As though he would ever forget that Tremley held such power.

As though he would forget that the earl was the only person in the world who knew his secrets, and could punish him for them.

Tremley had secrets of his own, however – dark secrets that would see him dancing on the end of a rope if West was correct. But until he had proof… he had no weapon against this man who held his life in his hands.

“I’ll ask again,” he said, finally. “What do you want?”

“There is a war on in Greece.”

“This is the modern world. There’s always a war on somewhere,” West said.

“This one is nearly over. I want the News of London to come out against the peace.”

A vision flashed, Tremley’s file in his office, filled with nervous speculation from men who were terrified of their names being published. Speculation about this war. About others. “You want me to oppose Greek independence.” When Tremley did not reply, he added, “We had soldiers on the ground there. They fought and died for this democracy.”

“And here you are,” Tremley said, the words snide and unpleasant, “alive and well. And free.”

West did not miss the earl’s point. At any moment, with a word from this man, West could be destroyed. Sent to prison for a lifetime.

Worse.

“I won’t write it,” West said.

“You don’t have a choice,” Tremley said. “You are my lapdog. And you had best remember it.”

The truth of the statement made it infinitely more infuriating.

But it would not be true for long, if he found what he was looking for.

West’s fist clenched at his side. He was desperate to use it, to pummel this man as hard as he’d wanted to when they were children, and he’d spent his days being taunted and teased. Hurt. Nearly killed.

He’d escaped, come to London, built a goddamn empire. And still, when with Tremley, he was the boy he’d once been.

A memory flashed, tearing through the darkness on a horse worth triple his life. Five times it. His sister bundled in his lap. The promise of the future. The promise of safety. Of a life worth living for both of them.

He was tired of living in fear of that memory.

He turned away from the conversation, feeling trapped, as he always did. Owned. Desperate for something that would destroy this man now, before he was forced to do his bidding another time.

“Why?” he asked, “Why sway public opinion away from peace?”

“That’s not your concern.”

West was willing to wager that Tremley was breaking any number of laws of king and country, and that was his concern. And the concern of his readers. And the concern of his king.

But most importantly, proof of it was enough to keep his secrets safe. Forever.

Alas, proof was not easily come by in this world of gossip and lies.

It had to be found. Bought, if possible.

Bargained, if necessary.

And there was only one man who had enough power to get what West himself had not been able to find.

“You shall do it,” the earl insisted.

He did not speak, refusing to voice his agreement to whatever it was Tremley asked. He had done the earl’s bidding before, but never anything that would so clearly derail the crown. Never anything that would so clearly risk English lives.

“You shall do it.” Tremley repeated, firmer this time. Angrier.

As the words were not a question, it was easy for West not to answer. Instead, he exited the ballroom, hesitating at its edge as the orchestra finished its set, looking back over the crowd, watching the throngs of aristocrats revel in their money and power and idyll.

They did not understand what fortune smiled upon them.

He collected his coat and hat and headed for the exit, already at his club in his mind, calling for Chase’s messenger, calling in – for the first time – a favor.

If anyone could access Tremley’ secrets, it was Chase, but the owner of The Fallen Angel would want payment, and West would have to offer something massive for what he desired.

He waited on the steps of Worthington House for his carriage to emerge from the crush of conveyances waiting to be summoned by their masters and mistresses, eager to get to his club and begin negotiations with its owner.

“And here we are again.”

He recognized her voice immediately, as though he’d known it his whole life. Lady Georgiana stood behind him, with her clear eyes and her voice that somehow brought light with it – as though years away from this world, this place, had made her more than she could have ever been had she stayed.

He met her gaze, inclined his head. “My lady,” he let the words fall between them, enjoying the honorific, one he had never considered so possessive before now. Enjoying, too, the way her eyes widened at it. He repeated her words. “And here we are again.”

She smiled, soft and secret, and the expression sent a thread of pleasure through him. He stopped it before he could enjoy it. She was not for pleasure.

She came to stand next to him at the top of the Worthington House steps, looking down over the carriages assembled below.

It was early enough in the evening that they were alone, accompanied only by her maid and a collection of liveried footmen, all of whom were paid handsomely to disappear into the background.

“I realized after we parted that I should not have spoken to you,” she said, her gaze not wavering from where a footman scurried into the neighboring mews to locate her conveyance. She elaborated. “We have not been introduced.”

He looked to the crush of black vehicles. “You are correct.”