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Lesson Five:

Under No Circumstances Should You Allow a Rake Time to Realize HisMistake

“Y ou insisted she come to you ? A second chance with this bookish chit you tirelessly gab about when you’re half-seas over on gin, and you didn’t take it?”

Trailing the steel nib of his pen down the page, Dorian kept his gaze fixed on the rows of numbers before him, deliberately avoiding his colleague’s canny stare.

“Your investment in the gas lighting scheme has returned a profit—threefold.” He found a slight error in the accounting and made a quick adjustment. “You’re welcome.”

Jackson Dorsey balanced his chair on two legs for another moment, drawing out the tension, then chuckled and let it thump to the planked floor with a pop.

“Aside from part of the profit and my financing your other risky ventures, you want a pat on the back, too?” Leaning in, he slid his elbows across the desk, knocking the ledger and sending Dorian’s pen skidding wide.

“You were right on all counts, my lord, well done getting us in at the ground level before gas illumination swept Manchester, Liverpool, and Birmingham. I was wrong, wholly and not for the last time, about folk’s appetite for the conveniences.

When I’ve only just gotten used to them myself. ”

Dorian glanced up, his temper flaring. Exactly what his business associate and friend wanted. “My brother is the lord, remember? I’ve not anything here.”

As he liked it.

And with a far-reaching glance that took in a space currently harnessing every available convenience—including gas lighting—Dorian held back a derisive scoff. For his enjoyment, Jackson had turned his enterprise’s headquarters into a veritable showplace.

Jackson braced his scarred fist on the desk and shoved to his feet.

“I welcome the cheerless nobles as well as the common man into my beloved borough. My gaming hells, my public houses, come one, come all, I say. If you’ve got the blunt to play.

Then, I funnel much of the profit back into making these mean streets livable for the ones born and bred to it.

” Strolling across the soaring room, he halted before a sideboard Dorian suspected was Gillows of Lancaster—the rich mahogany, ebony inlay, and brass mounts the last thing you’d expect to find in a renovated silk warehouse in the heart of Spitalfields, the most dangerous rookery in London.

“But only a select few do I conduct business with. And fewer still earn the privilege of my sage counsel.”

With a whistling groan, Dorian tossed his pen aside. “If I’m required to listen to your sage counsel, I’d like the Martell. You know, the stuff you hide on the shelf below.”

Jackson glanced back, grinning. “You’re one bold bastard, Montrose.

Fucking wasted on society, spirit such as yours.

You woulda made a fine rookery rat if you’d been brung up here.

Only two months separating us, can you believe it?

Damn , we could’ve ruled this district in half the time it took me to seize it alone.

My brawn, your brains. Getting into the silk trade before cheap reproductions bled the industry dry, for one.

You’re adding just the shine I needed.” With the finesse of a felon, he jammed the cork in the bottle with the heel of his hand.

“Me in Spitalfields fighting for my life, whilst you were prancing around Mayfair learning to knot a proper cravat. And, now, we’re partners in gentle crime.

How’s that for a prime peculiarity of life? ”

Dorian waited until his partner returned with two snifters, Baccarat, the finest crystal to be had, perfectly matched to the warehouse’s lopsided opulence. “You told me to correct you, Jack. So don’t throw a punch like the last time.”

Jackson paused, the slightest—the very slightest—hesitation cracking his nonchalant veneer.

He wished to leave his days of fighting behind, in speech if nothing else.

Although he didn’t look like a thug since he’d adopted Dorian’s tailor as his own.

“What did I say wrong this time? And the skirmish, hell, mate, we had to sample the Green Demon before I agreed to import it. If you knew who was behind the request, you’d understand my need for cautiousness.

Let’s just say monarchs and such, and leave it at that. ”

“ Brought up here, not brung,” Dorian murmured, the brandy doing a sultry glide down his throat.

He wouldn’t be surprised in the least if Jackson Dorsey was dealing with royalty.

Not one degree surprised. “Absinthe is exotic, a fascination—merely another curio to alleviate boredom. However, since this city is teeming with idle peers, keep your French contact handy. I predict you’ll soon make easy money selling it.

” He shuddered, recalling the taste of the vile liquor.

“I slept for twenty solid hours after that debacle. Every time I see that particular shade of green, I get queasy.”

“How could I forget you and that saucy chit sprawled across my sofa, about to tumble into oblivion. You remember, the one who kissed the jaw I bruised with my fist?” His smile diabolical, he gestured with his glass to the darkened corner he’d fashioned as a mock-parlor. “What was her name again?”

Sipping, Dorian slumped low in his chair, hoping to forget the saucy chits of his past. “Shamefully, amidst the emerald haze, I don’t recall. And I only kissed her, let’s not mistake the story. Not a stitch of clothing removed, not a single button undone. Absinthe was my lover that night.”

Jackson settled into the chair he’d vacated minutes before, but this time, with business on his mind.

He spun the ledger around, smiling in anticipation of evaluating his growing fortune.

“While I review our success, I’ll share the sage advice I mentioned.

If you’re arguing about how little you’ve done with a woman, you clearly need it. ”

Dorian sighed, figuring it was better to get it over with. Jackson Dorsey had a generous heart, a fact he wouldn’t admit unless a blade was held to his neck. And maybe not even then.

“I have four sisters, if you recall, an assortment ranging from subdued to outright rebellious. Flat-out trouble in various forms.” He trailed his finger along the row of figures, lips moving as he calculated in his head.

“The quiet ones—the bookish ones—they’re the absolute terrors, mate.

The thinkers . The sneaky chits who require the most proficiency, trust me on that.

At least the rebellious ones make their plans known right from the start, allowing a man to adjust his plans.

I raised my brood without much help, as ladies, mostly, while getting them out of the stews. Even if I stayed, in part.”

“And,” Dorian prompted, knowing the broad strokes of Jackson’s story as well as he knew his own.

“If your so-called effort is what my sisters receive when the legitimate offers arrive, I’ll beat someone silly. I’ve already done that with two il legitimate ones.”

“I don’t think that’s how illegitimate is…oh, never mind,” Dorian whispered and waved him on.

“My advice? Take control of this situation in grand fashion. Your girl was eager enough to shout her answer across a Derbyshire lawn—isn’t that enough?

” He glanced up, tawny eyes catching the muted glow from the gas sconce and making them glitter.

One was noticeably darker than the other, lending them a sinister shine.

“Don’t make her come to you, mate. What kind of fight is that?

Something to soothe your injured soul? If you truly want her, and she’s said she wants you, go get her.

If you don’t, you’ll never hear the end of it.

She’ll hold that victory over you for eternity. ”

After polishing off the final sip of brandy, Dorian spun the pen in a lazy circle on the desk. “Is this advice you’ve ever taken, by the way?”

Jackson’s lips curved, his expression mischievous.

The signet rings on his fingers glinted, spilling crimson facets across the ledgers.

He wore only two today, two more than Dorian was prepared to ask how he’d acquired.

“Ah, mate, I always, always let them come to me. In bloody droves. I’m so infamous, my own little enterprise has been given a name.

The Rookery Rebels has a nice ring, doesn’t it?

And when the time comes for me to take a wife—when I turn thirty or so seems as good as any—she’ll be beautifully lackluster.

Nothing sneaky or fascinating about her. I’ve enough of those types at home.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of one of the men Dorian silently referred to as Jackson’s army—protectors without expression, history, or opinions of their own.

Brute force and obedience, the name of the game.

But Jackson treated his employees well, and their loyalty, as he’d mentioned, was assured.

Jackson nodded as a hushed conversation unfolded, his smile growing.

“What?” Dorian asked, knowing in his gut it involved him.

Jackson waited until they were alone again before asking, “If this Fairchild chit came to you, I’m merely proposing the idea, what then?”

Dorian frowned, pieces of the puzzle sliding together in his mind.

“ Christ , Jack, is Juliet in London?” He shoved the chair back and surged to his feet.

“Are you still guarding my terrace after I begged you to withdraw the menacing thugs my neighbors keep complaining about? The countess on the corner threatened to send her footmen after them the next time.”

“ Oh , I’d pay good money to see that.” Jackson took a relaxed sip, all the time in the world while Dorian’s life spun away from him.

“I am watching over you, because you’re one of us.

A team we are. Also, I keep a close eye on the property in Limehouse, a dodgy purchase I’m so damned proud you made.

Like a papa, proud. A duke’s son choosing to locate his offices in the East End, on the bloody docks .

Blimey, life is magnificent.” His brilliant smile dimmed slightly.

“But the chit’s come to you, meaning, she owns you for the rest of your days. No way to be grand now.”

“The thing is, if you love her, you’ll want to be owned for the rest of your days,” Dorian said as his world rearranged itself. Jules is waiting for me. Realizing this, he sprinted across the warehouse, headed for the carriage waiting in the mews out back.

“Not me, mate!” Jackson’s shout echoed after him. “Never bloody me!”

“Just you wait,” he whispered, rushing headlong into his new life.