Chapter One
NOVEMBER1830…
“Do we have an accord, Mr. Sinclair?”
As Lord Mallory was still talking to his back, Galahad wandered over to the farthest window to inspect the flaking wall and allow the silence to stretch a little bit longer. It was a tactic his grandpa had taught him back home in New York to encourage others to nervously fill the void and bare their hand.
His companion didn’t disappoint.
“It would be prudent to shake on it today, Mr. Sinclair, as I doubt these impressive buildings will take long to sell on the open market.”
Gal rapped the most precarious-looking crack on the wall with his knuckles and, as he had hoped, a huge chunk of plaster slipped and shattered on the floor by his feet. For good measure, he kicked the rotting piece of baseboard he had selected on purpose beneath the leaking window frame, and it instantly splintered into dust, too.
That was when he shook his head.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Because his wily grandpa also taught him that sometimes no words worked far better than all the clever words in the world. He didn’t need to turn around to know that despite the cold, the seller was sweating as he awaited his verdict. So profusely he could almost hear it leaking from the man’s pores.
“I could drop another five hundred, Mr. Sinclair, but that is myabsolute limit.” Which miraculously put him at the absolute top end of Gal’s. “You’ll be getting a steal for that price. An absolute steal. I doubt you’ll find anything any cheaper in Covent Garden.”
It might well be pushing the limits of his pocket, but a “steal” didn’t even begin to describe it.
Three adjacent four-story town houses in the beating heart of London’s pleasure capital, for just shy of six thousand pounds, was the deal of the century! Neglected empty husks they might be, but the shells were as sound as sound could be. He’d been hunting for a year for a property like this, and everything he’d seen had been smaller, twice the price, and nowhere near as well situated as this trio of matching beauties.
He had never been one for dancing, but while his expression remained blandly unconvinced, inside he was twirling pirouettes while his mind was already adjusting his original plans and drawing up new ones. Because as his canny grandpa also often said, plans, like dreams, should never be set in stone but rather allowed to shift with the tide, so a wise man kept them adaptable. Especially when the opportunity exceeded all his expectations. And boy, this did!
Three buildings! All in a row!
Five minutes in and his whirring mind knew already that he had to knock them all into one grand space. A unique theme for every floor. Music, singers, dancing girls, and a bar that never ran dry on the bottom level to attract all the fun lovers as they tumbled out of the nearby theaters. Gaming tables on the second and third floors. Affordable and raucous on two for the occasional gambler or those with limited budgets out for a good time. Higher stakes, more exclusive and intimate on three so that those serious about their wagering wouldn’t have to waste time with the hobbyists. That floor would be the holy grail. Swanky and luxurious and by invitation only. Served by a separate guarded but gilded staircase that rose majestically from the lobby for all to see—but for only the chosen few to climb. Something to aspire to, because the British loved nothing more than to feel superior to their fellow men.
Or women.
He intended to buck the usual trend and throw his doors open to anyone with a purse stuffed with jangling coins. Gal didn’t care who his future customers were so long as they spent their money. Never mind that putting the cat among the pigeons in the stuffy, and often suffocating, confines of English society like that also warmed the egalitarian American half of his blood.
He’d snag the entire attic for his own office and apartment because he was all done with temporary lodgings. After more than a decade of roaming, he wanted his own place. His own walls to do with as he pleased. His own décor and furniture. That sense of hearth and home, which had been missing for too long. Even the Albany, where his aristocratic cousin had somehow managed to finesse him a suite of well-appointed rooms, had too many rules and caveats for Gal’s liking. And it was too constricting. Too… English.
Mallory’s feet shuffled, his obvious impatience marking him as desperate. “I must warn you—I do have other interested parties.”
Gal quashed the urge to roll his eyes and give this hapless lord a friendly lecture on the dark art of negotiation, because they both knew he was currently the only ready buyer. Mallory’s widowed and childless aunt hadn’t been dead more than a few days, and because she had passed miles away in her seaside house in Brighton, the news of her death hadn’t yet reached the capital’s newspapers, so nothing had been advertised. Never mind that British politeness dictated that any potential rival would feel duty boundnotto inquire about the future of her extensive and lucrative property portfolio until she was safely ensconced underground.
Thankfully, not hailing from these parts had always been more beneficial than a hindrance, so he wasn’t similarly afflicted, and, as the Brits were so fond of saying, the early bird always caught the worm. That’s why he had taken it upon himself to call on her only nephew himself bright and early this morning, fresh from his own long and hasty journey back from Brighton last night, to be the first to offerhis condolences. Then he’d hinted he might be in the market for some property in Covent Garden if Lord Mallory happened to be in the market to sell off some of his fresh inheritance. Cash, of course, because cash was always king no matter what a man’s rank or nationality, and he had it on good authority that Mallory was strapped for it.
Many suspected the reckless young lord might not have two ha’pennies to rub together, a quaint English colloquialism that he loved and used often, but he knew it without a shadow of a doubt. Mallory was up to his eyeballs in debt and trouble, and with some nasty characters, too. The sort who owned the most debauched hells in the capital, which catered to the most base and hedonistic clientele. The sort who beat you to a pulp first then asked questions after. Absolutely not Gal’s sort of business at all, but as gambling was his stock-in-trade, he kept his ear to the ground for just such an eventuality. Another one of his grandpa’s invaluable tenets. A good businessman had to go find his own opportunities first, then make damn sure he seized them at the opportune moment before somebody else did if he wanted to get ahead.
Moments certainly didn’t come more opportune than this, and for once he could not see any catch when there was always at least one. Always some fly in the ointment to spoil complete perfection and force you to grind your teeth.
“Double that and I’ll shake on the deal this second.” Galahad turned smiling and held out his hand even though he knew he was pushing his luck. He’d always intended to buy one big building, not three, and renovating this vast space on what was left of his budget would take some serious juggling. But fortune favored the brave, or so the old proverb claimed, and when opportunity knocked on your front door, only a fool didn’t fling it open in welcome, so Gal would make this work.
No matter what it took.
Mallory blinked, then swallowed, so he knew he had won before the fellow lunged for his hand. “All right!” The relief on his face waspalpable as he cranked his arm like a pump handle as if he hoped water might miraculously shoot from Gal’s ears. “On the proviso that the funds will be transferred with all haste, as we discussed on the way over, Mr. Sinclair.”
That the money-hungry lord had dragged Gal to Covent Garden almost as soon as he had called at the fellow’s house was his first mistake; discussing the swift exchange of any fee so hot on its heels was his second, because any idiot surely knew that when you appeared too eager to sell, you lost all the power in a negotiation. That rookie mistake had turned a speculative visit by way of a rumor into something so tangible and real he could smell it, while also giving Gal all the best cards.
Which made this the perfect moment to play his ace.
“You can have it all tomorrow if your solicitor draws the papers up quick.” He winked at the man, who was now practically salivating at the seductive thought of a lifeline of unexpected cash so soon. “In my experience, it is staggering how rapidly something can happen if you offer to pay a man double his usual fee.” Not to mention that an expedited sale worked in Galahad’s favor, too, when the truth was three adjacent four-story town houses in the beating heart of Covent Garden were also rarer than hen’s teeth. The last thing he wanted was some other entrepreneurial type swooping in and stealing this sweet opportunity away after he had waited so long for it.
“Greasin’ the wheels also gives me less time to come to my senses and change my mind about buyin’ this rickety ruin so far away from home.” Experience had taught him to over-exaggerate his accent at moments like these to highlight the sense of otherness that naturally made people wary, making sure he used enough charm to soften some of the intentional sting in his words. So he laughed as he slapped Mallory on the back, ensuring his expression showed enough ambiguous insincerity to sow the seeds of doubt that he might very well change his unfathomable foreign mind if the solicitor dallied and take his huge bundle of cash elsewhere.
