Prologue
Lord Harry Steele hauled his trunk into the stable yard of the coaching company, and with a tired sigh, dumped it against the nearest wall. He had managed to get it this far without breaking his back, but every muscle in his body was screaming—not to mention the sweat and stench of stale booze which oozed from his every pore.
His coat was dirty and torn. The whereabouts of his best hat a mystery for the ages. He looked more like a rag-and-bone man than the son of the Duke of Redditch.
Why do dukes have to be so bloody stubborn? He could have at least offered me the use of the coach.
Slowly catching his breath, he took the time to survey his surroundings. The view pained his already disappointed heart. Grimy, dull, grey brick walls rose on all sides of the square. The only coach in the yard had two wheels missing and looked like it had seen better days. There was a noticeable lack of clean hay and stable staff. If the place had once been well-maintained, it wasn’t any time this century.
Please lord, don’t let this be where the last of my pennies have gone.
Harry pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and checked the address.
82 Gracechurch Street, London
He sighed. Miracles were definitely in short supply this morning.
A quick check of the stables revealed three horses, but again, no hay or stable hands. The only positive thing was that the mounts meant that some of his fellow RR Coaching Company investors had arrived.
“Well, I hope one of them has deep pockets, because this is going to be a black hole of money,” he muttered.
He made his way out to the yard once more, regretting yet again his decision to give the whisky a serious nudge the previous evening. It was bad enough to be penniless and homeless; a hangover just added insult to injury.
“Harry, get your useless arse upstairs. We are waiting for you,” cried a voice.
Lifting his head, his gaze settled on a tall figure at the top of a nearby set of wooden steps. He gave a tired wave. Lord Andrew McNeal, the Duke of Monsale; stood with hands on hips glaring at him from his lofty perch.
“Coming,” said Harry, and he headed toward the stairs. When his tired legs finally got him to the landing, Harry offered a bow. “Your grace.”
Monsale sniffed, then pointed at Harry’s trunk abandoned in the yard. “I take it the old man made good on his threat.”
“Two days out from Christmas Eve, and he tosses me into the street. What sort of father does that, I ask you?” replied Harry.
“One whom you have pushed to the limits of his good humor from the day you first drew breath?” offered Monsale.
He couldn’t expect sympathy from his friends. They knew all the wicked things Harry had got up to over the years, including the ones which had escaped his father’s notice.
“I know, but this is Christmas. I didn’t think he would do it, let alone during the festive season,” said Harry.
And who is going to get all that lovely pork crackling and roast beef on Christmas Eve? Not to mention the sweet Brussels sprouts. Not me.
Being excluded from the grand family dinner was the biggest blow of them all. He could just taste the thick, rich gravy as it drowned his peas and carrots.
“It is done, and no amount of grizzling will do you any good. Come on. We have work to do,” said Monsale. He put a comforting arm around Harry’s shoulder and ushered him through a nearby door.
“Good Prince Hal!” came the cry.
Harry chuckled. If he had a penny for every time Shakespeare had been quoted at him, he wouldn’t be in this mess. As it was, he was closer to a pauper than a prince this morning, but it was still comforting to know that his friends considered him worthy of their jests.
Seated at a long, grime-covered table were three other men. Sir Stephen Moore, Augustus Trajan Jones, and The Honorable George Hawkins. None of them seemed the least fazed by Harry’s disheveled appearance.
Monsale walked over to Augustus Jones and held out his hand. “Pay up, Gus. The old man finally did it.”
Gus’s mouth opened as wide as a trout caught on a hook. “Oh well, it’s taken ten long years for me to have to pay out the bet, so I consider it money well spent.”
With a flourish, he handed over a pound note, which Monsale quickly perused before putting into his own pocket. No one remarked over the sight of a duke checking his friend’s money for any possible signs of forgery. Only a fool took a banknote on face value.
Sir Stephen Moore waved a hip flask in Harry’s direction, and Harry took it without hesitation. This morning called for the hair of the dog.
Harry dropped into the empty, dusty chair between Stephen and George, and downed a large mouthful of whisky.
“Right, now that we are all here, let’s get the inaugural meeting of the RR Coaching Company underway,” said Monsale.
“RR Coaching Company?” replied Gus.
Harry grinned. It had been his idea to call their new and barely legal endeavor after an old moniker which his father had attached to him and his friends.
“We could hardly openly call ourselves the Rogues of the Road Coaching Company,” said Monsale.
The tatty old stables and grounds of what had once been a successful coaching business would be the perfect front for their new enterprise.
Monsale nodded. “Harry?”
Harry put down the hip flask and got to his feet. He might well be the one with the least amount of money in his pocket, but this plan had been spinning around in his head for several years.
He cleared his throat. “If this was a formal company meeting, someone would be taking minutes, but I expect none of us want anything we discuss to be put in writing. Firstly, may I thank you all for investing your hard-earned blunt in this venture. I know most of us don’t have more than one or two pennies to rub together.”
He gave a quick sideways glance at Monsale. The Duke of Monsale was wealthy, but also tightfisted with his coin. His parsimonious nature was evident in the state of the premises he had secured for the group’s new venture.
“And while the current state of this place is not going to give Carlton House a run for its money, it will, however, furnish us with a front for our less reputable activities until we can get the coaching service properly established.”
While Monsale helped to provide a respectable façade to the fledgling coaching business, the rest of the group would continue to fund its development by way of their secret business dealings. Gus smuggled goods into Britain on board his yacht, the Night Wind. George helped to find new homes for items of dubious ownership. And Stephen had dealings in the murky world of revenge and personal vendettas.
He didn’t need to give voice to what they all were likely thinking. At some point in the future, a crisis would occur, and they would have to find a respectable way to earn money. But that day was not today. The RR Coaching Company was their safe retreat for the time being.
Harry dusted the front of his coat but didn’t bother making too much of an effort. There was every chance he would be sleeping on the floor of this place tonight, or in the stables.
“And what will be my contribution to the RR Coaching Company, you quietly ask yourself? Well, London society thinks it knows everything about my scandalous lifestyle, but in truth, I have only ever allowed a tiny portion of it to become public. I pride myself on being able to manage my image. So, I have decided that instead of creating scandals, I am going to get other people to pay me in order to make theirs go away.”