that. Foxbourne's many and varied immoral decisions had landed his family in the center of a dangerous web, one more complicated and wide-reaching than the fool was prepared to deal with. Leopold wasn't surprised that the Jamaican plantation hadn't adhered to the new laws. In fact, those ships that transported sugar and tobacco could very well be used for some of Crossings' operations.

Her sodding family must be even more involved than any of them had suspected. And that sort of connection, well, it certainly bore looking into.

But she didn't know about Crossings. Of course she didn't.

Red clouded his vision as an almost violent instinct clawed its way through him. He flexed and clenched his hands.

He'd promised to protect Lady Amelia from Crossings, a small part of a much larger plan, but safeguarding this woman was no longer a simple task to be performed out of obligation. Somehow, it had turned into something else.

He would, in fact, take out any person who posed a threat to her.

Her father.

Her brother.

The damned Duke of Crossings.

If Leopold were to tell her the truth, would she believe him? Did it matter?

"You aren't going to tell me, are you?" She studied him knowingly. Because she wasn't empty-headed either, another miscalculation on his part.

But her question provided him with an easy out. And he wanted nothing more than to see her smile again.

He was a far weaker man than he'd thought he was. "Would you like a tour?" he asked.

She blinked and then, recognizing his offer for what it was, nodded.

"I would like that."

"The house or the grounds? You choose."

She only paused a moment. "The house first, I think."

"The house it is."