The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(51)
Simon stiffened. He did not merely want to find Cranford; he needed to find Cranford. Needed to find him in order to break his jaw. Or his nose. Possibly both. No measure of retribution was too harsh. Cranford had ruined Maggie’s life. Hell, he’d ruined Simon’s as well. Without those letters, Simon would have offered for Maggie. He would have—
“Very well.” Colton raised his hands up in surrender. “I can tell you won’t be talked out of it. I was merely going to suggest getting some rest in the very near future. You’re starting to scare even me.”
Simon didn’t want to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the hurt on Maggie’s face, a sorrow no one could possibly fake. No one would have believed me. Everyone always accepts the word of a gentleman. And after Cranford attacked her, the bastard. How frightened she must have been, how heartsick to know she’d done nothing to deserve her downfall. Fury flared in Simon’s belly once more, the anger that had kept him going since walking out of Maggie’s house two days ago. “I can sleep after I put a bullet through Cranford’s heart.”
Simon stalked to the man watching over the floor. Nearly every hell was organized the same: the owners remained in the back, away from the action, while men they trusted stayed on the floor to keep an eye out for cheating. So Simon knew this man wasn’t the one in charge, but he could help Simon find him. “I need to see your employer.”
The keen, dark eyes continued to sweep the floor. “’E’s busy.”
“Counting money, I’ve no doubt.” Simon stepped closer, his posture threatening. “I need information, and if I do not get what I need, I’ll be back each night with authorities from the Crown to shut you down until I do.”
The man sighed and glanced up toward a walkway on the second floor. His hands gave a few rapid signals then he waited. Finally, he nodded and told Simon, “Through the door in the back. Tell ’em Piper said to go up.”
Briskly, Simon followed the directions and soon found himself climbing a narrow staircase to the second floor. A large man waited at the top. “Follow me,” he said before leading Simon through a series of corridors. He stopped and unlatched a scarred wooden door. “Through here.”
Simon crossed the threshold, then stopped. A group of rough-looking men were playing cards around a small, round green baize table. They all raised their heads to stare at Simon.
“Well, well, well.” The largest of the men put down his cards and picked up his cigar. “An earl and a duke in my place tonight.” He slapped the shoulder of his neighbor. “I must be comin’ up in the world, boys.” The men all sniggered but watched Simon cautiously.
“Mr. O’Shea, I assume?”
The man’s mouth hitched and he sprawled back in his chair. “Just O’Shea. We prefer not to use titles on this side of London. I hear you’re interested in a spot of information. Hard to imagine what an earl needs to find in The Black Queen. Unless you’re lookin’ for a bit of rough trade, that is.”
Simon shook his head. “I am looking for someone. Wondered if you might know where I can find him.”
O’Shea smirked. “And why do you think I can help find one of your fancy friends?”
“This man is no friend. He’s titled, but his tastes run a bit . . . darker. Word has gotten round that my friends and I are anxious to find him, and I think he’s hiding out somewhere in London. Perhaps in your part of town.”
“Who?” O’Shea asked and blew a smoke ring.
“Viscount Cranford.”
Simon saw the flash of recognition before O’Shea quickly masked it. “Not sure. Might be familiar.” He idly scratched his neck. “What’s it worth to you?”
Land, money, power. He’d give anything on earth, anything within his control to learn the answer—not that he’d tell that to O’Shea. “What do you want?”
O’Shea grinned. “Let’s have a drink first.” He pointed to one of the men at the table. “Get the bottle from the bottom drawer of the desk, will you? And a clean glass for his lordship.”
The man stood and O’Shea gestured to the empty chair. “Have a seat, Lord Winchester.”
Simon came over and lowered himself into the chair. As he did, the other men at the table all stood, dispersed, leaving just him and O’Shea.
James O’Shea was a thug but also a crafty businessman. He owned most of the hells, brothels, and gin shops in East London. Rumor had him beating a man to death because the man forgot to pay for a drink. Simon wasn’t worried, however. He’d negotiated bills, peace treaties, contracts with mistresses.... He could handle O’Shea. The key was to remain calm and let the other side reveal a weakness first.
A glass was placed in front of both of them and the bottle set by O’Shea’s elbow. “Now,” O’Shea said, uncorking the unmarked bottle and pouring a small amount of light brown liquid in each glass. Simon assumed it to be whiskey, though a strange, sharp odor emerged to make his nostrils twitch. “I’ll tell you what I know. After you have a drink with me.”
Simon snatched up the glass. Without pausing, he brought it to his mouth and tossed the entire thing back. As soon as the spirits hit the back of his throat, he realized his mistake. Bloody everlasting hell . . . It was like nothing he’d ever tasted before, like swallowing a burning ember. All the air left his body as fire scorched his insides. He could feel his eyes water as he struggled for breath. Dimly, he heard O’Shea chuckle as the man drained his own glass.