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trained the locals to leave the room’s best spot for him.
    He raised his tankard, took a deep draft and smacked his lips with satisfaction. The ale was good. Even better was this lark he’d set up over the last year since leaving the late Lord Neville Fairbrother’s employment. Sodding pity that the man had shot himself. Sad waste of a fine criminal mind.
    Greengrass knew that most people saw him as hulking muscle, but he possessed a fine criminal mind too. And he wasn’t a cove to let an opportunity pass. When he’d realized that things in Little Derrick had gone awry, he didn’t hang around to share his master’s fate. He’d kept his eye on the main chance and survived.
    He’d more than survived; he’d thrived.
    Before abandoning Lord Neville, he’d taken what cash he could find and a few trinkets. Best of all, he’d nicked his lordship’s detailed record of debauchery. Since then, that diary had bought Greengrass’s mighty fine life. Not to mention his fancy clothes.
    Even poor women paid to keep their sins secret. Luckily for Greengrass, Lord Neville had indulged his lusts up and down the country. Greengrass had plenty of bumpkins to hit for a shilling here and there, in return for suppressing the record of their ruin.
    The sluts whose fall had resulted in pregnancy were no use to him. Their disgrace was clear for the world to see. But thanks to Lord Neville’s yen for silly virgins, the diary listed hordes of girls desperate to keep a good name in small, gossipy communities. They’d give up their last penny to escape public shame. After all, if their families disowned them as wanton trollops, the likeliest outcome was a hard life on thestreets. Something well worth digging into the housekeeping money to avoid.
    Greengrass still marveled at the diary’s salacious thoroughness. His lordship couldn’t bear to hold back any detail of his illicit encounters, and the pages were well-thumbed with use. A sane man would have hesitated to keep such a complete record of his sins, but clearly Lord Neville enjoyed reliving each affair over and over again.
    Still, Greengrass had good reason to be grateful to Neville Fairbrother for his nitpicking record keeping, as though the chits he seduced formed part of his famous collection of pretty baubles. Lord Neville could never get enough women to slake his appetite. The only pity was that he’d limited his depredations to the lower classes. It made sense—anyone further up the social scale wouldn’t believe that Lord Neville was the Marquess of Leath. They had access to newspapers and London gossip that would expose the lie before his lordship got into their drawers.
    Poor and stupid, that was how his late lordship had liked them. And poor and stupid in large numbers kept Greengrass in ready cash and easy bedmates.
    Aye, it had been a bonny twelve months or so. A false name and constant traveling kept him out of the magistrates’ hands—there was a warrant out for him, thanks to his crimes last year in Little Derrick. And it was grand how eager a lass became when disgrace was the alternative. In a lifetime of fiddles, this blackmail fiddle was the best.
    The landlord thumped a brimming plate of roast beef and gravy on the table. Fast as a striking cobra, Greengrass’s massive hand shot out to crush the man’s wrist. “I’ll have a bit more civility, my fine fellow,” he said cheerfully, closing his grip until the bones ground together.
    Hatred flared in the man’s eyes. But stronger than hatredwas fear. Pale with pain, the man bobbed his head. “Your pardon, Mr. Smith.” He struggled to smile. “Enjoy your dinner. And of course, it’s on the house.”
    “Better,” Greengrass grunted, releasing him and picking up his knife and spoon.
    Aye, being cock of the walk was fine and dandy.
    And when he’d tired of catching tasty little sprats in his net, he had a bloody great mackerel of a marquess ready to take his bait.

Chapter Four

     
    L ord Leath’s