F am did his best to concentrate on what Con was saying.
He had not slept in the last three nights, not since the morning he'd kissed the striking lord he now held prisoner.
He'd avoided going anywhere near the man ever since.
He'd been shaken to his core by that kiss, and despised himself for the weakness.
He had other things to worry about than the midnight desires of his cock at the moment.
In the last three days Archer Colwyn, Bow Street Runner and general pain in the arse, had paid Con a visit, then Warrick.
Which meant Fam was likely next. Three climbing boys found dead or dying near properties he or his brothers owned had rumors racing through the Dials, rumors tying missing and dead children to the Four Horsemen.
The matter was serious enough for Con to call a meeting, and for Fam to offer his place on Brick Lane to gather. Sullivan had checked with the people who worked for Fam, his men, and with the local taverns. The rumors and gossip had not reached Fam's corner of the Horsemen's territory. Yet.
"Fam, did you hear what I said?" Con tapped on the desk where Fam had his feet propped as he leaned back in his chair.
He was tired and in desperate need of sleep uninterrupted by erotic dreams of the man with hair the color of burnished gold and eyes of shades of jade and amber that made them impossible to describe.
"About what? The need for us to sort out the source of these rumors or yet another rant about your wife and the missing malachite box? Has she hied off again to look for the damned thing? Have you tried keeping her leashed?" Fam suggested.
"And muzzled?" Warrick muttered under his breath.
"Fuck all of you," Con replied. "And leave off my wife."
"With pleasure," Fam said which caused Ban to snicker and do a miserable job of covering that snicker with a cough.
"She is minding the gaming hell, not that her whereabouts are any of your concern. What did Carrington-Bowles say about our Bow Street friend when you took this last boy to him?"
"Only that Colwyn was looking into it and would likely be chasing us down. Did either of you winkle anything out of him?" Smudge jumped up onto the desk and sauntered across to settle in Fam's lap. Fam took a piece of marzipan from the crystal dish on his desk.
Con snorted. "You know better. Nobody plays his cards closer to the vest than Colwyn. Easier to get into a nun's cunny than that man's thinking. He suspects these missing children have something to do with us."
"Which means we're stuck with him in our pockets until he finds the truth," Warrick said. "Persistent as the pox is that one. Word is the rumors started at The Angel. Maggie Church might know something."
Maggie Church, widow, and the current owner of The Angel, was a good-hearted woman and had been something of an ally to Fam and his brothers over the years.
"Con should see what he can find out from her," Ban suggested with an evil grin.
"She's been sweet on him for years. Give her a tup or two and she'll root the source of the rumors out in a thrice.
" Fam, Warrick, and Ban laughed. Smudge began to purr as Fam stroked his greying coat.
The cat was over twenty years old now, but still kept most of the Brick Lane building free of vermin of the four-legged variety at least. He broke off a piece of marzipan for Smudge before eating the rest himself.
"I'll be certain to tell Marianne it was your idea," Con assured Ban.
"The hell you will." Ban crossed himself.
"You set your wife on me, and I'll drop you in the middle of my Chick Lane house without a candle, a map, or a prayer.
" Ban's house in Saffron Hill was a notorious labyrinth even the bravest Bow Street runner never dared enter.
Some of his own men had gotten lost and damned near starved to death before they were found.
Con filched the last of the crab cakes from the plate on Fam's desk and broke it up to feed Smudge a few bits at a time. The traitorous cat immediately abandoned Fam for his brother's lap.
"I'll send Sullivan round to The Angel," Fam said. "She's sweet on him too, and he's better suited to talking to the ladies than any of us."
"Speak for yerself," Ban said.
"He said ladies ," Warrick reminded him. "Not Covent Garden doxies. What's this about you holding some marquess's son for ransom, Fam? Jesus, do you ever stop eating?" Fam tossed a piece of marzipan at him before popping another piece into his own mouth.
"Tell me I won't be reading in The Chronicle about this one's body being found floating in the Thames." Con gave one of his sighs of martyrdom as if he'd never dumped a deserving body into the river himself.
"Not so long as the marquess pays the ransom." Fam shrugged. "Family wants him out of the way for a while. Apparently, he causes scandal wherever he goes."
"Try to keep him alive for a change," Con said, as he rose and gently deposited Smudge in his chair.
"I'll do my best," Fam replied, as Ban and Warrick got to their feet and joined Con at the door to Fam's study.
"That marquess's son is a dead man for certain," he heard Ban say as they descended the stairs.
"Kiss my arse, Ban," Fam called out after him.
"No, thank you," came the faint reply from the bottom of the stairs. "I know where that arse has been."
Fam smiled and shook his head. Since the arrival of his latest prisoner, he'd spent his days in turmoil and his nights tossing and turning.
The combination was irritating for most people.
For Fam, that combination might quickly combust into blind fits of temper that threatened to mow down everyone in his path.
Trust his brothers to bring him back down to earth.
They had ever been his anchor in life, though even their tether holding him broke from time to time.
Even Marianne, Con's new wife, did her best to remind him he was not alone, he was not a monster.
Con had put her in charge of ordering food for the gaming hell, among other things.
She was constantly sending samples to Fam in the guise of asking his opinion.
They never said so, but they both knew she had discovered his nearly mad attachment to food, and this was her way of caring for him, the only way he allowed.
He fetched another piece of marzipan from the bowl and broke off a small piece for Smudge now comfortably ensconced in the overstuffed leather chair Con had vacated.
The rest Fam chewed slowly as he picked up and studied the drawing Marianne had made of the much-discussed malachite box.
She was a brilliant artist, his new sister-in-law.
He'd had Pigeon circulate one of Marianne's drawings through the Jewish jewelers of Hatton Garden.
Fam's connection to the Kamish family ensured should the box show up, these jewelers were certain to let him know.
"No more, old boy," Fam said when Smudge meowed insistently, stepped onto the desk, and headed for the marzipan.
"You need to be lean and a little hungry if you're to continue to terrorize the rats of White Chapel.
" Lean and hungry . Those words immediately brought Fam's memory of kissing Ethan to mind.
Ethan. He needed to stop thinking of him as anything but an arrogant lord fit for nothing but ransom.
How long had it been since Fam had kissed anyone, let alone someone who met him fire for fire?
Years, yes years. Too many to count. A knock on his study door interrupted his maudlin musings.
"What now?" he demanded.
Sullivan lumbered into the room, his face red and his hair a disheveled mess. He stumbled to one of the chairs in front of Fam's desk and collapsed onto the seat as if shot. "How much is the ransom?"
Fam stared at him and blinked. "How much is what?"
"The Grosvenor Street lord. How much is his ransom? We'll pay it. All of it." The man was babbling. Sullivan never babbled.
"What the devil are you talking about? Are you drunk?"
"There's not enough gin in White Chapel, guv'. He has to go."
"He? He who?"
"That bloody Mayfair madman!" Sullivan shouted.
"If you don't send him back, someone in this house is going to creep into his room in the middle of the night and do him in right and proper.
" Sullivan scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned again.
"He's a demon, I tell you. A demon straight from hell. "
"He's a spoiled, wealthy, useless fribble. How much trouble can he be?"
Sullivan shot to his feet and planted his hands on the desk, his eyes wild and his face nearly purple.
"He complains about everything. The sheets are too rough.
The bed is too small. The pillows are too lumpy.
The maids won't go near him. He calls for bath water three times a day and then whines because there is no tub and the pitchers of water ain't hot enough.
He screams the house down every time he uses the chamber pot so someone will come and empty the damned thing.
He can't make his own fire. Who the devil can't make a fire? "
"If he can't make a fire let him do without. He--"
"You have to let him go. We'll pay. He throws things at anyone who comes into the room.
He rigged a pitcher of water to spill on Bull's head.
There's not one of your men who isn't sporting a bruise or a cut or a bump from dealing with this cull.
We've taken to drawing lots and the loser has to take him his fucking laundry, which is never done right.
" Sullivan dropped back into the chair. "This morning, he dumped his breakfast on the floor. Said it wasn't--"
"He did what?" Fam was on his feet and heading for the door. His blood boiled white hot. Three days of no sleep and sensations he had no desire to feel exploded in his chest. He took the stairs two at the time. All the while Sullivan was right behind him, swearing.
"Shite. Shite, shite, shite."