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ChapterOne
London – October, 1815
Theophilus Brunner stood at attention in front of the magistrate’s desk, back aching with frustration, hands clasped into fists at the small of his back, teeth clenched, doing his level best not to burst like an exploding shell fired from one of Nelson’s cannons.
“And another thing,” his employer, Sir Robert Baker, chief of the Bow Street magistrate’s office, continued his admonition, leaning toward Theo across the wide desk and pointing, “after months of assigning you to rid this city of vice and immorality by bringing about the closure of its most notorious gaming hells, I have it on good authority that not only has that task remained incomplete, more such establishments are opening their doors every day.”
“I have done my best, Your Honor,” Theo said, unable to hide the resentful growl in his voice. “Those establishments are well protected, and their owners often receive help from great personages to conceal themselves.”
“I did not ask for your excuses, sir,” Baker snapped at him. “I asked for your actions. I want those dens of iniquity closed.”
“Three or four have been closed in the last year, Your Honor,” Theo said, grasping his hands together behind him to keep his frustration and fury in check. “I myself was instrumental in—”
“Spare me your self-flattery, Brunner.” Baker leaned back in his chair, glaring at Theo. “I do not care one iota for the petty criminals who play at cards in some inadequate parlor in Soho. I wish to see the greatest and most elusive of the clubs, Perdition, closed. Have you not repeatedly been seen loitering about the house suspected of harboring this hell in St. James’s on several occasions?”
Theo’s face heated, and his anger shifted to sheepishness. He had, indeed, spent many a day and night lingering close to Perdition, watching the establishment from the park across the street. His vigils were not designed to gather information so that some sort of invasion or persecution could take place, however. They were of an entirely different, debatably ridiculous nature.
“Why fritter away so much of your time in observation of the building, sir?” Baker demanded. “Perhaps you are so keen on the place because you are secretly a patron instead of its enemy?”
“No, Your Honor!” Theo snapped, his eyes going wide. “Certainly not.”
Theo was deeply against gambling of any sort. His life had been ruined by his father’s gambling. The bastard had landed the entire family in the poorhouse before he himself had died. Theo could still remember the sadness and despair of that place. He could still taste the thin gruel that the children were fed, feel the cold that bit through the threadbare clothing they were given to wear. He still remembered his mother’s weak tears during the one visit they were allowed per week and the way she had faded to nothing after learning Theo’s sister, her only other child, had died due to what the administrators of the poorhouse had simply called a failure to thrive.
“I can assure you, Your Honor, that I detest gambling or speculation of any sort, and I have dedicated my life to eradicating it wherever I can,” Theo insisted.
Whether Baker believed him or not, he let the matter go. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Theo and turned to the other failure hanging over Theo’s head.
“You still have not discovered the identity of the conspirators that have been bribing Vansittart into granting shipping contracts and failing to prosecute smugglers,” Baker went on. “Might I remind you that Nicholas Vansittart is the Chancellor of the Exchequer, sir? That it is a black mark on both the government and the institution of Bow Street Runners that we have failed to protect such an august person?”
“You need not remind me, Your Honor,” Theo said in a low voice.
In fact, the conspiracy to bribe Vansittart was an odd one, as far as Theo was concerned. It was audacious for whomever was behind the scheme to aim so high in the government when it came to securing favorable trade deals. And it would have seemed an easy case to crack. One would think that it was simply a matter of investigating the men who had been granted government charters for the astoundingly lucrative trade deals, or seeking out those merchants who had suddenly become wealthy men of late.
But the only thing Theo and the handful of other runners assigned to uncover the conspirators had discovered was that whomever was behind the whole thing was extraordinarily clever. No doubt they were attached to one of the companies that had been granted a charter in the last few years, but as dozens of perfectly innocent charters had been granted as well, and since many of the companies that financed some of the most lucrative commercial voyages were made up of conglomerates of partners, including silent partners, it had been a thornier problem than anyone had initially anticipated.
“I have no wish to remind you of any of these matters again,” Baker said, sitting forward and giving his attention to the vast amount of work scattered across his desk. “You have been given not just one task, but two, Brunner. I expect you to carry out those tasks with quick and decisive success, or I will be forced to reevaluate your position as a Runner.”
The words were a clear dismissal, even though Baker did not explicitly tell Theo to go. They struck fear into Theo’s heart as well. His stomach roiled at the thought of being sacked—so much so that, for a moment, he could only stand where he was, reeling with anxiety, too fearful to move.
“I cannot lose this position, Your Honor,” he said in an uncharacteristically hushed voice. “I require the income it provides to…to live.”
Baker glanced unsympathetically up at him. “Then see to it either that Perdition is closed or the shipping conspirators are foiled,” he said without a shred of sympathy.
Theo nodded, then turned and marched out of the office. He didn’t dare to so much as breathe until he’d made it to the hall, and even then, he couldn’t breathe easy until he was out in the bustle and noise of Covent Garden. Then it was as if he couldn’t take in enough air to catch his breath.
Baker had no idea what he was asking. Yes, Theo knew it was his job as a Bow Street Runner to investigate crime and to thwart criminals whenever he could. He’d done his fair share of thief-taking in his younger days as well—though at three-and-thirty, he could hardly be considered old. But the tasks Baker had set him were thorny and tangled. Perdition was protected from on high—something Baker refused to consider, though it changed everything—and the shipping conspirators were wily.
Theo took a moment to lean against the exterior of the Bow Street courthouse. He rubbed a hand over his face and contemplated his options. He had to find success somewhere. Failure meant losing a position that had been difficult to win in the first place. Failure would most likely mean an ignominious return to the poorhouse. And as a known officer of the law, landing in the poorhouse would likely be a death sentence. He would fight, of course, but how long would it be until he turned his back to the wrong person—someone who felt as though they could lash out against everyone they perceived to have wronged them, whether they had or not, by sticking a knife in his back.
That was without considering the blackness and despair that the smallest thought of the poorhouse brought him. He could not go back there. He would die—die of a broken and withered heart.
It was too grim to contemplate. Theo pushed away from the wall and propelled himself forward with a purposeful stride. There was only one place that he cared to be when the worries and cares of the world overtook him, as they threatened to just then.
His feet took him automatically to St. James’s whenever his heart was low these days. He knew the way without having to look up or around him at the frowns of passersby or the harshness of London. Most people stepped out of his path or stayed well clear of him when he walked, due to his size and the ferocity of his glare. If only they knew that glare was from an inner anguish and fear of the future and not any inherent meanness on his part.
St. James’s Square was one of the few places Theo felt at peace. In no way did he fit with the usual people who took their leisure in the square, but that was part of the point. He took up his usual place on a bench that he dwarfed with his size and hunched his broad shoulders as he let out a breath. The troubles of his world weighed down on him, but they seemed to lighten just a bit whenever he stared across to Jermyn Street and the deceptively peaceful edifice of Perdition.
From the outside, it was impossible to tell what sort of excitement the stately house contained. There was little to mark the building as all that different from the other grand homes of St. James’s. Any traveler to London would have assumed the building was the residence of a duke. Indeed, as Theo had learned in the last few months of his quiet investigation, the building was owned, in part, by a duke. Quite a well-placed, illustrious duke as well. Which was why it would be impossible to bring the place down the way Baker wanted him to.
