Wedded Deceit

Wedded Deceit The Sedleys, Book One Antonia Falk Copyright © 2023 by Antonia Falk ISBN: 978-1-961519-00-8 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [email protected]. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, or products is intended or should be inferred. Cover art by B4JAY First Edition: June 2023 Visit the author’s website at www.antoniafalkwrites.com. F or my husband. Table of Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three About the Author Also by Antonia Falk Chapter One London, 1870 It felt damn strange, dressing like a toff. Rickard looked over his shoulder. The exasperated tailor scrawled in his order book, grimacing at the pages. He would scoff at the man, except for the fact that he agreed with him. Thomas Rickard had no business ordering evening dress from a storied Saville Row setup. Fiddling with the open cuffs of the half-finished shirt pinned about him, he turned back to the window, staring out at the city he hated, conveniently located in the country he hated. He spotted Bartle and Collins on the street below, watching him from in front of a nearby shop. He shook his head and they nodded in response, then melted back into the churning crowd of people. A mass of humanity shifting about, making deliveries, purchasing necessities, picking pockets. Just London. A living, breathing, shitting city. He didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t his home, despite what his business partner seemed to think. “And when would you like that delivered? And to… where again, sir?” The tailor sounded dubious. Yes, where indeed? He glared at his faint reflection in the windowpane. A nobody from nowhere, that’s all he’d ever been. Rickard understood the man’s incredulity all too well. Just a few months ago he’d have never imagined being back here. But then that bastard Knipps had adulterated an entire shipment to the point that no one would purchase it, the product was so corrupted. And of course, after his ploy to skim some extra profit backfired, the bounder had absconded. So now Rickard was here, trying to rebuild trust with their clientele. And track down Knipps, that crooked drug broker. Teach him a thing or two about crossing Yusef Ghali. At least, those were the instructions Yusef had given him. Yusef had dreamt up the business, a brilliant idea to give them a leg up. Rickard had had no qualms at first. After all, Yusef’s cunning had brought gold to both their pockets, year after year. But then he’d decided this particular task was the ideal job for his English–born and bred partner Rickard. That had been the way of things for as long as he’d known the man—Yusef had ideas, and Rickard executed them. Even so, Rickard didn’t know why he’d agreed to this job. Especially since the Oxford-educated Ghali spoke the Queen’s English better than he did. But he had agreed. Even though his soul cried out against it, what choice did he have? Opium speculation had given him a job, and with it a purpose. He had nothing besides it. And so, if he had to be here, he might as well settle his personal business on the side. Two birds, one stone and all that. He supposed that was the real reason he’d given his assent. Unfinished business. Perhaps finishing it might bring him some peace, he’d thought. But so far, from the moment he’d stepped off the ship, a simmering rage had ignited deep within himself, shocking him with its intensity. For so long he had sleepwalked through life, thinking himself impassive, numb to his past. Sixteen years, and he thought he had gotten the better of it. No. He wasn’t numb, after all. It consumed him. He woke every night at three, unable to settle, the burning anger tearing through his body. Through sheer force of will he fought it back every morning, caging it so he might manage his business during the day. But it always returned. It was time to be done with it. “Sir?” the tailor inquired again, his voice bristling with impatience. “Tomorrow. The sooner, the better. I’ll need it by the evening.” “Tomorrow, sir? I’m afraid I misheard you.” The tailor’s face hardened at the insulting deadline. A nobody from nowhere, demanding impossibilities? “Tomorrow,” Rickard muttered, shrugging out of the shirt and depositing it in the tailor’s arms atop the rest of the garments he’d ordered. The shop had politely demurred his business yesterday in that oblique, very British way, using such polite words to say such nasty things. Luckily for Rickard, though, the promise of ready money had empowered them to discover a near-finished set of evening wear today. It turned out that when the nobility neglected to pay their bills, merchants were only too happy to shunt their unclaimed goods off on nobodies. Of course. That was the way of things here. Everyone was to make do with whatever the aristocracy passed over. A lick of fury rose in his chest. His own clothes hung from a wooden valet across the room. He strode over to procure a card from the pocket of his morning coat, grabbing his shirt with his other hand. The tailor flushed in anger. “But, sir, this establishment is not accustomed to—” “You heard me.” Rickard had contained his irritation until now, but the edge in his voice shredded any veil of civility left hanging over the transaction. He tossed the card