Page 7 of Rules for Ruin

His casual posture was belied by the menace of a Birmingham drawl edging his words. Over the past decade, he’d taken great pains to cultivate an upper-class accent—a necessary skill when dealing with the narrow-minded aristocrats with whom he regularly did business—but whenever his temper threatened, the truth of his origins always managed to seep out.

In those moments, there was no hiding where he came from. Though Gabriel had made a kingdom of St. Giles, it was the Black Country where he’d been born and bred, and where he’d spent the first years of his life. He’d only come to London as a scrappy orphan lad of twelve, eking out a place for himself in the Rookery with his wits—and with his fists.

Lord Compton paced the library carpet in front of Gabriel, his brows pulled into a furious scowl. He was a well-favored man in his middle fifties, with graying brown hair, a full graying beard, and a slightly thickened, but still athletic, figure that spoke of good wine, aristocratic sport, and a life of unutterable privilege. Like Gabriel, Compton was clad in elegant evening wear, though his suit of clothes had likely been made in Savile Row rather than by a struggling back-slum tailor.

“Easy, you call it?” Compton echoed in dismay. “To welcome you into my home? To permit you to associate with my friends? My family?”

Gabriel was mildly entertained by the viscount’s distress. The man was usually unflappable—a model politician, with a thoughtful tone and a somber manner. “Come now, your lordship. It isn’t as though I’m asking to marry your daughter.”

Compton turned on Gabriel in the circle of light cast from the oil lamp on the desk. His face was transformed by fatherly outrage. “You go too far, Royce.”

“Not far enough, it appears, if you think you have the choice of refusing me.”

Compton snorted. “And have you unleash your band of ruffians on me?”

The distant strings of an orchestra drifted from the ballroom above. It was mingled with the muted murmur of voices, and the thump of footsteps as late-coming guests continued to arrive. A polonaise had been playing when Gabriel had first entered the library, followed by a country dance. Another dance was starting now. A spirited galop, which (by the sound of the stomping upstairs) had been joined by a crushing number of couples.

Compton’s ball was the first truly tonish party of the social season. The grandest people in London were reputed to be in attendance—illustrious lords, wealthy ladies, and powerful politicians. Compton and his wife had already welcomed most of them when Gabriel had turned up, unannounced and uninvited.

For a few coins, an obliging footman had shown him to Compton’s library. The viscount had marched in moments later to find Gabriel seated behind his desk, dressed for the evening’s entertainment, and possessing all the deceptive patience of a hungry wolf waiting to strike.

Watching the viscount now, Gabriel’s mouth curved in a lazy smile. “If you don’t do as I ask, my ruffians will be the least of your troubles.”

Compton’s expression turned stony. He was no coward. It took guts to walk the reputational tightrope he’d been traversing these many years. But, audacious as he was, he knew his limits. He would do as Gabriel wished in the end. The result was inevitable. It was only the speed at getting to that result that appeared at issue.

Unfortunately for Compton, Gabriel’s patience was wearing thin.

“Is it not enough that I keep the law away from your dealings in the Rookery?” Compton asked in a last attempt at reason. “That I protect your interests from those who would drive you out of St. Giles?” He set his hands on the edge of the desk. “You and I had an agreement.”

Gabriel stood to his full and not inconsiderable height. “Yet still you insult me.”

Compton straightened. He took a step backward. It was less out of fear than it was a refusal to submit to Gabriel’s physical dominance. The viscount would let no man loom over him, least of all one he considered so far beneath him.

“It’s not an insult to insist you and I keep to our proper spheres,” he said. “My guests this evening are a different breed from what you’re accustomed to. They’re gentlemen of influence—”

“Just as I am.” Gabriel strolled out from behind the desk. “Which is why you’re going to introduce me to them.” He smiled again. “I have a sick fancy to become respectable.”

Compton’s lips flattened. He shot a glance at the closed doors of the library. The music filtered through, an audible reminder of his duties to his guests, and to his position in society. “Your jests are ill-timed, sir.”

“It’s no jest. I’m formulating a plan for changes in the Rookery. When the time comes, I’ll need the freehanded support of wealthy benefactors.”

Compton exhaled a contemptuous gust of breath. “Is that what this is about?” Stalking past Gabriel, he jerked open a drawer in his desk and withdrew his checkbook. “If it’s money for the poor you’re after, your request need go no further than me.” He picked up his steel-nibbed pen, poised to dash off an order on his bank. “I’m not opposed to investing in a new workhouse.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened on a reflexive surge of anger. Workhouses were the last thing the poor of St. Giles needed. Workhouses that separated mothers from children. That broke up families. Workhouses were where good, decent folk went to sicken and die. As sure a sentence as the hangman’s noose, but lacking the dignity of the rope. Unlike a walk to the scaffold, admittance to a workhouse required no judge or jury. It recognized no defense.

After all, what defense was there to the crime of being poor?

No. Gabriel’s plans didn’t involve workhouses. He had other ideas. A vision for honest, aboveboard reforms to benefit the people of the Rookery and, ultimately, himself.

“I’m not interested in charity,” he said.

“Call it a business contract, then,” Compton responded.

“A business contract with you?” Gabriel’s tone was silky with disdain. “I’d sooner crawl into bed with a scorpion.”

Compton’s face went rigid. He set down his pen.

“Put away your money,” Gabriel told him. “All I require from you this evening are introductions to my betters.” He gestured for Compton to precede him to the door. “If you would be so obliging.”