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J ordan Draper’s life revolved around figures; numbers were life blood to him.

As the third son of a provincial man-of-business, he’d been exposed to the calculus of various types of enterprises from an early age.

Consequently, it had surprised no one when, after completing grammar school, he’d taken to the business of accounts and estate management like a duck to water.

Then, utterly unexpectedly, for excellent and, indeed, commendable reasons, a scion of his father’s premier client family, the Delbraiths, who held the dukedom of Ridgware, elected to leave behind his life of dissolute comfort to become, of all things, London’s gambling king.

The absurdity and the challenge appealed to Jordan, and he followed Neville Roscoe to London, becoming Roscoe’s man-of-business and, in all things managerial, Roscoe’s right-hand man.

As such, Jordan watched over all the accounts pertaining to Roscoe’s vast entrepreneurial empire.

Despite there being more than a decade between them in age, Jordan and Roscoe had always got on.

They understood each other at a level that meant that, in any situation, Jordan instinctively knew what Roscoe would want done.

Over the years, the day-to-day excitements and never-ending challenges had ensured Jordan remained engaged and involved in the constantly evolving business that fell under Roscoe’s hand.

That invariably, Roscoe stood on the side of justice and fairness made Jordan’s work considerably easier than might have been supposed.

Now, decades after Roscoe’s arrival in London, the authorities were entirely content to have the upper stratum of gambling establishments in the town firmly under Roscoe’s control.

With his position at Roscoe’s side assured and all running smoothly, Jordan found that his life had grown pleasant and comfortable, but rather less exciting and challenging.

There were times he wasn’t entirely sure if that was for the good.

On the first afternoon of March, toward the end of a rather dreary day, seated behind the desk in the accounts office in Roscoe’s sprawling mansion in Dolphin Square, Jordan was finalizing the last of the day’s correspondence when Mudd, one of Roscoe’s bodyguards, tapped on the open door.

“Boss wants to see you in his office,” Mudd rumbled.

Jordan nodded, tucked his pencil behind his right ear, and pushed back his chair. “Any clue as to why?”

Mudd stepped back and waited for Jordan to join him in the corridor. “Some letter that just came. Seems it’s a mite puzzling.”

Intrigued, Jordan walked beside Mudd, a hefty ex-bruiser closer to Roscoe’s age than Jordan’s and also one of the trusted few who made up Roscoe’s inner circle, down the elegantly appointed corridor to Roscoe’s large office.

The door stood open, and Jordan and Mudd walked in to find Roscoe, a dark-haired, elegantly handsome gentleman whose face testified to his aristocratic lineage, sitting behind his large mahogany desk and faintly frowning at the sheet of paper he held in one hand.

Leaning on one of Roscoe’s broad shoulders and also avidly scrutinizing the letter was Lady Miranda, Roscoe’s wife.

Another man, even taller and heavier than Mudd, stood before the curtained windows, attempting to look inconspicuous and failing. As Jordan crossed the thick carpet toward the desk, he grinned and tipped his head to Rawlings, another of the inner circle.

Both Roscoe and Miranda looked up as Jordan neared.

Miranda straightened and smiled, the gesture warming her pretty face.

Jordan smiled back, then met Roscoe’s eyes, which continued to hold a frown. “You wanted me?”

Roscoe’s gaze returned to the letter. “Remember Thomas Cardwell, Hemingway’s man-of-business?”

Jordan nodded. “We dealt with him in negotiating the Hemingways’ contract.”

Hemingways’ Linens supplied the linens to all of Roscoe’s various clubs. As far as Jordan was aware, the firm had always been reliable with no issues at all.

“Correct.” Roscoe held out the letter. “This just arrived, and I’m not sure what to make of it. What do you think?”

Jordan took the letter and quickly scanned the neat, businesslike script.

Thomas Cardwell had written:

Dear Sir,

I’ve stumbled upon a nefarious activity that I believe needs to be brought to the attention of the authorities.

However, the situation is sensitive, and I have no connections in that sphere and do not know how to proceed.

I am hoping that you might advise me as to what the best approach would be.

I will be in my office from eight in the morning tomorrow or will willingly travel to Dolphin Square should you or one of your advisors be available to discuss the matter.

Yours sincerely, Thomas Cardwell.

“Nefarious?” Jordan could see why Roscoe was puzzled. “He could have been a trifle more forthcoming.”

“Indeed. That was my immediate reaction,” Roscoe confessed. “What on earth could Cardwell have stumbled upon?”

Still studying the scant lines, Jordan offered, “I assume labeling the situation ‘sensitive’ means this discovery involves one of his clients.”

“Possibly,” Miranda said, “but who’s to know?”

“Only one way to find out.” Jordan looked at Roscoe. “Do you want me to go to his office tomorrow and learn what this is about?”

Roscoe considered the question, then glanced at Mudd and Rawlings. “Have we heard anything about Hemingways’ recently?”

Both large men shook their heads.

“Not a peep,” Mudd confirmed. “Far as we know, they’re carrying on as usual with no dramas.”

Roscoe tapped one long finger on his blotter, then returned his gaze to Jordan. “One never can tell. Best you go and see Cardwell and find out what he’s uncovered.”

Miranda added, “We don’t want to suddenly discover the clubs are short on linens. And”—she caught Roscoe’s eye—“just in case there’s more to this than meets the eye at first glance, you might take Gelman with you.”

Gelman was in training to eventually assist Mudd and Rawlings with their duties.

Rawlings was quick to support Miranda’s suggestion. “The lad needs to get out and about and learn more of what the business covers.”

Mudd tacked on, “What he might be called on to do. He needs experience if he’s to step up to our level one day.”

Struggling to rein in his grin, Roscoe nodded to Jordan. “Yes, take Gelman with you. It won’t hurt for him to be put to wider use.”

Jordan folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “Gelman and I will head over to Cardwell’s first thing tomorrow.”

At eight o’clock the following morning, accompanied by John Gelman, Jordan left the big white mansion on the north side of Dolphin Square, hailed an idling hackney, and set off to cross London to Thomas Cardwell’s office in Broad Street, just north of the Bank of England.

Gelman was an average-sized man in his mid-thirties, perennially neatly and quietly dressed and keen to prove himself worthy of inclusion in Roscoe’s innermost circle.

Like Mudd and Rawlings, he’d been a guard at one of Roscoe’s clubs and had shown himself to be a sensible man who understood the value of restraint and of using common sense to defuse fraught situations.

He could be intimidating when required but also knew when to stand back and let the promise of his presence do the talking.

Unlike Mudd and Rawlings, who with their crooked noses and cauliflower ears bore the signs of their previous lives in their faces, Gelman possessed an unremarkable appearance, which made him an excellent choice for this excursion.

In common with all of Roscoe’s men, Gelman wasn’t a natural chatterer, and Jordan spent the journey to Broad Street mentally constructing possible scenarios to account for Thomas Cardwell’s appeal.

The hackney drew up opposite Cardwell’s office. With muted eagerness, Jordan opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. Gelman followed and paid the jarvey.

When the carriage drew away, Jordan remained on the pavement and studied the three-story building across the street.

It was typical of the area, having a wide facade with a central door that would give access to stairs leading to the apartments on the upper floors.

The ground floor played host to two offices, each reached by doors flanking and at right angles to the central door, which was set back a yard or so from the pavement so that the three doors formed a rectangular alcove.

Both offices had wide bow windows fronting the street, and above the window on the right, a discreet gold-lettered sign declared it to be the premises of Thom. Cardwell, Business Agent.

Jordan stepped onto the cobbles and, with Gelman at his shoulder, crossed to the opposite pavement and led the way to Cardwell’s door. Given it was half past eight, Jordan was unsurprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it and walked into a neat and welcoming office.

Three comfortable chairs arranged about a round table occupied the area closer to the window, while farther back, a wide solid desk sat squarely across the rear of the room. The three interior walls were lined with shelves holding account ledgers and books about accounting practices.

In one sweeping glance, Jordan took all of that in and found nothing out of place.

The sight that jarred him and brought him to a halt two paces beyond the door was the younger gentleman with his pale, slack-jawed face and horror-struck expression who was standing stock-still behind the desk and staring downward in utter shock.

Slowly, as if the movement required great effort, the younger man dragged his gaze from its fixation, looked at Jordan and Gelman, and, ashen-faced, stammered, “I… I didn’t…” He swallowed and blurted, almost on a wail, “I didn’t do it!”

Freed by the sound, Jordan swiftly went forward.

Gelman closed the door and followed.

They rounded the desk and halted, looking down at a sight that explained the gentleman’s distress.