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November, 1816

Haymarket, London

“ A ubin! Your toast?”

John Aubin turned to face his three friends who sat sprawled in their chairs with easy insouciance. Lord Stuart had a cigar balanced between two fingers, Sir Theodore paused in his act of taking snuff, and Fanning set down his cup of brandy in anticipation. John turned back and caressed the chin of the newly arrived lady of easy virtue, who was particularly easy on the eyes.

“Later,” he mouthed with a lift of his eyebrows, and she offered a dimpled smile in return. He faced his friends with a broad grin. Putting a booted foot on his abandoned chair and leaning his elbow on one knee, he reached his other hand up and snapped his fingers. “A bottle of your finest champagne.”

A servant hurried to do his bidding and, after opening the bottle with a muted pop , he poured the champagne into flutes, setting one in front of each of them. John lifted his glass, then, remembering the importance of the occasion, stood on both feet and waited for his friends to clamber to theirs. None of them were particularly steady.

“Gentlemen, when a man has the misfortune to lose four thousand pounds in a single night…” He paused and pointed at each of them in turn, laughter bubbling up in his chest. “And let that be a lesson to you to keep your head whilst playing cards, lest you fall into the same trap.”

“We hear you, and we heed you,” Fanning replied, with what soberness he could find within him.

“The toast?” Stuart prompted, his lazy eyebrow lifted.

“The toast,” John repeated, clearing his throat. “And when another gentleman has the fortune to win those four thousand pounds in a single night through fair, honest play, then ’tis only fair …that the gentleman act bountifully toward the friends who have supported him throughout the evening, bringing sustenance and encouragement?—”

“Aye, that be us,” Theo said gravely.

“And so I lift this toast,” John went on with an admonitory look at his friend who had just interrupted. “And with it a promise to share my fortune with all those in need?—”

“That be us,” Fanning said with an inebriated bout of delirium, and this time it was Stuart who silenced him with a look.

“Let us now drink to our good health, to the poor fellow who was foolhardy in his play, to the horses next week who will carry our luck further on the racetrack, and to this very fine bottle of champagne. I shall not consider the price but will only salute poor Barnsby in thanks and hope his descendants do not judge him too harshly. I certainly do not.” A cackle of female laughter came from behind him, and he sent the two straw damsels a wink.

“I raise this toast to my excellent friends and declare, ‘May Fortune favor us yet. To Fortune!’ ”

“To Fortune,” came the cry.

“To us!” He lifted his glass as the others repeated, “To us!”

John’s eyes smarted as he drank, and the bubbles came back up, causing him to cover his mouth with his sleeve. When he blinked and opened his eyes, the room seemed to grow obscure and the voices and sounds to blend into an unintelligible din. He blinked again and brought his eyes to the window, whose burgundy velvet curtains were open. The pinkish light of dawn appeared between the two houses on the opposite side of Haymarket Street.

Could it be dawn already? Granted, they had begun their game at five o’clock the afternoon before, but he had formed the vague idea that they had only just arrived at Mrs. Woodstone’s establishment an hour ago. A thin vertical ray of yellow light pierced the dark space between the buildings, and he blinked against the sudden glare. A woman on the far side of youth went over and untied the curtains, drawing them closed. How could it be daybreak?

He brought his bleary regard back to his friends, who were now involved in their own pursuits of pleasure, having appeared to forget all about him. The sight of discarded glasses and melted lumps of wax on the table, another bout of raucous laughter from somewhere in the corner of the room, and his brief spell of victory so soon forgotten depressed him beyond measure. Ah, perhaps he was growing too old for such things. But no—twenty-eight was far from old. He was in the prime of youth!

John shook his head. It was the drink that was causing this maudlin attitude. He needed to sleep and perhaps eat something sustaining. He opened his mouth to inform his friends that he was leaving, but one glance at them told him they would not care. As he accepted his hat and cane from a servant, the lovely straw damsel came and linked her arm through his, peering up into his eyes. He smiled down at her, but it fell as he studied her unlined face. She looked too innocent for such a life.

“What is the matter, milord?” she asked him, though he was no lord.

He fixed his gaze on her for another moment before shaking his head. “There is nothing the matter with you. It is only I. Good day.” He bowed and walked out into the street.

Haymarket was quieter at dawn than it was in the middle of the night, but it was never entirely still. Some, like him, were heading home after a night’s debauchery. Other, more honest folk were setting up their wares to begin selling, one offering breads and rolls, another hot drinks, and still another meat pies. John began walking in the direction of Hanover Street and crossed a vendor selling both ale and gin from two barrels on his cart. The smell turned his stomach, and he hurried on.

It was a short walk to his rented lodgings, and before he reached it, he had already decided to leave for his brother’s estate in Surrey—the estate that would soon be his. Perhaps the change would help him to be more worthy of the gift Gregory wished to bestow upon him. Lately, he had been unable to resist acts of folly and found himself burrowing more deeply into a troubled, wastrel existence. A sort of restlessness had seized him that he could not shake off, at least not while he was in London. The time to take a break from his current life was now. He would likely suffer for the journey after a night out, but perhaps he deserved any misery he brought upon himself. He could not say. The fresh air of the ride could only do him good, and even if he stopped at an inn to break his fast, he could accomplish the rest of the journey by noon.

An hour later, John had collected some basic necessities in a traveling portmanteau, had his horse saddled, and gave word to his servant to bring the rest to Westerly. He rode southward, and by the time he had navigated his way past the throng of people, carts, and livestock on the London Bridge, he had decided to stop at The George Inn in Southwark for a meal. He had always been well satisfied with his fare there. It was but a few streets more, and he was indeed feeling the effects of his intemperance by the time he reached it.

He swung down and handed the reins to an ostler, then went inside in search of a free table. Sinking down into an empty wooden bench by the window, he resisted the urge to put his head on his arms and fall asleep right there. Why had he not had the wisdom to simply stay in London and recover for a day or two there?

The inn was active, but not bustling. It was too early for it, he assumed. A servant came and took his order, which included strong coffee, bread, eggs, and fried ham. He tucked into the fare, his spirits lifting as the scent of delicious food teased his nostrils, and the hot, bitter brew revived him. Each bite seemed to restore him to health. The room brightened as the morning advanced in increments, and at last, he leaned back and tucked his hands into his waistcoat, satisfied.

“…discuss it here where it’s quieter.”

John looked through the window on his left where the voice came from, but he could not see anyone. The glazed windowpanes were thin enough, but it was more likely the cracks along the window frame that carried the sound of voices as well as a stream of frigid air. The man outside took a step back, and John saw his fine-cut coat through the edge of the window.

“I have more invested in the steam-powered machinery than I would care to lose.” The man speaking had the refined accent of a gentleman, and his words were easily distinguishable. “Although Perkins invested twenty-five percent, I invested forty. Therefore, I must cover my assets.”

Perkins. Unless the man was referring to some lesser-known gentleman, Perkins was Lord Perkins, the earl. And this man spoke as though they were on intimate terms. John looked through the window again and now made out the shoulder and sleeve of a man’s coat but it was not enough to identify him. He and his companion were standing along a stretch of wall between John’s window and the one behind him and must not have imagined their words would carry. Or the gentleman thought that no one of consequence would be here to overhear the conversation at this hour.

“I need you to sell off my shares quietly,” the voice continued. “Not everything at once, for that would look suspicious. Sell off thirty percent so that I only lose ten. Or thirty-five, if you can. My source in the Commons tells me the tax they plan to vote in will ruin all potential for gains.”

“And should Parliament not levy the tax in the end? You will lose out on the shares you sold,” the other man observed, his accent less refined, though educated.

“It doesn’t matter that four years have passed; people still fear Luddite retaliation and will bow to their demands. There is no doubt those fools will vote for the tax,” the first gentleman retorted, his tone revealing his tension. After a moment, he must have regretted the lapse, for he added in a more conciliatory voice, “But if by some miracle they don’t, then I will still have benefitted from my more moderate investment.”

“I hope so, my lord.”

“We are agreed then. Look for someone to purchase the thirty percent minimum. He should be a businessman, not a gentleman. Someone who will not be able to harm my reputation once the money is lost. Do your best to make me appear innocent. You’ve done it before.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man repeated.

“Send written word to my Brighton address that Mr. Such-and-Such has requested to purchase my shares, so that it appears I did not seek the transaction. And move quickly. I was able to get a lead on the information before the other investors, but it will soon be common knowledge. I need to remove myself from London before it is. ”

“Yes, my lord.”

John wondered who this lord might be. Despite his own questionable night, he was unimpressed with the man’s way of throwing his peers under the wheels of their collective loss while seeking to minimize his own. He frowned as he fiddled with the knife on the table in front of him. That was the behavior of a scoundrel.

Just as he was debating whether he should lumber to his weary feet and head outdoors to try to catch sight of the peer, the man stepped backwards in front of the multi-paned glass, temporarily blocking the light. He was facing away, but his carved cane and signet ring were distinctive and identifiable this close to the glass. It was none other than Lord Goodwin, the earl who was known for his consistent attendance at church, curating investors to build a foundling asylum, and for his character upon which there was no smear. Well—almost no smear. There had been unfounded rumors that he had pocketed some of those investments, leaving the asylum in a state of disrepair, but those had been widely rejected as false. Now…

Lord Goodwin! Blast! Was there truly no righteous man in all of London?

John sat poised as he contemplated this development, wondering what he should do with the information. On one hand, he could not allow the earl to get away with such a scheme. But how was he to inform Lord Perkins or the other investors in these promissory notes without solid proof, other than what he had witnessed? John was a member of White’s and Boodle’s because his deceased stepfather had been one. He was generally well-liked but he was not a peer and was hardly a man they would listen to over an earl. If Lord Goodwin knew he was the one informing on him, John’s own reputation would be in tatters.

Despite the dilemma this posed, and despite his own deplorable state, John knew he had only one option before him. He must warn the other investors through the only one whose name he now knew. Perhaps he could request a private audience with Lord Perkins and tell him what he had learned, asking that he remain nameless. Of one thing he was sure: if he merely sent an anonymous letter, it would not be taken seriously, and they would all lose out. He would have to go and see the lord in person. Then, once the bill to impose the steam duty passed into law, the truth would back his claims. He would have Lord Perkins’s gratitude with none the wiser.

These thoughts raced through his mind, and just as he came to the conclusion that he should not be sitting in plain sight in case the earl thought to look through the window, Lord Goodwin turned.

John froze in place, skewered by the earl’s piercing regard, perfectly aware of the implications. He may have been young and of little consequence, but he spent half his time in the clubs, and the earl could not fail to recognize his face. It would be a simple matter to find out who he was. The face of Lord Goodwin that John had always thought benevolent now wore an icy expression of disdain as he glared at him. He touched his hat and turned away.

John leaned back in the hard booth, his head pounding in earnest. Why had he not simply stayed in London? Now, he was honor bound to inform Lord Perkins and everyone else what Lord Goodwin was planning. But he would not have the cloak of anonymity, for Lord Goodwin would know who had been the source.

His hope of a discreet word in Lord Perkins’s ear was out. Instead, he was more likely to be stripped bare before the beau monde . Still—he had no choice but to go through with it.