Friday, 28 April 1826
Chambers Coffee House, Bloomsbury, London
Half-past ten in the morning
Thad watched arumpled and bleary-eyed George as a slender young woman slid a trencher of eggs, sausages, cheese, and bread in front of his friend. George gave her a wan smile and pointed at his half-empty mug. “More coffee, please, love. The hotter, the better.”
She patted his shoulder. “Anything for you, Georgie.”
The girl did not even glance Thad’s way as she swayed away. “One of your many paramours?”
George stabbed a fork into his eggs. “Stella is a paramour of many. I am merely nicer to her than most.”
“Were you nice to her last night?”
George ignored Thad as he took a deep draw on the mug of coffee. His usually pristine friend wore the same clothes from the day before and had not yet shaven.
“You look like the dog’s breakfast. Where did you go last night?”
“To a roaming hell in the Rookeries.”
Thad stared at him. “Whatever in God’s name for? Those people do not have the kind of money you usually game for. I doubt even Mayfair’s servants would darken the door.”
George sniffed. “Mayfair servants would not even know how to find such a place.” He took a bite of sausage. “But you do, do you not?”
Thad stilled. “George, what did you do?”
They paused as Stella set a mug of coffee in front of Thad, then poured more into George’s cup. “You want anything to eat, dearie?” she asked Thad. When he shook his head, she drifted away.
George drank more coffee. “I met with my spies there. And a couple of other people. You know a man named Collins?”
Thad’s muscles tensed. He did not like where this was headed. “Yes.”
“Owe him a great deal of blunt, do you?” George broke his hunk of bread in half and offered part to Thad, who waved it away. “Three, maybe four, you said. To various people.” He bit into the bread.
“George . . .”
George plopped the bread on the trencher, his face reddening. “You gambled against Bully Collins. Good lord, man, what were you about, taking on the most evil gang boss in the Rookeries?” George thumped his own head. “Do you even realize the madness of this? Or were you too drunk to care?”
“Probably the latter—”
“Do you even know how to stop? To take care of this?” He picked up the bread and waggled it at Thad. “You sold your life to the Lyon, agreeing to marry a woman you do not even know to take care of your debt to the Lyon’s Den. So what do you plan to sell to Bully Collins, because I don’t think he’s interested in your soul or your cock?”
“George . . .”
“Because when he said ‘seven’ last night—seven!—and just tohim, I felt like walking you down to the docks and putting you on a ship myself.”
“George . . .”
“To keep you safe!” Spittle flew around the words, along with crumbs of bread. George straightened in his chair, then leaned toward Thad, lowering his voice. “Because Collins has decided that you are probably not as good a mark as he thought you were but that you might make a good warning to other blokes who try to cheat him out of his money.”
“I am not trying to—”
“He no longer believes you. He believes you cannot get the money from other hells or your family or your friends. He also mentioned how much you owe Campion’s.”
“Surely others owe him more. It is not unheard of—”
“No, but they have an income. Property. Artwork to sell. Land to rent.Income. Not the pittance of an allowance you do.”
