Page 3 of Greed: The Savage (Seven Deadly Sins #7)

Even with his highborn designation, he’d never been one to look down on his social inferiors. Nor was it because he’d spent his adult life employed at the Home Office.

Following one of the old vengeful duke’s many lofty dinner parties, the noble guests retired for brandies and cigars.

It was Calderay’s favorite time—when lesser gentlemen gathered around and hung on his every word, like the Lord himself had come to earth to read the sacred word aloud to his most devout followers.

Sipping a glass of brandy, Thornwick listened as long as he could to the pompous bastard pontificate about Edmund Burke’s brilliant views on hierarchy and social order, until Thornwick could take no more.

In short order, Thornwick took up a position of support for Rousseau. He’d been so effective in his rebuttal, by the time he’d finished, the duke’s cheeks were florid and his esteemed guests were all nodding their support of natural rights, equality, and social reform.

It was that moment he, who’d savored his years as a student at Oxford, had been forced out by his father and forced into a role of secretary at the Home Office. That relegation had come as a punishment, meant to inflict maximum hurt upon Thornwick.

That’d been just one of many ways the duke tried to hammer into Thornwick who held the real power in their family and in the world.

Thornwick favored equality and social reform? Then, he’d enjoy time being a working man. The duke had seen to it.

Naturally, Thornwick loved his role in an instant.

With the Duke of Calderay puffed up grander than any peacock, the bastard didn’t rub shoulders with anyone outside the rank of marquess, with rare exceptions shown for earls whose titles were no less than two and a half centuries old.

As for Thornwick? Any person who could help Thornwick benefit and in the ways that mattered most to him—wealth, power, and more importantly, his career advancement in the Home Office—held value to him.

Which was obviously why, after his younger brother got himself into trouble with not only the Home Office but the proprietors of the notorious Forbidden Pleasures, Thornwick found himself guilty of treason by association.

The duke thought his bloody obstinate son, as he referred to Thornwick, more than by his name or title, would return to Polite Society, take up his rightful place, and more importantly , take some limpid, simpering, pale-skinned debutante for his future duchess.

So Thornwick sought employment at London’s seediest, most debauched club that catered to the nobility, self-made men, and street roughs.

The Devil’s Den, with its penchant for danger and violence, was more of a home than where Thornwick grew up—the aptly named, Woburn Park, belonging to the duke.

With one key difference being that Thornwick didn’t find himself beaten and bloodied and jeered the way he—and his late mother and siblings—had been when he was a lad living under Calderay’s cruel thumb.

No, this time, ironically enough, the mockery came in the form of his name, “Mauley” being used in favor of his title.

The members spoke of him as Thornwick. The staff and servants here all referred to Thornwick as Mauley to point out he was “playing at working class poor.” Or that is how a handful of servants referred to what he was doing, when he’d come upon them at dinner.

Seated at the Earl of Dynevor’s desk, Thornwick accepted the expensive French brandy his unpolished employer always proffered. As was customary, they went about discussing the club’s business as it pertained to Thornwick’s role in the sin-blackened hell.

The two of them silently passed pages back and forth to examine.

The young proprietor didn’t bother filling the silence. They were alike in that way. Just as their roots as working noblemen also cemented an understanding between them—it was as close to friendship as a man like Thornwick or, for that matter, Dynevor, got.

Thornwick wasn’t stupid or naive to believe that bespoke any lifelong loyalty. People were disposable. They all stood to gain something from someone.

Thornwick’s role of second-in-command to the guards, behind only Lachlan Latimer—one of the three owners of the Devil’s Den—had landed him with full access to the proprietors and all the same information in their hands.

“This looks good,” Dynevor said, shuffling the sheets together.

This being the new schedule and placements of guards throughout the access points of the Devil’s Den.

Thornwick didn’t acknowledge that praise. He knew it was good. Ensuring people’s safety and security was what he excelled at—it’s what he’d done the majority of his life.

From when he’d protected his mother from canings at her abusive husband’s cruel hand, or took a beating on behalf of his brothers, to his entire career at the Home Office, looking after others was something at which he was skilled.

It proved even easier now that he was free from the burdens that came with caring for his family.

He no longer had family.

Even the living ones were each dead to him in different ways.

After Dynevor had stuffed Thornwick’s report into its leather folio, he tossed it aside. “We’ve got to talk about Wakefield’s wife.”

Thornwick didn’t even flinch. “We’ve spoken of it plenty.”

“Yes.” Dynevor splashed a measure of whiskey into his tumbler. “I’m referring to our plan of making sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Ah.” It had been a turn of bad luck that one of the women brought forward to take part in the form of a virgin auction, a masquerade of iniquity which proved to be one of club’s most lucrative ventures, had done so under duress.

It also happened be how Devil’s Den partner, the Earl of Wakefield, a respectable nobleman, ended up spending the night with that patroness, who’d actually been coerced to take part.

The way Thornwick saw it? Miss Cressida Alby had landed herself a fine husband, deep in the pockets. Fortunately, she’d barely been of the noble ranks, and only through her dissolute brother’s lucky inheritance.

The Devil’s Den wouldn’t fare so well were it an actual virgin-lady who landed herself up for auction.

Thornwick retrieved his brandy and took a sip. “I take it you’ve had a chance to fully mull over the proposals?” He’d given his employer no fewer than eight plausible plans of attack.

“I did,” Dynevor said. “The identification token? A very clever system.”

Thornwick inclined his head. He’d been required to develop codes and speak in codes for the government. That work made this particular assignment an easy one.

Each potential client would be interviewed first by him, in the setting of the ladies’ own homes, or they’d meet at another agreed upon location.

“I especially like the idea of a jeweled souvenir for the ladies involved.”

For participating , each woman would receive, as a gift, two broaches to choose from, which they would be made to wear at night: a white topaz—W to symbolize willing. And a reddish-orange hyacinth, the H meant to signify “help.”

“They do like their baubles,” Thornwick said.

Dynevor chuckled. “Aye, they certainly do.”

“Between my private interview off-premises of the prospective participants,” Thornwick said, ticking off the list for his employer’s benefit, “my questioning them when they arrive, the identification badges in the form of brooches, and signed consent protocol, witnessed by me upon their arrival, you can be assured there won’t be another situation similar to Lady Wakefield’s involvement at the club. ”

It was perfect—for the both of them.

Dynevor wouldn’t have a real virgin in his club.

As for Thornwick, he’d end up with a siren of ill-fame for his future duchess.

Only the most charming harlots with a title would ever take part in such forbidden acts, which was why he’d find the perfect bride to beat his father in the ultimate battle and, if Satan was obliging, silence the Duke of Calderay once and for all.

And for an added reward, Thornwick wouldn’t be saddled with some mealy-mouthed virgin but a skilled match for him in bed.

An honorable fellow would have felt some compunction at the ulterior motive Thornwick cooked into his work for Dynevor.

Calm and unreadable, the young earl smoothed a palm over his mouth. “All of that works sufficiently.”

Thornwick already knew as much.

His instincts deciphered something covert in the other man’s guarded quiet.

“As for the interview,” Dynevor went on, “Wakefield and Latimer have it in their heads that you’d be best served bringing someone else with you for those interviews.”

God’s curse upon it! That was the last bloody thing he needed when he went duchess-hunting? Not only because it prevented him from properly interviewing, but when he’d selected, courting a debauched beauty for his bride, his actions would be under scrutiny.

Anything suspicion-minded would be brought back to Dynevor, and Thornwick already had enough enemies. He didn’t need to make one in the powerful lord of this lair.

Thornwick kept his calm. “And you? What you think or want is what I care about.” He appealed to the man’s pride, arrogance, and desire for control.

A quick, restless tick betrayed Dynevor’s composure. “Ain’t seeing nothing wrong with you taking another along with you.”

Oh, there wouldn’t be. That was, if Thornwick didn’t have ulterior motives.

Bollocks!

Thornwick changed tack. “Is this because of Lady Wakefield?” Bloody curse, the new Countess of Wakefield.

“As far as I’m concerned, she was here of her own volition.

I interviewed her. The lady was not leaving.

She begged to stay.” Just for reasons that hadn’t a thing to do with any real desire on the lady’s part to be at the Devil’s Den.

“I don’t disagree with you.” Grimacing, the earl downed the rest of his drink in a single swallow. “Wakefield doesn’t see it that way.”

“Why should he? What nobleman wants to admit the woman he made his countess chose to take part in a virgin auction?” Thornwick didn’t bother to hide a sneer. “Imagine a fellow like Wakefield telling his offspring the tale of how they met.”

Dynevor laughed loudly and unexpectedly.

How the Earl of Wakefield, London’s stodgiest, most propriety-driven, lord had come to be an owner of this place still remained a mystery.

Wakefield also happened to be the reason the three owners rejected Thornwick’s purchase offer of a stake in the club. They’d already had one nobleman too many. Wakefield belonged in this world even less than a diamond of the first water’s debutante belonged in the Devil’s Den.

He knew not to say as much. Loyalty mattered most to the young earl. Thornwick respected that.

Dynevor fetched himself a cheroot from his silver cheroot tray and offered one his way.

He declined.

“The fact remains,” the earl said. After he lit his white scrap, he raised it to his mouth. “As a partner, he’s got a say in the running of the club, whether we like it or not.” And I absolutely do not, hung there, not needing to be spoken.

This time, Thornwick really needed a drink. He made himself take a measured swig of brandy.

The Earl of Dynevor released a small, perfectly circular cloud of smoke. “It ain’t just Wakefield. Latimer is in full agreement.”

“They’ve gone soft,” Thornwick said bluntly.

The heartless proprietor wouldn’t see Thornwick’s assessment as a betrayal because he believed in speaking absolute truths.

As he’d counted on, Lord Dynevor took another slow, relaxed draw from his cheroot. “Marriage will do that to a fellow.”

The disgust stamped on his life-hardened, scarred features said it all. That fate wasn’t one he’d be suffering, not anytime soon, but never.

Thornwick returned to the pressing matter at hand. “I’m not sharing power,” he stated bluntly. “I came in under certain terms, and I’m here serving effectively and faithfully in my role, only as long as they’re honored.”

“We’d never ask you to share power,” Dynevor assured. “Bringing someone along with you is not a power-share. It’s more a safeguard against risk.”

“I’m listening.”

“They want a female from the club to join you.”

He’d be scouting for a wife, and with one of the girls from the club joining him, Thornwick couldn’t very well go about seducing his prospective and very naughty bride.

Could this get any bloody worse?

“I’m sure this is coming from Lady Wakefield and Mrs. Latimer,” Dynevor said as he gave a tip of his ashes.

Some spilt onto the marble tabletop, and the embers put themselves out.

“That said, I think there’s definite merit to the idea of having a trusted girl from the Devil’s Den around so there can be a… female perspective.”

A hard grin formed on both their lips. They, two hardened men, cynical as Satan himself, both managed to smile, for they each knew that all the women in this club were as hardened and jaded and ruthless as the men employed here.

It wasn’t just going to be some polished lady accompanying him on his interviews of prospective candidates for the virgin auction. It was going to be some woman who’d toiled in the streets until she’d arrived on Dynevor’s doorstep.

He could assign Thornwick any one of the women, but they’d all be the same.

There was no avoiding the reckoning.

“Who?” Thornwick asked.

There wasn’t a single one he had a problem working—

“Snap.”

“ Fuck .”

He’d been wrong. There wasn’t a man, woman, or child he wanted to work with less. Snap, as she was known by all the guards, proprietors, and most of the servants. So of course, Thornwick called her by her given name of Addien, just to set her off.

“You got any problem with that?” The faintly amused expression worn by Dynevor said he knew Thornwick did.

“No.” Thornwick had a whole host of problems with it.

“Then we’re done.”

Thornwick stood.

“Here,” Dynevor said. He tossed a leather folio at him.

Thornwick caught it in his arms and popped it open.

“Those are the potential candidates for both the Virgin Auction and other events at the Devil’s Den for the next fortnight, along with the meeting locations,” the earl explained.

These were the candidates for his marchioness.

Thornwick scanned his gaze down the page before settling his focus on the first name and appointment.

The Baroness Sybelle, rumored to be a hellion in bed and regularly written of in the gossip pages for her wild reputation, and also whom he’d already had at the top of his list.

She would be his first interview.

At last, something was going right.

Now, if he could only keep it that way tomorrow when he was joined by the termagant who tried him like no other, Addien Killoran—violet-eyed and vexing as sin.