Page 6 of The Housebreaker's Assistant
Jonathan stroked a hand possessively over Charlie’s side, combing his fingers through his boy’s hair. “If Charlie is happy, I’m happy,” he said, smiling at the lad with genuine affection.
Greer grinned at them as he finished shaking Titus’s hand and helped himself to a seat at one of the empty places at the table. Most ordinary people would be appalled at the goings on of The Zagreus Den. It was a place of sexual excess and aberration, where men were esteemed as gods in the eyes of the younger men they owned. The idea of boys being taken off the street or out of the workhouse and made into whores would have made weaker souls faint in horror. Others would have been horrified by the illusion of pederasty, despite the young men all being older.
But Greer had never known a happier, healthier gang of ruthless criminals in his life.
“Erastos tells me there will be dancing tonight,” Greer said, reaching for a fruit tart from the plate that one of the Den’s angelic minxes offered to him from his knees. “Will you be dancing with them, Valentine?”
The blond vision holding the tray laughed lightly. “I will be dancing, sir,” he said, his cheeks rosy and his blue eyes bright, “but that is all. I am still in mourning.”
Greer’s heart went out to the young man as he peeked quickly at the black armband in the shape of a snake circling his upper arm. Valentine’s owner had died suddenly during the winter, leaving the poor man without a protector. As he hadcome through the Den originally before being sold, Brutus and Titus had welcomed him home with open arms for his time of mourning.
Valentine was a darling. Whoever won the man’s heart enough to convince him to leave his mourning and be owned again was a lucky man indeed.
“There will be dancing,” Brutus said, taking his seat, “but we did not invite you specifically tonight for the entertainment alone.”
“No?” Greer couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or intrigued.
The mischief in Valentine’s eyes, as if he knew exactly why Greer had been summoned, pushed him more toward intrigued.
“You’ve heard the sad story of Lord Fabian’s disappearance,” Titus said as Greer took a bite of his tart.
“Lord Barnstable’s youngest son,” Greer said with a nod. “Rumors are that he succumbed to an opium addiction.”
“Those rumors aren’t true,” Jonathan said with surprising ferocity.
Charlie sat up quickly, his sweet face a mask of sadness. Jonathan pulled the young man into his arms as if shielding him from great harm.
“Hammond has him,” Brutus answered grimly.
They were only three words, but they told a long and painful story.
Charles Hammond was Brutus and Titus’s brother. The three of them had started a club together over a decade ago as young men, but their aims and designs for that sort of a club had diverged quickly. Hammond had more nefarious intentions toward his criminal activities whereas Brutus and Titus sought to give those who were often overlooked or abused by so-called polite society a better life.
Years later, Brutus and Titus and Hammond were at each other’s throats more often than not, competing for turf like a group of scrappy street urchins, only with untold wealth and influence at their command. It would be just like Hammond to kidnap the son of an aristocrat to sell him into slavery.
Knowing Brutus and Titus as he did, Greer anticipated what they would say next.
“Lord Fabian was being held prisoner at Lord Frome’s estate in Wiltshire as recently as last month,” Titus said.
“Until a wretched soul failed to act quickly enough to save him,” Jonathan grumbled on Greer’s other side.
Charlie touched his hand to Jonathan’s face with a look of sympathy and grace.
That also told an entire story without the need to elaborate. Jonathan had, perhaps, been sent to rescue the young lordling but had failed.
“We were unable to trace him at first,” Brutus went on, “but recent information has come to light, and we now know where he is.”
“Oh?” Greer’s heart lifted a little, as if Lord Fabian’s story was one he’d been following for ages instead of only just hearing about it. “Where?”
“He’s being held at Trebarral Castle on the Cornwall coast, near Newquay,” Titus said.
“Trebarral Castle,” Greer said with a frown. “Isn’t that owned by Dalhurst these days?”
“It is indeed,” Brutus said.
“Dalhurst is as deeply invested in the Cleveland Street club as Hammond is,” Titus explained. “Together, the two of them have amassed an empire nearly as large as our own, though with none of our good intentions.”
On Greer’s other side, Jonathan snorted.
