Chapter One
Lord Fennimore’s Mayfair study, on a very wet night in February 1820
Thanks to the splendid port, the cosy heat from the fire and a distinct lack of sleep the night before Jake would soon need a pair of matchsticks to prop open his eyes. Viscount Linford was droning on about the latest numbers of confiscated barrels of brandy in every coastal county the length and breadth of the entire British Isles, or at least he had been before Jake’s mind had wandered off to greener pastures while listening to the man’s soporific voice.
As always, the Viscount measured success in numbers, seemingly oblivious to the fact it made no difference how many cargoes the blockade men had seized this month compared to last. Those dull statistics were a drop in the ocean—albeit the English Channel—compared to the massive cargoes which slipped past them daily. For a small pile of coin, most people could be relied upon to be resourceful. But smugglers weren’t most people, the piles they wanted weren’t small and their resources far outstripped those of the rag-tag disorganisation of the Board of Excise. Whoever the mysterious Boss was, his toxic network was proving near impossible to infiltrate. Crowbars wouldn’t budge the terrified sealed lips of the few crews they had arrested and for every ship they seized another twenty sailed right past.
‘All well and good, but can we trace any of those barrels back to Crispin Rowley?’ Lord Fennimore’s curt tone suggested he was as bored by the Viscount’s bean-counting as Jake was.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly? What sort of an answer is that? Either we have a traceable link to the bounder or we don’t.’
Viscount Linford began to blink at the challenge. ‘We know that a substantial amount of those barrels were destined for the capital.’
‘And?’ Fennimore was losing patience. ‘We are in the midst of the Season, when I dare say London consumes more than its fair share of brandy. Are Rowley or any of his associates transporting the goods further afield or selling the stuff in the capital?’
‘Not that we can find. He’s covered his tracks well. However, we all know he is the source.’
‘Knowing it and proving it are two very different things. The Attorney General will sign no warrant for the man’s arrest unless he has tangible evidence of Rowley’s involvement.’ Something they had failed to get in the six months since Crispin Rowley had come under the suspicion of the King’s Elite, a small but highly skilled band of covert operatives created to infiltrate and take down the powerful, organised smuggling rings which threatened Britain’s ailing economy.
Rowley was linked to a ring that they believed was funding the loyal last remnants of Napoleon’s army, which was a great cause for concern. This group was intent on stealing the former French leader from his island prison and returning him to power, using funds raised from smuggled brandy on the shores of the very enemy that had brought him down, and at the helm was one man: the faceless, untraceable and powerful man known only as the Boss. As much as ten thousand gallons a month were finding their way into the public’s glasses in the south-east, no duty paid and all profits heading directly back to the French rebels.
But this smuggling ring was not only supplying the capital. Every major city, the length and breadth of the British Isles, was benefitting from cheap spirits to such an extent the bottom had practically dropped out of the legitimate market. Most worrying was the persistent intelligence that hinted the group’s tentacles were firmly embedded among the ranks of the British aristocracy. Men with the power, connections and means to distribute the goods widely. Lord Crispin Rowley was the first and only name from that dangerous list they had.
So far they only had the tenuous word of a French double agent, who up until recently had been completely loyal to Bonaparte. His sudden change of allegiance, combined with his hasty flight from France, did not instil a great deal of confidence in his intelligence. Not when the man had urgently needed asylum and was still too terrified to come out of the hiding place Lord Fennimore had provided him, lest his former comrades hunted him down and assassinated him as they had so many other informants.
As much as none of them trusted that man’s word, there was a great deal about Lord Crispin Rowley which did not ring true and had set the intuitive Lord Fennimore’s alarm bells ringing. Three years ago Rowley had been on the brink of bankruptcy. The government contracts he had enjoyed during the war years to supply grain to the British army were cancelled after Waterloo and with no market for his corn and prices plummeting, as with many of the landed aristocracy, Rowley had suffered gravely and become disillusioned with the crown, blaming his collapse entirely on the government’s lack of perceived loyalty to those who had helped England win the war.
Crispin Rowley wasn’t the only peer of the realm who had turned on the government. Others also felt betrayed and were vocal in their criticism. While Jake had some sympathy for the way those men had been treated, he was also a realist. The world was changing rapidly and to survive the aristocracy had to learn to adapt. Land alone would not sustain a fortune any longer. Not with the mills, mines and colonies proving to be more lucrative for canny investors with ready coin to spend and cheap foreign grain pouring into England’s ports.
Rowley, like so many of his ilk, had appeared to be doomed. His fields remained fallow, his labourers laid off and his creditors lining up at his scuffed and peeling front door. Then, for no discernible reason as far as anyone could tell, his fortunes miraculously turned around eighteen months ago. The huge debts he had racked up had been paid off in impressive lump sums and the formerly penniless peer was now positively lording it up all over the capital.
And he suddenly kept some impressive company. Bankers, shipping magnates, dukes and foreign princes all now enjoyed Rowley’s extensive hospitality and, if their intelligence was to be believed—and Jake had no reason to doubt it—there appeared to be no ulterior motive to the man’s benevolence at all. He didn’t own businesses outright, preferring to dabble in stocks and shares like much of the new money. He was, to all intents and purposes, merely an investor—yet the double agent was adamant Rowley’s fortune was intrinsically linked to the free traders as their main distributor in the south-east of England.
‘So we’ve hit another dead end!’ His friend, and former Cambridge classmate, Seb Leatham slumped back in his chair like a petulant child and shook his head. ‘We keep throwing mud at the man and nothing sticks. Nothing! Surely there must be a chink in the fellow’s armour somewhere?’ He and his men had been watching Rowley’s every movement in the last few months and Seb’s legendary patience was wearing thin.
‘Not that I’ve found.’ Lord Peter Flint sighed from his place across the table. Being the heir to a barony and an enormous fortune, Flint had managed to inveigle his way into Rowley’s vast inner circle and had spent months socialising with him in the hope of being allowed into the inner sanctum. ‘I’m starting to wonder if we’re barking up the wrong tree and he is not the man we are looking for. I’ve plied his closest cronies with drink and asked them all manner of subtle probing questions and nobody knows anything other than the fact he likes to speculate.’
‘He must have secret associates. We have to keep digging. If we could get inside his house, watch the comings and goings, read his correspondence and private papers, we’ll find something.’
Flint glared at his boss. ‘I’ve searched his study. Repeatedly. There’s nothing there.’
‘Which is why we need ears inside that house. A slippery eel like Rowley is hardly going to leave damning evidence lying about in Mayfair when he’s invited guests in. If we can bribe a servant or get someone on the inside during
