April 1804
12 years earlier
Before Henry's journey to Suffolk, England
Henry was soused.
The worst part? A drunkard was inevitably aware of his state, seeing as how his stomach churned, and his tumbler of liquid shimmied forever just out of reach. The problem at hand, however, was that Henry didn't much care to be sober. On this night, Henry discovered he hadn't had nearly enough.
"I don't give a farthing if you're the bloody king himself, Hen-, er Lord Crowley now, isn't it?" The man didn't wait for Henry to confirm before he continued speaking across the card table. "Are you folding this hand or wagering? We don't have all bloody night."
Henry cast a scowl in Lord Melbourne's direction. It lost its ferocity, however, when Melbourne's head swam in his vision, his features distorted as the world shifted on its ear. "Hold still, will you? I can't rightfully concentrate with you floundering about."
When Melbourne's form continued to waver about, Henry shut his eyes tight, wishing the surroundings would become stasis once more.
He was ensconced at Tanner's - a reputable club on the end of St. James's street. He knew the stakes for hazard would be high this late in the evening, the company ripe with the upper echelons of London. Which was fine with him seeing as how Henry had become one of its members not hours before.
This was where he had come first after he learned he was now the new Marquess of Crowley. His brother, William, and his wife, Arabella, had both...perished. Henry could see the black embossed carriage as it must have rounded a corner too fast or rattled from a bump in the road. It had gone careening, they said, flipping onto its side.
Henry's throat thickened, and he banished the images, the cries and pleas that must have sounded when the clattering wheels had rumbled, wobbled, before releasing the tenuous hold on the dirt road.
Reaching for his timepiece, Henry wondered how long it had, in fact, been. He fumbled with the dratted thing, the clock face getting stuck in his waistcoat. The delicate brass chain slipped from his grip, and Henry gave up. Had his fingers become thick-nubbed?
Henry shifted his gaze to his cards. He brought them close to his nose, squinting. Was that a two of hearts, he wondered, or a three of diamonds?
He shrugged, biting his lower lip as he pulled a few pound notes and placing them within the middle of the table. It was littered with coins and jewelry, their surfaces glinting in the soft glow of candles.
As play continued on, Henry coughed, the cloying cigar smoke making his eyes water. The stale scent of liquor and body sweat permeated the room. He glanced about at the dark green walls, the heavy upholstery on the chairs and the flickering fire in the corner. It offered its clientele their desired secrecy, a place to discover their favorite vices.
He shifted his arm, causing the remaining coins of his purse to scatter along the tabletop. His pile had dwindled significantly throughout the night. Most of which, he realized, taken by the man across from him.
Mr. Robert Moreland was a quiet man. He scrutinized each player's face. The various twitches of one's hand or the tick of another's jaw. He pondered why a gentleman folded his hand or gave up a card. How often some would call a higher wager, assured that his hand was best.
He tried not to meet the man's intense gaze, as he scanned the table's other occupants. Lord Melbourne was on his left, giving him a look askance, as if any minute Henry would fall flat on his face or cast up his accounts. Each likely, as his vision swum and he had to place a hand to his head, wiping the dampened skin with the palm of his hand.
Lord Marks was seated on his right. Henry didn't notice aught else but the cream sauce still residing upon the edges of his blonde mustache. Marks folded the next moment, a bead of sweat soaking through the collar of his shirt. The most unlikely member of their group was Benjamin, the Earl of Claymore.
It wasn't simply because the man was an earl - though, Henry supposed, he qualified as one now, didn't he? Claymore was a large man. His son, Greyson, had been rumored to follow in his father's footsteps. Claymore had been known for his studs, the farm that had been in the earldom for centuries. His horses were superior breeds with lineages dating back to elite Arabians. His expansive stables had made him as revered as he was denounced for his common ways.
His skill was legendary. His fierce business acumen even more so.
"You're up, Crowley."
Henry looked about, realizing that within his musings, the others had folded their hands. It was only him and Moreland left.
"Perhaps you should fold, dear friend." Claymore's voice rumbled over the company, and Henry looked up, meeting the earl's emerald gaze. "Mayhap next round you will see lady luck."
Others around the table smirked, a few chuckling at the reprimand in the man's words. But it was the soft look in his eyes - as if Henry were a man to be pitied. Poor thing, Henry imagined the earl was thinking, to be drowning his sorrows in a game of chance and soused out of his bloody mind.
"Not your usual crowd now, is it?" Henry snapped, leaning over the table.
The penetrating gaze he had refused to meet finally had him turning. Next to the earl was Moreland. Henry met his black stare.
Henry looked away first, taking in Moreland's attire instead. He dressed in all black, buttoned up to his chin. A scar bisected his left eyebrow, leading to the corner of his mouth. The white line was stark against his otherwise tanned features, tightening his lips into a permanent grimace. Black leather gloves creaked as he clenched them. Red and blotchy scar tissue rode low on his jaw, disappearing into his high-collared black shirtwaist.
"Besides," Henry said, twisting to meet Claymore's eyes, "My decisions are my own." Henry moved his monies into the pot, leaning back to meet Claymore's gaze with his own.
"You have had too much to drink, Crowley. How about I take you back home?"
Anger hit at the same time as shame did. Shame, unlike anything Henry had ever known. Worse than when his brother had found out Henry's feelings for his wife. Worse than when his brother had rebuffed all his correspondence, his requests for forgiveness. Worse than when Henry had accepted it as his due.
Now, it was too late to make amends.
His lungs burned as his insides were cut open with a dull knife. The pain was excruciating.
Before he knew what he was doing, Henry stood up, stumbling as his top half leaned once more invariably to the right. Lord Marks barely managed to stop Henry's fall, his shoulder propped against Henry's arm.
"I can stand." Brushing off the man's help, he met Claymore's gaze. "There's no reason to concern yourself with me -"
"Your brother was my good friend -"
"My brother left me his fortunes," Henry returned, shoving the pain down deep enough that it ceased to sting him.
What would William and Arabella think of him now?
The shame made Henry wish to risk it all. What was left to take away from him? What could bloody touch him after this?
"I suggest we raise the stakes."
This captured Moreland's attention. He had been studying his cards, but now, his black gaze went to Henry's face. "How so?"
Henry nodded. "The winning hand obtains everything."
The man's back went rigid. Henry met the stare unflinchingly, even if he felt his toes curl in his boots. This man was a predator, one who would never stop from obtaining what he wanted. But no man came out on top if he showed fear. That was one thing any man knew - whether a lord or not.
Moreland considered him in silence. Henry fought to stand still, ignoring Claymore's disapproving frown across the table.
"Everything, hm?"
"Everything not entailed to the estate. The land, the monies," Henry said. "Everything I can give will be yours."
Henry lifted his head as an image of his laughing brother came to him. How their relationship had been before it all. He could see Arabella with her dark hair and porcelain skin. A diamond of the first water. And the daughter he had to imagine. The one he had yet to meet.
This night, he had become the Marquess of Crowley. The guardian of his niece, Charlotte. It was up to him to make his way in the world. To not let his brother down. To right the wrongs done for his unwarranted feelings. That last, he knew now, wasn't worth the pain of losing his brother.
He would double his profits, Henry vowed. Make his brother's death not end in vain.
Moreland stuck out a gloved hand, and Henry placed his sweat-slicked one in his. "It's a deal," he said.
Ten minutes later, Henry watched as Moreland's back disappeared. His leather gloves had clenched his winnings alongside the vowels issuing everything that had been Henry's - had been his brother's - to Moreland.
Henry forgot to take into account, however, the nature of the man. His own words - Everything I can give will be yours - would come back to haunt him.
Henry had discovered that he did, in fact, have much more to lose.
***
Crowley Townhouse
London, England
Present Day
The body thudded against the wall of his study.
Henry had been owed that. Charlotte had been.
Lord Simpton groaned at Henry's feet, a new blackened eye decorating his person. This was the man who was supposed to protect his niece. To take her to the Continent. Out of reach of Moreland. And yet without Moreland's comment in his study a few night's pass - Henry's so-called "failed attempt" -he would have never known the truth.
How everything had gone horribly awry.
One wager had forced this circumstance upon him. Having this poor excuse for a gentleman at his feet. Having his niece venturing out, alone, into the streets of London. Being kept under Moreland's thumb as the man plotted his revenge against all the lords and ladies that had done him harm.
Henry had the title Moreland had needed. A member of the aristocracy who could run within the circles Moreland needed him to. Henry was weary of it all. After a dozen years, who wouldn't be? he wondered.
Henry had hoped Simpton would have allowed him one measure of comfort - that his niece would be safe.
He laughed bitterly. Henry had learned the lesson well. There was no such thing as safety.
Simpton staggered, reclaiming his feet. "I - I did what you told me to."
Henry took a threatening step. Simpton cowered.
Cowered!
How had he ever thought this dandified fop could properly protect his niece from a monster like Moreland?
The mistake had cost him.
His niece had taken off in the night. Henry had every intention of telling Charlotte he wasn't the villain she thought him. That he had never - would never - have plotted her compromise.
Henry clenched his hands.
His knuckles burned, the skin cracked and bleeding from the force of his earlier punch. As soon as Lord Simpton had entered the study, Henry had come at him.
"I asked you to win her hand -" Henry began, clenching his teeth.
"You...you said, in any way I...I wished."
Henry leaned in close, his eyes clashing with the hazel ones of the boy. "I don't like my words being twisted to one's advantage. I said to use your wits, your charm. Whatever the bloody hell would convince my niece to fall for you." Henry pulled the boy's head back, using the black curls of his hair to get a good grip. Meeting the gaze of the boy, he said, "Mind my words. If I see you in London again, you won't like what happens."
Simpton trembled, tears tracking his face. What the boy didn't know was that Henry was by far the least of his worries. There were bigger dangers in London.
"Do you understand?"
Simpton nodded his head vigorously, the broken nose appearing brutal and haggard on his otherwise boyish features. Pride burst through him.
Jolly good blow, Charlotte.
Now, Henry needed to find her. After an interview with Nessie, Henry knew Charlotte had headed southward the evening before.
In the evening!
By God, Henry thought, even now Charlotte could be lying on the edge of the road. She could have been set upon by cutthroats. Thieves. Pickpockets.
Henry shook off his panic, knowing he needed to appease Moreland for the moment. Henry's latest quest was Greyson, the earl of Claymore. He had tried to talk Claymore into a bad investment, had hoped to have the whole ordeal over and done with.
Henry should have known better. His father, Benjamin, had been an equally perceptive gentleman. He would never had stood for a moment of Henry's blathering either. The irony pressed on Henry. The man who had tried to talk Henry out of making a bad wager would see his rewards with the ruination of his son, the title of Claymore. The loss of his stables.
Moreland demanded it.
Bile rose in Henry. The secrets he knew...
Henry came back to the present, releasing Simpton's hair from his grip. He was weary of it all suddenly. "Get out."
The boy scampered away, knocking into the leg of a side table before he disappeared. The door to his study banged shut.
Henry ran a hand through his hair. He sighed before straightening his spine. He had to think of something to sate Moreland. Something he could do.
If he went along with Moreland's current ruination plot whose to say there wouldn't be another? There had been dozens of years of others. It wouldn't stop. He couldn't live in fear and danger. He could force his niece to either.
Henry wanted to begin anew. His life his own. His niece's, hers.
But Henry knew that was a lot to hope for. Nothing ever went as planned. That's when Henry remembered something. Turning, he ran for his desk. Moreland had been in his study that night of the ball. Henry remembered the empty drink on his desk, the books that had been shuffled and moved about. How had he not considered that Moreland wouldn't go through his personal belongings?
Henry unlatched the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk. He shuffled papers giving himself a paper cut in the process.
He knew that it would be gone.
The missive he had penned. The note stating the truth of Moreland's perfidy. The bad tidings the man had committed upon the peerage.
The murder he had sanctioned.
All the evidence he was going to deliver to Bow Street.
All of it.
Gone.
Moreland's raspy laugh followed Henry as he ran.