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CHAPTER1
London, England
November 1818
Slade Mason, the Earl of Drake, sat in a secluded corner of the tavern, his back to the wall and a floppy grey felt hat covering his eyes. It had been a long voyage, and he was tired. His ship had pulled in at the same time several others had landed. The night was busy, even for a Friday. It was packed with at least a dozen or more sailors, all with coin in their pockets, and having just arrived after long voyages, and with those wishing to fleece those pockets. The room, was lit only by three candelabras, spaced out and attached to the walls. Stale ale and vomit permeated his senses. In the corner opposite him, a card game was going on loudly, and the buxom barmaid warmed the lap of the man currently holding the lead. He had noticed she occasionally moved, and he wondered if she was part of the bet.
Three of his men surrounded the tavern, watching in case of a trap. In his business, it was best to keep watch. While Slade and his partners tried to do things above board, occasionally, they would accept shipments they had not planned, like the French brandy they had recently added to their cargo. While he stayed out of the crosshairs of the revenuers, one could never be too certain word had not leaked. The missive had emphasized the importance of their meeting but had given no other information. Not only that, but the man that sent it had known whenSlade would arrive in the Port of London.
His trade business with India was no secret, except for the occasional shipments of French cognac and brandy. His company had done well. Both he and his partner, Viscount Thomas Latham, were spares and had not been groomed to inherit. So, they sought their fortunes through the establishment of an alternative trading company to the East India Company. Maintaining fair pricing and providing the Indian people with the respect they deserved, unlike their competitors, had aided their company with substantial growth.
Slade sipped his ale contemplatively, looking up when a short rotund, bespeckled man wearing a black coat and tan breeches opened the door and looked around. After a moment, the man focused on the back corner where Slade sat. His eyes locked with Slade’s, and he gave a nod as he made his way to Slade’s table.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” the man said, sounding winded as he slid into the seat.
“I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” Slade grinned sardonically. This man knew too much about him to be a total stranger. He looked familiar, but it had been years since he had been home for any proper visit beyond that of his family. And the last visit had not gone well. He had argued with his brother, who had wanted him to give up the sea, take more responsibility for the family properties, and get married.
“I apologize, my lord.” The man reached into his pocket and withdrew a sealed letter. “I work for your father’s solicitor, Mr. Thorne. My name is Mr. Albert C. Wortle. Our firm has been trying to get word to you for almost a sennight that your father has passed.” He slid the missive toward Slade.
Slade felt as if he had been gut-punched. His last words with his father had been cross. His father had heard about his occasional added cargo and had demanded he abandon those ventures. He had wanted him to come home and settle down here in England—hoping he would find something or someone in London that could challenge him. Marriage. His father had had unentailed properties that he wanted Slade to manage. The duke wanted his boy with him and safe from threats of revenuers and others, jealous of his successes.
Slade had not wanted amade-upjob. He did not need one. He enjoyed the life he had built for himself while making his fortune. Yes, there was the occasional skirmish from those working with the East India Company, but there was plenty of trade to spread around.
“My family . . .” He looked up, his eyes watering.
“No, my lord. Your brother was badly injured in a carriage accident that killed your father. It happened last week. Your family needs you to return—quickly.”
The man looked down. “Your father and brother were together. Lord Hertford was lucky not to have perished in the accident, but his injuries are grave. When they found the carriage, it had fallen down an embankment and had lodged on an outgrowth of rocks and branches. It was by the grace of God that they could retrieve your father’s body and your brother from the carriage before losing it to the lake below.”
He had not been prepared for the avalanche of feeling that hit him between the eyes. He and his brother had always been close and the letter burned in his hands. He did not want to read it—but knew he must. Expecting it was from his father, he looked down. It was his brother’s hand. “This is not from my father. My brother wrote it.”
Mr. Wortle nodded. “He wrote it when he was able.”
Slade broke the seal and opened the missive, fighting to hold back the tears he could feel forming in his eyes.
Slade,
I thought I could handle this problem on my own. However, things have gotten out of control.
I have left more for you. You will know where to look should something happen to me. Dorset can help. Please return home immediately.
I love you, brother,
Graham.
Who was ‘Dorset’? Graham wrote it as if he expected Slade would know. He started to ask Wortle but changed his mind. Deciding to keep his own counsel, Slade lowered his head and discreetly wiped his eyes before looking up. “I must get home. I can hire a hackney.”
“No need. I have a carriage outside, waiting.” The man looked at him sympathetically. “When your brother was found, he remained conscious long enough to pen this note and a few other items. Your mother and sisters need you.” The short man looked around. “I suppose you have men watching us. Perhaps I should go to my carriage and wait for you. Take a few minutes to make whatever arrangements you need, Lord Drake.”
Fortunately, his second in command was one of the men waiting. Latham would have no problem stepping into his shoes. “I will meet you in your carriage shortly.” Slade watched the man leave the room and then nodded to Latham, who had been watching him while playing the noisy card game opposite him. The noise had kept what he and Wortle had said muffled. The man had insisted on meeting in this tavern, which had raised the hackles of both he and Latham, who had insisted on being with him.
“Tell me about the betting process,” Slade said, nodding towards the buxom barmaid who was now occupying another’s lap. “Luck has shifted.”
“Yes,” Latham agreed, giving a sly smile. “I tried to monitor your visitor and keep one eye on the game—avoiding the lap-warmer.”
“I must return to my family. Father is dead and Graham is injured badly.” Slade felt his knees start to buckle at his own words and regained his composure.
“Drake, I’m sorry. Should I accompany you?”
