Chapter Twenty-Five
The next day, with Grier by his side, Andrew entered Will Nightingale’s coffee house in the heart of the Seven Dials. Nightingale’s was an ancient institution, a relic from another time when the public gathered in such venues to learn the news of the day and engage in the free exchange of ideas. Although the rising popularity of tea and private clubs had led to the demise of coffee houses, Nightingale’s showed no acknowledgement of the times.
The interior hadn’t changed much in the twenty-odd years since Andrew had first stepped foot into the place. It still had the same shaved wood floors and smoke-tinged air, the heads of bleary-eyed game serving as décor on the walls. He did notice a few new paintings: the amateurish watercolors sprang up like bizarre blooms in the field of furry trophies.
The place was bustling as always, serving boys dashing back and forth with silver pots, refilling the famous pitch-dark brew for the customers clustered around long tables. As potent as the coffee was, however, it wasn’t the secret to Nightingale’s longevity. That lay at the table set in a private alcove at the back of the room.
Andrew strode toward the alcove, Grier at his heels.
“Try not to kick the hornet’s nest, will you?” the Scot said under his breath.
“Someone kicks first, I’m not backing away,” Andrew said evenly.
He needed his full focus on protecting Primrose. This meant he had to clean his own house. To end the feud with his nemesis Malcolm Todd, one way or another.
When he and Grier neared their destination, a pair of hulking guards blocked their access to the table, waiting for their master’s decree.
Bartholomew Black, sitting on a throne-like chair, jerked his chin at Andrew. “Him only.”
Grier cast Andrew a look of warning before being led off.
“Good morning, sir.” Andrew bowed deeply—fitting when one was greeting the most powerful man in London.
Those who didn’t know Black might mistake him for a doddering eccentric. He certainly dressed the part: from his lace-trimmed shirt to his embroidered puce waistcoat to his satin breeches, he looked as if he’d stumbled in from the previous century. Yet the dark eyes that looked out from beneath that ridiculous periwig were as sharp as a blade, and the beringed hands that were dumping sugar and cream into coffee could just as casually end a man’s life.
Anyone who didn’t respect the King of the Underworld was a fool.
Andrew was no fool.
Which was more than he could say about Black’s son-in-law, Malcolm Todd. Todd occupied the seat one down from Black’s right, a position rife with meaning. Black keeping the chair to his right empty was a subtle yet symbolic reflection of the state of affairs. Everyone knew Todd was chomping at the bit to inherit his father-in-law’s power; Black, however, showed no signs of relinquishing the reins to his kingdom.
While Black commanded respect, Todd deserved nothing but contempt. A small, bald man with a round face and a vicious nature, Todd would stoop to any means to gain more power.
“Corbett,” Todd said in his sneering manner.
Andrew calibrated his bow to his degree of respect. “Todd.”
“Hah.” Black let out a bark of laughter, turning to his son-in-law. “Made a leg for me, didn’t he, and a fine one, too. But you? Not as much as a bob o’ the ’ead.”
Todd’s face reddened. “I don’t give a rat’s arse what the bugger—”
“And there’s your problem. You don’t care about doin’ the pretty, but Corbett ’ere,”—Black jabbed a blunt finger in Andrew’s direction—“’e does. Understands class, don’t ’e, and that’s the difference between ’im and you. Why ’is club draws all ’em fine coves with the fat purses while yours attracts the common riffraff.”
“His blighted club is not better than mine—”
“God Almighty, shut your gob.” Black aimed a squinty-eyed look at Todd, and the latter shut up. He turned his gaze to Andrew and gestured regally to the seat on his left. “Sit.”
Andrew complied, and a serving boy rushed forward to place a dish of coffee in front of him. As he took a sip of the thick, fortifying brew, Black waved a hand, and the guards pulled a velvet curtain across the alcove, sealing them in privacy.
“Let’s get down to business. Corbett,”—Black pinned him with a hard black stare—“Todd says you’re violating the terms o’ the accord and poaching on ’is territory. Is this true?”
“No, sir,” Andrew said.
“That’s a lie,” Todd snarled at him from across the table. “You’ve opened a place, brazen as can be, a stone’s throw away from my club.”
“The Accord specifies that no one shall operate a competing business within another’s territorial lines. As I’ve explained to you, I indeed own a property close to your club, but it is not a competing business. It’s not a business at all.”
“You got a ’ouse full ’o whores. What’s that, if not a brothel?” Todd retorted.
“E’s got you there.” Black stirred his coffee. “Where there’s smoke, there’s usually a fire.”
“All the wenches living in the Nursery House are with child,” Andrew began.
“That so?” Black’s bushy brows inched toward his wig. “No telling what gents fancy these days, eh?”
“The Nursery House is not a brothel,” Andrew said with emphasis. “It’s a place for my pregnant employees to have their babes and recover before returning to work.”
“You expect us to believe that? That you’re running some sort o’ charity?” Todd jeered.
“I don’t think of it as charity but innovation. A sound business practice.” How many times do I have to explain the facts to this idiot? “If I look after my workers, I’ll attract and retain the best. If I give them a safe place to go during pregnancy, they’ll come back afterward, healthy and ready to work. In the end, it saves me time and money—and improves the lives of those who work for me.”
“That’s bloody preposterous!” Todd sprang up—not that he had far to go. Standing, the little tyrant was not much taller than Andrew was sitting. “Wench ’as a bun in the oven, you find a new one. Wench expires having a brat, you find a new one. Way o’ the world. What you’re doing is setting a bad example. Giving the whores ideas.” He spat the word like an epithet. “Next thing you know they’ll be wanting ’igher wages, a decent place to live, time off to spend with their brats. Your buggering Nursery is going to cause a mutiny—and I won’t stand for it!”
Andrew decided now was not the time to disclose the second phase of his plan: to partner with a school to educate the whores’ bastards.
Instead, he said levelly, “I don’t tell you how to run your business, and you don’t tell me how to run mine. That, Todd, is the way of our world.”
“You uppity whoreson—”
“I am the son of a whore,” Andrew acknowledged, “which explains why I view whores as human beings. Try that perspective, and you might find your business improves. What won’t improve your business, however, is trying to intimidate me. Three nights ago, I was attacked.”
He slid in the last fact—and watched for Todd’s reaction.
He saw surprise… followed quickly by glee.
“Can’t lay that at my door,” Todd said smugly. “Can’t say I’m shocked, though. Bastard like you is bound to ’ave more enemies than a dog ’as fleas.”
“My enemies better know that I fight back. And when I do, I go for the throat.”
“Is that a damned threat?”
“Enough. Both of you.” Black’s command cut through the tension. “Todd, sit your arse down.”
Todd sat, his beady eyes aglitter.
“Way I see it, Corbett ’asn’t violated the Accord,” the King of the Underworld pronounced. “’E ain’t operating a business that interferes with yours, Todd, so you got no bone to pick with ’im. Understand?”
“But—”
“Terms ’o the treaty are clear. The aggressor in any unwarranted conflict will answer to me.”
Black’s warning was unmistakable.
Todd gritted his teeth, remaining silent.
“As for you, Corbett,”—Black transferred a gimlet-eyed stare to him—“if I smell a whiff o’ wrongdoing from that Nursery o’ yours, it will be razed to the ground before you can blink twice. And you know from experience the fire of my wrath.”
Even after all these years, the memory of the inferno that had been Kitty’s club burned in Andrew’s head.
“There will be no wrongdoing, sir,” he said.
“Then we’re done with business.” Black’s majestic nod ended the conversation. “Finish your coffee. Nightingale’s makes the best in London.”
Todd stood abruptly. “I ’ave matters that require my attention.”
“You do indeed. You keeping an eye on that granddaughter o’ mine?” Black demanded. “What’s this I ’ear ’bout Tessie skipping lessons and carrying on like a hoyden?”
Todd looked annoyed. “I’m a busy man. I leave the domestic affairs to my wife.”
“Well, your wife is my daughter, and we both know she ain’t got the wherewithal to ’andle Tessie. So you’d best do your part, or you’ll answer to me.”
With a sullen jerk of the head, Todd departed through the curtain.
“God Almighty,” Black muttered, “what kind o’ man don’t look after ’is own blood?”
Andrew wondered if he was expected to respond. He drank coffee instead.
“Tessie may not be my flesh and blood, but she might as well be. Girl takes after me. Got looks, brains, and deserves nothing but the best.” Black pounded a fist to the table, making the cups jump in their saucers. “You understand, Corbett?”
“Er, yes. Of course.”
“My Tessie’s a fine lady.” Black jabbed a finger at the framed paintings that lined the alcove walls. “Accomplished, ain’t she?”
Andrew took in the cheerfully terrible watercolors. “She has… a unique talent.”
“Exactly.” Black sat back, slurped his coffee, fingers drumming on the table. After a moment, he declared, “I like you, Corbett. More so since you finally cut ties with that blowsy bitch, Kitty Barnes. So this is why I’ll spare you a word o’ advice.”
A chill permeated Andrew’s gut. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Black knew about his personal affairs; the other had an eye on most everything. His trepidation wasn’t over Kitty but Primrose. Did the King know about her?
“What advice?” he said warily.
“You’re a decent cove and rare man o’ principle. That said, every man’s got a weakness.” Black’s gaze held a shrewd glint. “Beware o’ females, Corbett—they’re yours.”