Page 6 of The Return of the Rake

“Tell me precisely what it is you want,” he said, knowing he would pay the price, no matter what. He owed Hilda Fairway his life more certainly than he did the vagaries of fate or feckless parents, but it was more than that.

If King had a weakness, it was for beautiful, expensive things, and these jewels were the most magnificent he’d ever seen. Hunger seemed to live inside him, a relentless appetite for more. Not food, though he knew what it was to go for days and weeks and months with his stomach clamouring for sustenance. No, his hunger these days was for things. The best clothes from the best tailors, the finest horses, fanciest carriages, not to mention the most beautiful women. Yet no matter how much he owned, how much money he accrued, it was never enough to sate him. Sometimes he wondered at it. Surely, having escaped from the town where everyone despised him and made his fortune ought to be enough to satisfy him, but it wasn’t.

He wanted more, always seeking the thing that would ease the gnawing ache of emptiness that left him feeling hollowed out and empty.

“She’s a widow, but she’s no proof of her marriage—a fire destroyed all her papers and most everything she owned, save those baubles,” Mrs Fairway said, a defensive note to her voice.

King wondered at it, sensing she was hiding something, but did not pry further, not much caring about the girl, only about the deal to be done. He wanted those rubies.

“I need a marriage certificate and a death one, too,” the lady continued, “so people don’t ask difficult questions. She needs a bank account, with money in it, and she needs a property in her name. Paid in full. Something no one can ever take from her, no matter what.”

“You don’t want much,” he said with a snort, though he was already weighing up the possibilities. It was not more than the jewels were worth, not by a long way. He could give her what she wanted. “That all?”

“She’ll need ready money, too. Enough for the next year, at least. She needs to keep her head down until people stop looking for her.”

King laughed. Well, he’d asked for it. “And what about you?” he asked, regarding the woman with interest. “Are you getting a cut?”

She bristled at the implication, which did not surprise him. Outwardly hard as nails, Mrs Fairway was decent to her bones, honest, good, and kind. He ought to know. “I’ll stay with her for as long as she wants me and she’ll pay me an honest wage for my work. That’s all I ask.”

“You ought to ask a good deal more. Why are you here? Why is she not asking for my help?” he asked, too curious not to press a little.

“Because she’s a lady and she don’t owe ye nothing and never will, neither,” she said hotly, indignation flashing in her eyes.

King nodded, having expected nothing less. “How did you know I’d be here? I don’t live here anymore, you know. I only come here to do business.”

“I hear things,” she said with a shrug, clearly unwilling to be drawn. “But you can’t be a king if you got no palace.” There was something like derision in her words that he did not care for, but only because he understood them too well. He agreed, too. His empire of gambling dens and his dealings with smugglers—who supplied the great and the good with all the little luxuries that had become so expensive or hard to obtain—were hardly things to be proud of. For a long time, he’d believed he was winning at life, a grand success. The bastard son of a fisherman whose mother had dumped him, a scrawny lad who had risen from the dirt and made himself rich. That had changed the day he’d found a small boy, no more than three, alone on the street outside the door of one of his gambling dens, and gone on to discover his father had lost everything at the tables and taken his own life in one of the upstairs rooms. That night he’d taken a hard look at himself and at the impact his empire had on the poorest families, whose suffering only increased when the men of the household gambled away their last farthing.

He might not have been responsible for all the misery in the rookeries, or for the fate of children whose mothers fell down drunk on cheap gin, but he was hardly helping, either. He was no do-gooder, certainly no saint, but he had come to despise himself and found it hard to sleep at night. He’d done his best for the boy, finding a good family to take him on and paying them handsomely to do so, but it did not wash away his guilt. That was why he was making changes—changes many people would not like. Not one little bit.

So he didn’t react to Hilda’s words, only regarded her impassively before rounding his desk and sitting down again.

“Does she own the rubies, Hilda?” he asked with mild interest, for it wouldn’t have changed anything if they’d once been part of the crown jewels.

“Not exactly. They’re her grandmother’s, though her parents will no doubt own them any day as the old girl won’t last long. But the only thing those wicked devils deserve is getting those taken from under their noses. It won’t pay for the heartless way they’ve treated her, but it will lessen the sting and keep her safe.”

King nodded, unsurprised by Hilda’s honesty and ruthless idea of justice. He’d expected no less.

“Why are you helping her?” he asked, reaching into his desk drawer. He took out a tin box, unlocked it, and counted out two hundred pounds, glancing up to regard the woman before him.

“Same reason I helped you. It’s the right thing to do, the Christian thing.”

King set the money aside and looked up again, considering her. “You’re doing it for Sarah,” he said gently, remembering the daughter she’d lost.

Mrs Fairway’s lips tightened, but she held his gaze, her expression unreadable. “I know it.”

Shrugging, for it was none of his affair, King wrote an address on a slip of paper and made his way back around the desk to stand before Mrs Fairway, handing both to her.

“Stay at this address tonight. It’s safe and no one will look for you there. I’ll make certain it’s secure, so don’t fret if you see men lingering in the street outside, they’re mine. The money is a deposit. Return tomorrow morning at eleven. I’ll have everything you want ready for you.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyebrows raise in astonishment. King enjoyed surprising people, and he had known she thought her demands outrageous. Not because of the cost, but because they were difficult to arrange, certainly overnight. But then he was not the King of the Rookeries for nothing.

“Everything? The marriage certificate and the house and—”

“Everything,” he replied. “Now run along. I’ll get one of my lads to see you safely back where you’re going.”

Impulsively, Mrs Fairway reached up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “You’re a good fellow at heart,” she said softly. “You owe yourself better than this,” she added, scowling as she gestured around her. Not that she meant his office, which was clean and comfortable and rather elegant, considering where it was. But they both understood that without labouring the point.

“I’ve got exactly what I deserve, Hilda,” he said, laughing softly. “The devil looks after his own.”