1. Domus Emporium, Spring 1834

DOMUS EMPORIUM, SPRING 1834

H arold Preston, the Duke of Malum, stiffened in his chair, the faintest shift betraying his annoyance. The hairs on the back of his neck rose a moment before he heard it: raised voices breaking through the heavy quiet of his office. Though muffled by the thick walls, the sound was unmistakable.

Exhaling slowly, he released his irritation. He then carefully folded the letter he’d been reading and slid it into the top drawer of his desk, turning the key with a quiet click . Whatever the message contained, it could wait.

The Domus Emporium rarely entertained skirmishes. Its patrons, though prone to vices of all kinds, understood the rules. Anyone foolish enough to incite trouble risked not only permanent expulsion but also the loss of access to the most exclusive pleasures London had to offer. That threat alone was usually sufficient.

Usually.

Malum stood, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve before shrugging into his jacket. The smooth, practiced motion was a ritual—part of his armor. Though he employed men well- equipped to deal with such disruptions, he knew the value of making an occasional appearance.

Control was the cornerstone of his power—control of his reputation, his empire, and, most importantly, himself. And when anyone challenged any part of his world, it was Malum’s responsibility to restore it.

The Domus wasn’t merely a brothel—it was a sanctuary of indulgence, a palace of secrets for the men who publicly condemned it while privately relishing its luxuries.

Bloody hypocrites.

His mouth quirked into the barest shadow of a smile as he strode to the door.

Handling this personally wasn’t strictly necessary, but it sent a message—to his employees, to his clients, and to himself.

Order would be maintained.

As he made his way down the carpeted stairs, he was able to make out the low murmur of excited voices overlapping in the room below, workers and club members alike come out to gossip about the latest commotion. The noise suddenly rose and then fell to near silence the moment he stepped onto the floor.

Jaw set, Malum didn’t school his appearance for anyone’s sake. But he knew what they saw—or what they didn’t see, rather.

As they gawked and backed away, parting around him as though he was Moses himself, they wouldn’t see even a hint of vulnerability. They would not see any indication of compromise or uncertainty. No charm. No nod to propriety.

They would see a man who’d been raised to be a duke, true, but not one of their own. No, he was a duke who’d done the unthinkable—a duke who’d turned his back on Society.

Malum knew it offended their fragile sensibilities, but he didn’t care. Although unintentional, the result was rather effective.

Sensing a shift rippling through the crowd, the two combatants who’d dared to challenge one of Malum’s dealers were already backing down. Their wariness was clear, but so was their arrogance. Both men—an earl and some other gentleman of lesser distinction—wore smug expressions, as if their birthright alone guaranteed them immunity.

But this wasn’t White’s. Here, a title meant very little.

“My lord,” Malum said, his voice cold enough to frost the air as he addressed the Earl of Northwoods. “Good sir,” he added, shifting his gaze to the other man, whose name he neither knew nor cared to learn.

Without warning, Malum’s fists shot out, and both men flinched, their reflexes swift, almost admirable. But Malum had no intention of lowering himself to their level. Petty skirmishes weren’t his style.

As they ducked, he seized their cravats with practiced ease, a subtle tug turning the fine silk into makeshift leashes. They froze, their movements arrested by the quiet authority that emanated from him. Now, they were his to control—like unruly mongrels caught in the act.

“Forget the rules, have you?” It wasn’t necessary to raise his voice. With the room quiet as a church, he could have whispered and still been heard.

“Your man is cheating,” hissed Northwoods after an extended pause. “Dealing from the bottom of the deck.” The challenge was a little surprising, earning some raised eyebrows from those gathered around. The earl’s features were unremarkable, his opinions carefully measured, and his presence so understated it was easy to forget him entirely. If ever a reputation could be built on passivity, Northwoods had mastered it, tending toward neutrality in all things, as though to avoid the burden of standing out.

The accusation, Malum knew, was laughable, as the employees at the Domus were treated too well, paid more than twice what they’d make at any other establishment. They knew that to try anything stupid like that would be idiotic and not worth the potential cost.

No, the only question now was how best to use this situation to his advantage—later.

“He’s hiding the aces,” the other man chimed in, emboldened by Northwoods’ complaint. Emboldened also, it seemed, by the spirits he’d consumed.

“Who is this rodent?” Malum asked his head of security. Standing over seven feet tall, and with shoulders as wide as a horse, Boris managed to intimidate guests without so much as speaking. He would have thrown these two out if their boss hadn’t appeared.

“Baron Dankworth, Your Grace,” his employee answered.

Malum twisted the fabric in his hands, tightening the noose on both of them.

False accusations, harassment of the Domus’s staff, undue disturbance of one’s fellow patrons. The rules at this establishment were well known, as were the consequences for disregarding them.

There was too much at stake here. Because the Domus was more than it seemed, its purpose extending beyond indulgence.

Normally, Malum would have instructed Boris to toss both men onto the street by now, revoked their memberships, and ensured they were blackballed by his associates. But Northwoods… whose eyes were, in fact, a little unfocussed, might come in handy.

“This way, gentlemen.” Malum abruptly released his grip, turning on his heel and striding toward the back of the room. He didn’t glance over his shoulder—he knew they would follow.

“Should I throw ’em in the tank?” Boris asked from half a step behind. The tank—a holding cell of sorts—was reserved for those who violated rules that protected the women upstairs.

Malum gave a single, deliberate nod, but then added, “I want a profile on both of them,” he ordered.

Boris grunted in acknowledgment, and Malum’s instincts hummed. The Earl of Northwoods, Malum suspected, had ties to the one man who had eluded his grasp—the Duke of Crossings.

Crossings—a vile creature who lured desperate aristocrats into the opium-for-tea trade—had woven a web of corruption, the kind that resulted in despair.

Could Malum have had him killed? Of course. But that would have been far too easy.

No, Malum intended to see Crossings rot in Newgate for the rest of his days—crown connections be damned.

Which meant he needed evidence, irrefutable, rock-solid evidence. And if Malum was right—and he usually was—Northwoods just might come in handy.

He’d learned to trust his instincts, which were almost always spot on.

Much later, sitting alone in his office, Malum rubbed his chin. Working through the night was hardly unusual for him. In his line of business, it was a given. Normally, he would catch a few hours of sleep in the adjacent bedchamber, a space designated for his private use.

But tonight, the familiar comfort—the satisfaction he usually found at the Domus —eluded him.

Giving up, Malum rose with a sigh. Perhaps what he needed was the solitude of his Mayfair townhouse.

Preston Hall had been in his family for three generations, a relic of his father’s era. If it hadn’t been entailed, Malum would have sold it without hesitation. Instead, after establishing the Domus , he’d gutted the townhouse, stripping it of its history. Priceless paintings were sold off, the dated flooring and garish wallcoverings removed. Modern plumbing was installed, and the floorplan was entirely reimagined, erasing every trace of his father’s influence.

He’d made it his own, a place as deliberate as the Domus but far more personal—a retreat.

And tonight, for reasons he couldn’t fully name, he needed that escape.

He was a man who had severed himself from his legacy—or, at least, from the social expectations tied to it. Yet, he couldn’t abandon his tenants or shirk his fiduciary duties.

These obligations anchored him to a life he no longer fully belonged to, leaving him adrift between two worlds.

Not that he minded. Detachment had been inevitable, a choice rather than a burden. Better to remain untethered than bound by the rot of Society’s corruption.

With a few nods of goodnight, he stepped outside, so immune to English weather he hardly took notice of the hovering mist as he climbed into his coach.

Sleek and well-sprung, it was built to outrun any curricle.

If the need arose.

There was no ducal seal—nor any of the gilded decorations the builder had suggested. It had been built for speed and discretion.

And although, by necessity, two outriders rode on the back step, the men wore uniforms that weren’t uniforms at all, but rather the garb one would expect of a struggling merchant or typical laborer.

The weapons hidden beneath their coats were anything but typical. Small pistols. Razor-sharp knives. Items that might come in handy in dealing with anyone who dared threaten the Duke of Malum.

Which was why he could easily dismiss the shadowy figure lurking behind a farmer’s cart parked across the way. Boris would deal with it.

Really, by now, Malum had too many enemies to count.

“Morning, Your Grace,” Jordan, his driver, called down as Philbert held the door open for Malum to climb inside.

Malum responded with a tight smile.

It didn’t feel like morning. The weariness he’d been ignoring for months clung to him, a relentless weight that made it seem as though he lived his life in one endless, gray night.

Even after a few hours of restless sleep in his own bed, a bath, and dressing with the efficient assistance of Angus, his fastidious valet, the sensation persisted.

Morning slipped into afternoon, but not even the mundane distraction of reviewing estate reports from his largest holdings could shake the sensation.

As he sat in his study, Malum caught the faint sound of a knock at the front door below. He waited, expecting to hear the familiar footsteps of his butler, Mr. Tipton. But there was only silence.

Frowning, he straightened in his revolving Windsor chair and turned toward the window. Raindrops dotted the glass, the scattered drips quickly building into a steady shower. Typical London weather .

His gaze drifted across Regent Street, where Rutherford, now the Earl of Standish, had once resided. The windows were empty—odd, given that one of the daughters was usually stationed there, watching. He’d grown accustomed to her undistinguishable presence, oddly enough. In the same way he might notice a particular street vendor or beggar.

Before he could turn away, the door flew open, and a dark-haired young woman darted out into the rain. His breath hitched—barely perceptible, even to himself—as something flickered in his chest. He couldn’t place it, a tug of awareness, unsettling in its unfamiliarity, as he watched her tiptoe around a few puddles and cross the narrow street, looking hesitant but also determined.

She had neither an umbrella nor a coat, hat, or gloves. The rain was relentless; she’d be soaked through in minutes.

The chit was one of Rutherford’s younger sisters, but what the devil was she doing?

She disappeared from view, and Malum realized she was headed for his front step.

Curious, he stepped out of his study. When Mr. Tipton appeared in the entryway, Malum waved him off with a sharp flick of his hand.

The butler hesitated, but with a deferential nod, he stepped back, retreating—though Malum had no doubt the man was lingering just out of sight.

Unbothered, Malum placed his hand on the doorknob but immediately froze. A jolt of… something shot up his arm. Anticipation, perhaps.

He blinked, dismissing the sensation as nothing more than the storm—a buildup of energy, the imbalance before lightning struck. Stretching his shoulders with a faint grimace, he turned the knob and opened the door.

Cool wind swept inside, carrying biting raindrops that spattered across the floor.

Malum barely noticed.

Because there, on his stoop, was a large basket, but it wasn’t what held his attention.

Rutherford’s sister knelt at his feet, shoving soaking curls from her face. Her head tipped back, and his breath caught.

The prettiest damn eyes he’d ever seen.

Luminous blue—crystal clear, like sunlight glinting off a quiet stream. For a moment, the world tilted, and an almost incomprehensible thought teased his senses.

From this moment on, nothing will be the same.

But that was ridiculous.

And yet, he couldn’t dismiss it completely.