As she picked at the congealing remains of her breakfast, she felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. Disappointment—and anger—roiled within her. She had no expectations of marriage, yet even in her most hypothetical imaginings she had not anticipated being an afterthought to the man who claimed her hand. Clearly, however, that was how Leo saw her: a parenthesis.

Abruptly, she stood. The footman hurried to help her with her chair, yet she was halfway out the door.

As she climbed the stairs, resolution took shape. She would make herself essential to him. This house—its baleful silence, its icy shadows—she would find a way to transform it. He shunned his home. Yet under her care, home would become the warmth of the fire drawing him in from the cold night.


His hunting ground. Leo breathed in its aromas as a predator sniffed the air for the acidic scent of prey. The smell of coffee was the smell of money—brewing, percolating, waiting to be consumed. He barely needed the jolt of energy from the drink. All he required for strength was here, fed by the sights and sounds of Exchange Alley. And his own deeds gave him unstoppable momentum.

Leo strode down Lombard Street, its narrow confines bound on all sides by coffee houses that served as the financial heart of London, and thus, the world. New Jonathan’s Coffee House. Garraway’s. Lloyd’s. Dozens, maybe scores more. Lombard Street and the cramped alleys of Cornhill and Birchin Lane demarcated the boundaries of the commercial kingdom. The air was thick with talk, hundreds of men’s voices all crashing together in a din some might call discordant. To Leo, the sound rang as clear and sacred as an oratorio.

“Seven hundred shares of the coffee venture. No less.”

“The demand for cotton only increases. You’re a fool not to buy now.”

“The Quakers have me by the stones, but there’s no help for it. Our future is made of iron.”

“There’s Bailey, the Demon—if you’re looking for deep pockets, he’s your man. But mind, he asks scores of questions and is anything but a silent partner.”

This made him smile. Rich gentlemen might mutely provide funds and collect returns, content with the fiction that, if they kept their interaction with actual business to a minimum, they would be less sullied. Leo didn’t give a damn. He’d get as filthy as necessary to wring the greatest profits. He had no man of business. He did not deal with brokers or jobbers. Everything that needed doing, he did himself.

The sun had not yet topped the spires of Saint Paul’s, yet the frenzy of the ’Change was at its height, and Leo in the thick of it. Precisely where he wanted—needed—to be. Within the few hours he had been here, he’d invested in a quarry whose slate tiles would be used to roof mill towns in the north, provided capital to ship English wheat to the Caribbean, and sold his shares in a Scottish timber venture. And the day wasn’t half over. There was still so much to be done. Fortunes to be made—his.

“Oranges, Spanish oranges.” A barefoot girl with a basket full of fruit picked her way through the crowd. Her cry could barely be heard above the clamor.

“I’ll take one,” Leo said.

“Two for a penny, sir. One for yourself, one for your wife?”

God, he was married now, wasn’t he?

“Two, then,” he said, handing the coin to the girl. She passed two oranges to him, like a dirty-footed goddess creating new suns. With the transaction finished, the girl moved on, her cry of “Oranges, Spanish oranges” soon swallowed by the din.

Leo pocketed the fruit. Though surrounded on all sides by men and chaos and noise, his mind drifted back to his house in Bloomsbury, and the woman who now lived there. Anne had been sleeping when he slipped from bed. In that expanse of white linen, she had looked very small, insubstantial. Yet one of her hands had been curled into a fist, as if ready to swing should she be attacked.

Had she been protecting herself from him? The thought had troubled him, and he had summoned his valet and dressed quietly, careful to keep from waking her. She would arise later to find him gone.

Something edged and acute cut through him. It took several moments for him to recognize the feeling: regret. Or at least, he believed it to be regret, never having felt it before.

Perhaps he ought not to have left her. At the least, he might have woken her or left a note to let her know where he was. Damned strange. He’d been accountable to no one for a very long time. Even his fellow Hellraisers. To feel any sense of obligation, even to a wife, chafed. Yet he couldn’t expect to marry and have nothing alter, could he?

Last night had been ... puzzling. Disturbing. To feel her fear shuddering through her body and into his. He had expected some nerves on her part. Hell, there had been nerves on his part, as well. He’d never made love to a virgin before, and he’d wondered about the best possible means of doing so. Gentle, slow. That much he knew. Yet Anne had still been afraid.

His desire for her—that he felt even now, in this crowded, noisy alley—was unexpected, and a relief. Despite his ambition to marry a nobleman’s daughter, he never would have given his name to a woman he could not want in his bed. Anne’s quiet beauty stirred him; her intelligence and subtle humor intrigued him. As he had touched her and discovered her slim, soft body, he felt her respond. Not just with fear, but with hunger. There was promise, of what could be. He wanted to explore that, see where it led.

It was for these reasons that he had forced himself to wear a nightshirt, to hide his markings. Last night had shown him that what he had begun to learn of Anne, he discovered he actually liked. Which meant he would feel obligated to offer her an explanation for the markings—and that he was not certain he wanted to do.

What he did want was to see her again. He should go back.

“To hell with the geminus,” he muttered to himself, “and the demands of Mr. Holliday.”

The ’Change could do without him for a day, a week. And in that time, he and Anne could come to learn each other, become more than acquaintances. He had decided to wait on the consummation of their marriage until they knew each other better. He needed to learn more. That couldn’t happen with him sequestered in the madness of Exchange Alley.

Though Leo’s expertise at bedsport could not begin to match Bram’s, he had a suspicion that, once her fear diminished and she was initiated into the realm of sexual pleasure, Anne would prove herself an eager student. She had a quickness of mind that revealed itself in her ready wit, in the keenness of her gaze. He’d touched and caressed her, discovering a hidden sensuality in his wife, a banked fire that needed a bit of encouragement to blaze to life.

But that fire would remain cool until he brought it forward. Which he could not do from miles away.

He’d return home now. Take Anne for a jaunt in the carriage. They’d stroll in Saint James’s Park, perhaps have a mug of fresh milk from the cows that grazed there. Then they’d go back home for supper, and talk, maybe flirt a little over their meal. He knew a bit about flirting. Admittedly, not very much. Courtesans cared less for flirtation and more for generosity, which he had both in bed and out. Flirtation, though, was newer to him. Wordplay seemed to be involved, and compliments. Beyond that ... he’d have to think of something.

Hopefully, the flirting stage would not last overlong. He was much more comfortable once the woman was already in bed. Last night had given him just a taste of Anne. Learning more about her body and what gave her pleasure ... the prospect sounded damned pleasant. He already felt the quickening of his pulse, the heated edge of emergent desire.

Just as he turned to make his way back up Lombard and thence to Cheapside, he caught sight of Stephen Norwood emerging from a coffee house.

Destroy him.

The words, spoken silently by a voice not his own, wove through his mind like a trail of smoke. Thoughts of Anne were blotted out. All Leo saw was Norwood, the cheat. A year ago, they had been partners—Leo, Norwood, and two others—in an East Indian shipping venture. Norwood had gone behind Leo’s back, urging the others to underreport the venture’s profits, all the while wearing a wide betrayer’s smile. Leo had caught wind of the scheme and extricated himself with as minimal damage as possible, never letting on that he knew of the deception.

Like a serpent, Leo had bided his time, waiting for the right moment to bring Norwood down with a flash of fang and mouth full of poison.

That time was now. Cold intent spread through Leo, originating between his shoulder blades and winding through his body, his limbs, and his mind.

Destroy him.

“Good to see you, old friend.” He strode up and shook Norwood’s hand.

The charlatan grinned. “Surprised to see you here today. Word is out that yesterday you took a wife.”

Leo decided not to mention that he had married Anne, yet as to the taking of her ... that would happen later. “A husband I may be, but the ’Change is my mistress, and I can never stray.” He glanced toward the door of the coffee house Norwood had just exited. “You and I haven’t spoken in far too long. Join me inside?”

Though he maintained his grin, Norwood’s eyes were chary. If he knew what Leo had planned, he had good cause for concern. But no one save another Hellraiser or the Devil himself could know what Leo intended.

“I have good intelligence on some new investment prospects.” This was Leo’s bait, for he was renowned, some might say notorious, for his faultless ability to select the best ventures. He’d been strong in business before gaining his gift of precognition. Now, he was unstoppable.

Wariness left Norwood’s gaze, replaced by eager greed. “No greater pleasure than to renew our friendship.”

They ducked into the coffee house and removed their tricorn hats. Inside, men of business hunched at battered wooden tables and crowded into settles. Brokers, jobbers, men seeking capital for their schemes, and those, like Leo, keen to invest in the next profitable ventures. The close air within the shop was thick with the smell of coffee and the sounds of speculation. London was an old city, a city built upon the detritus of centuries rotting into the earth. Yet here, in this coffee house, in the narrow, crowded alleys of the Exchange, men lived in the future. They dwelt in the possibility of what could be, what might be, and in that gauze-covered world of chance, they staked their fortunes.

Leo had an advantage no one else possessed. And that made him one of the most feared and respected men in the Exchange. Him. A saddler’s son, who’d never drunk tea from fresh, unboiled leaves until he was fifteen years old.

He and Norwood managed to find a table, pushing aside the newspapers stacked there. As they sat, the proprietor flung two steaming mugs of coffee toward them and quickly trundled off.

“Have you change for a bob?” Leo asked Norwood. He held up a shilling.

“Only a tanner and thruppence.”

“That shall suffice.”

“Are you sure?” Norwood raised a brow, believing that the benefit would be all to him.

“Truly, it’s satisfactory.”

With a shrug, Norwood slid his coins across the table and accepted Leo’s shilling. The moment Leo touched the coins, he smiled, for though he had lost three pennies in the exchange, he now gained something far more valuable.

To Norwood, and to all the men in the room, Leo sat at a table within the same coffee house. He did not rise up from his seat. He barely even moved, except to curl his fingers around the coins. Yet with just the brush of his fingers over the money’s metallic surface, Leo’s mind became a spyglass. Time folded in on itself, collapsing inward. Dizzying. The first few times Leo attempted this, he’d found the unexpected sensation unpleasant, like drinking too much whiskey too quickly. Now, he’d learned not only to anticipate the feeling, but to welcome it, for it meant that soon the future would be his.

Leo felt the rough wooden table beneath his fingertips, heard the voices of men around him, yet his eyes beheld not the coffee house but a distant port. Palm trees and golden-skinned people in colorful wraps. Tall-masted ships bobbing at anchor. Buildings both Oriental and European—no, not just European, but the tall, narrow facades of Dutch structures, and battlements. He knew this place, never having been there, but by reputation: Batavia, in the East Indies.

The lurid light spilling over the city’s walls came not from the setting sun, but a ship burning in the harbor. Sailors tried to douse the flames. Their water buckets failed to stem the fire—it spread like a pestilence over the hull, up the masts, engulfing the sails. The sailors abandoned their task. They shoved themselves into jolly boats and dove overboard, and people on the shore could only watch as the ship became a black, shuddering skeleton, its expensive cargo turning to ash upon the water. The crew had escaped, but the pepper they shipped did not.