Page 77 of The Viscount of Shadows

Oliver could not envision a more perfect evening.

* * *

Jedi Danaher sat behind a table, watching his men drag in two well-dressed nobs. Jedi wore a long cloak with a hood, which he had pulled over his head and hauled low over his eyes to partially obscure his face. His men removed the burlap bags they had over the men’s heads.

“Names!” he barked menacingly. The place was shrouded in darkness, so there was no possible way the men could identify their surroundings.

“Viscount Shinwell,” the one on the left sniffed arrogantly. “And this is Mr. Bryan Wollstonecraft, son of the Earl of Carstone.”

Wollstonecraft kicked Shinwell in the leg; no doubt annoyed the viscount gave away his aristocratic family ties. Shinwell. Of course, Darrington’s contemptible son. Jedi had done business with Darrington on numerous occasions. Did Shinwell know of his father’s criminal enterprises? Probably not.

“They’ve been at The Black Moon many times and on Bangor Street,” Birch said. “And next door.”

Buying opium.

“Then you owe me a luxury tax,” Jedi growled. He didn’t bother using his street accent any longer. What was the point?

“I think not, and you have no right to drag us here like this,” Shinwell said, crossing his arms defiantly.

“I have every right. Notting Dale is mine,” Jedi replied, then pointed at the viscount. “I know your father very well. We’ve done many deals together over the years.”

“I highly doubt it.”

Jedi laughed cynically. “How do you think the earl has financed his life and paid your bills? He’s a smuggler and more besides.”

The blood drained from Shinwell’s face.

Jedi was correct. The pampered bastard had no clue. “You, Viscount. Answer my questions, and I might consider letting you go. Do you know a detective named Simpson?”

“N-no.”

Not so arrogant now. “Does Carnstone have any wealth? Is he in the city?”

“Yes, and no, not in London. But his oldest son is Viscount Tensbridge. He lives at 5 Hill Street, Mayfair.”

“You miserable bastard,” Wollstonecraft hissed through clenched teeth.

Perhaps the viscount brother hired Claudia’s agency to follow this wayward whelp. It was plausible and worth a look. “Shinwell, you can go. I will collect the tax from your father. Don’t show your face around here again until he settles your account. As for Wollstonecraft—” Jedi paused. “You will stay here as my guest. I will contact your brother about paying your fee. And Shinwell? Don’t get it in your empty head to go to Tensbridge about this. Or I will find you and silence you permanently. Go now before I change my mind.”

Shinwell scrambled toward the door.

“Troy!” Wollstonecraft called out beseechingly.

Shinwell turned and shrugged. “Sorry. Self-preservation and all that.” One of Jedi’s men grabbed Shinwell roughly by the arm, pulled the burlap sack over his head, then pushed the viscount out through the creaky door, banging it shut behind him.

“Not much of a friend, is he?” Danaher laughed cruelly.

“No. He is not.”

“Put him below,” Jedi ordered Birch.

“What? Below?” Wollstonecraft cried.

How ironic Jedi used the same cache The Sentinel hid in, and probably Claudia as well. “It’s a bit dark, but there is a pallet and a bucket. Keep quiet, and I might even feed you. Don’t try to escape, not that you could. I installed bolts to secure the trapdoor, and my men will be watching.”

The panic on Wollstonecraft’s face was palatable. Danaher could make it out by the dim light of the candle. He probably didn’t like the dark or enclosed places—or both. Who bloody cares?

“Don’t put me down there. I have money,” Wollstonecraft rasped.