37. Rotten Row
ROTTEN ROW
M alum urged his mount forward, the steady rhythm of the hooves muffled on the damp earth. He hadn’t bothered with sleep the night before, not after the news Beckworth had brought him. Instead, he’d returned to the Domus and gotten straight to work.
After years of planning, the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. And true, he and his cohorts could wait, but… Malum didn’t want to. After all this time, and especially after this recent situation with Melanie, his patience had practically evaporated.
He would act now. Strike while the iron was hot.
At dawn, he’d dispatched letters, messengers racing across the city with precise instructions for his allies. Shortly after, he’d met with his contact at the Home Office. Quiet words, clipped responses. The Home Secretary was aware. Options were laid out. A course set.
Now, as Malum rode across Hyde Park, the crisp morning air did little to temper the steely resolve that gripped him. Ahead, a handful of riders trotted leisurely toward Rotten Row, their carefree movements a sharp contrast to the purpose that drove him forward.
The meeting he’d called today was the opposite of routine. In all the time he’d worked with the Rotten Rakes, he’d never met with them in public. It was a signal they would recognize, and knowing that, he felt a stillness—alert in a way that brought about an eerie calm.
He tightened his grip on the reins, his knuckles twisting into the worn leather.
Through every step of his planning, he’d failed to shake the memory of Melanie’s face the night before. The moonlight reflecting in her crystal-blue, tear-brimmed eyes—so full of questions. Feelings of betrayal—they haunted him. The raw pain in her expression as he’d closed the window felt like he’d cut himself off from his own heart.
It was necessary. He repeated the words to himself like a prayer. Necessary to protect her, to keep her safe.
None of this was remotely familiar—this consuming need to protect, to put someone else’s wellbeing so far above his own. It rattled him, the intensity of it, the singular focus. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but there had only ever been one person before her who had mattered, and even those memories were distant and fractured. His brother, gone for years.
But this—what he felt for Melanie—was something entirely different. Stronger. Unyielding. Dangerous in its power, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to fight it.
He needed her.
She would forgive him. Of course she would—once she knew the truth.
And yet, he had doubts. It was possible that, when this was all over, she’d realize she could do so much better than a man who lived on both sides of Society—or rather, one who lived in the no-man’s land in between. She could do so much better.
The thought tightened his stomach, though he scoffed at himself for the weakness.
There were better men, perhaps. But the idea of those “better men” getting close to her, touching her, even so much as holding her hand, it pained and enraged him in equal measure. It was untenable.
The ache in his chest deepened, though he pressed it down.
Focus, Malum.
He would see this through—this investigation into Crossings—and once the truth was laid bare, once justice was done, he would make her an offer.
A real offer.
As his horse’s hooves struck the dirt and gravel of Rotten Row, Malum straightened in the saddle, staring down the horizon.
The time for waiting, for gathering evidence and biding his time, was over.
Approaching the designated meeting spot, he scanned the tree line. A familiar figure on horseback emerged from the shadows.
It was Standish. The earl’s silhouette was rigid, his posture betraying his tension even in the dim light.
As Malum slowed to a stop, another set of hoofbeats came up from behind him—Baron Westcott.
Standish tipped his hat to them both.
“Morning.” The tone of Westcott’s greeting was deceptively light. But then he jerked his chin up. “Is that who I think it is?”
Malum followed his line of sight to confirm it for himself—Beckworth. The astute businessman and smuggler was dressed even more casually than he was. Having traveled through the night to deliver important evidence, Malum couldn’t exactly hold Beckworth’s rough appearance against him.
“West. Standish. A pleasure, as always,” Beckworth greeted, his tone all affected brightness as he dipped his chin.
Malum smirked faintly, long accustomed to Beckworth’s brand of irreverence.
“You’re looking well,” Westcott said, his brow lifting just so.
Unbothered, Beckworth merely gave him a disarming smile. “It comes naturally.”
“Right. How’s the wife?”
“Settling in surprisingly well, all things considered,” Beckworth replied, though the faintest trace of sincerity softened his usual banter. But then his gaze swept the area, expectant. “Helton not joining us?”
“He sent word he might be late—was informed of a major story earlier this morning.” Standish grimaced. “I’ll catch him up later.”
Malum nodded. Not ideal, but Helton would come through in the end.
So, with a glance towards the man who’d knocked on his door serendipitously that very morning, Malum began. “Beckworth received some interesting correspondence this week—from the captain of The Phantom Gale .”
The others looked toward the smuggler, who took over from there. “A tea clipper went down in the waters just north of Lisbon—would have been three weeks ago. Was known as The Tempest’s Shadow —and it was laden with opium-funded tea.”
“How do we know this for certain?” Standish asked.
Malum, of course, had zero doubts. “The captain of The Gale had his crew confiscate several notable items before… watching the Tempest go down.” Malum reached into his pocket.
“This captain…” Westcott cocked one brow. “Is he…?”
“A good friend of mine.” Malum allowed the hint of a fond smile to lift the corners of his mouth.
“And by that, you mean?—?”
But Malum wasn’t going to reveal anything more. “Here, take a look,” he said instead, handing over a single letter. Its edges were worn, but it clearly displayed the Duke of Crossings’ seal. “An agreement, written in Crossings’ own hand and signed by him, made with his estate manager in Malda. It includes an invoice for one hundred and twenty chests of opium to be exchanged for tea and various spices. Hard, irrefutable proof.”
Westcott shook his head. “It’s not enough to convince the Home Office to arrest a duke, though, is it?”
Standish straightened in his saddle, his expression tightening. “Losing this shipment will ruin him—and make him even more desperate.”
“He won’t take this lightly,” Westcott added grimly.
“Agreed,” Malum said. “Which is why we need to move swiftly. I’ve already met with the Home Office about a discreet arrest, and the secretary seems to think there’s a good possibility that they can make the charges stick.”
“But how?” Standish asked. “We still don’t have enough evidence.”
“The letter is damning,” Westcott added, “but everything else we have is circumstantial.”
Which brought Malum to his final play, the one that would seal Crossings’ fate forever. “We have a witness, someone who’s been actively working with Crossings for over a year.”
Silence followed his announcement, and then, a heavy sigh from Standish.
“Northwoods.” He shook his head. “I should have realized…” His frown deepened. “If I’d returned to London sooner, I never would have allowed him to so much as speak to my sister.”
“You couldn’t have known… Bloody Northwoods has the ability to make people think he’s harmless.” Westcott’s eyes narrowed. “But he has always been an opportunist. How can we trust him?”
“We don’t need to trust him,” Malum said flatly. “We simply allow Northwoods to be his typical cowardly self. He’ll act in his own interests, as he always does. Now that Crossings’ luck has turned, he’ll switch sides. And if that isn’t enough to induce his testimony?—"
“You have leverage,” Beckworth supplied.
“I have leverage,” Malum confirmed. For all practical matters, he essentially owned the man.
The letter, four lost shipments, and the testimony of a turncoat accomplice. The air between them grew taut as the realization at last sank in. Crossings was going down. Today.
And then, as if on cue, the sound of a lone rider approaching caught their attention.
Malum turned, his sharp gaze locking on Lord Northwood’s face.