“I have what I need, Father.” Her eyes never left Leo’s.

The baron shifted from foot to foot. Leo waited. When someone wanted something, all one had to do was wait.

“Bailey, I wondered, that is, I was thinking, if you had a spare moment. We might have a chat.” Wansford’s gaze slid to his daughter. “Privately.”

“Anything you say to me can be said in front of Anne.”

Her father reddened. “I rather think the subject indelicate for ladies.”

Before Leo could insist on Wansford’s candor, Anne spoke. “I’m certain I can find something that needs mending or perhaps a fatuous romantic novel to read.” She glided to the door, then curtsied as she took her leave.

Leo’s humor darkened. He had nearly run through the streets of London to get home to her, but the pleasure of her company had to be delayed because of her damned father.

The baron turned to him and opened his mouth to speak.

“In my study,” Leo clipped. At least he kept good brandy there.

Wansford followed him down the corridor to the study. There, Leo poured them both drinks and settled behind his desk. He sipped at his brandy. The baron bolted down his own liquor and took a seat.

Leo felt a shifting within, his other self coming to the fore. It roused, its appetite fathomless, even here in his own home. Without Anne to tame that creature, he became ravenous, merciless.

After fidgeting with his knuckles, Wansford finally spoke. “You do very well for yourself, don’t you, Bailey?”

“We had this discussion already. When I was negotiating for the hand of your daughter.” Though negotiate was not quite the word for it, since she brought no wealth to the marriage. No material wealth. Little had he known that the true value of Anne came not from her breeding and connections, but from the woman herself.

The more Leo came to know her, the less he respected her father. What kind of man simply sold his daughter to whatever deep pocket would have her? No woman deserved that fate, especially not Anne.

Wansford looked abashed. “We never spoke of specifics.”

“I’ve no intention of giving you specifics. My coffers are my concern. No one else’s.”

“They say that you have a rare gift.”

Leo frowned. Surely Wansford wasn’t talking of Leo’s gift of prophecy. No one but the other Hellraisers knew of it.

“A gift with ... investing.” The baron spoke the word as if it held a faintly rancid taste, and for men like him, it did. Wealth came from the land. Only commoners earned their fortunes through trade.

Leo shrugged. “I know my way around Exchange Alley.”

“The Demon of the Exchange.”

“The demon who is married to your daughter.” Leo leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk. “There are only a finite number of hours in the day, and I make good use of them. So speak, Wansford. Tell me what you want.”

The baron eyed his glass, as though wishing it held more. Leo made no move to refill it.

“I would like to make an ... investment.”

“In trade?” Leo raised a brow.

Wansford nodded, uncomfortable. “The estate is failing. My sons stand to inherit nothing but arrears upon my death. For all that I’m not a very clever fellow, I know I ought to do better by them.”

Not a word about Anne. But then, she was now Leo’s problem.

“Now you seek to supplement your finances with a bit of plebian commerce.”

Another nod from Wansford.

“You came to me, because ...” Leo knew the answer, but he enjoyed hearing it from the baron’s mouth.

“No one knows the Exchange like you do,” answered Wansford. “No one has profited as you have.”

“I’m to be your intermediary.” Leo contemplated this. He never acted on anyone’s behalf. All his investments had been for himself alone. He was no one’s broker.

By using a go-between, Wansford wouldn’t have to sully his hands through the Exchange.

“I already have the scheme picked out. An iron mine in Gloucestershire. Someone told me that it cannot fail.”

“Everything fails,” said Leo.

“Nothing in which you invest ever does.”

True enough. But Leo had an advantage no one else possessed. “Tell me why I should help you.”

Wansford had not been expecting this. He sat with a look of dumbstruck bafflement, having fully anticipated Leo’s eagerness to be of assistance. The man probably thought Leo felt indebted to him. In a way, Leo was, for he had been given Anne. Yet having gained his prize, he looked with disgust upon the man who had surrendered her so easily.

“It is the Christian—”

Leo held up a hand. “No homilies. They fall on deaf ears.”

The baron stared down at his feet. Leo had seen the paste buckles adorning his shoes, and knew Wansford looked at them now, chipped and dull.

“You have no reason to,” he said at last. “Only consider.” He looked up, and Leo saw age and weariness creasing the corners of his eyes, a life of genteel poverty slowly, slowly grinding him down. “Though I did little to help Anne, I am her father. She came from me. I cannot claim any of her virtues as my creation, yet there is a part of me that exists in her, however small. That must have some value.”

For a long time, Leo studied the baron. Wansford shifted and looked away, uncomfortable.

“For Anne’s sake,” Leo finally said. “She would take it very hard if her father went to the Marshalsea.”

Wansford became all effusion. “Thank you, Bailey. My eternal thanks.”

Leo waved off this rhapsody. “I need one thing from you.”

“Anything.”

“A coin.”

The baron furrowed his brow. “Coin?”

“A ha’penny, a farthing. Anything.” Usually, Leo obtained coins with more finesse, but he hadn’t the humor for that today. He simply needed to see Wansford’s financial future and be on with his business.

“I ... I have nothing.” The baron patted his pockets. “Buy everything on credit.”

Of course he did. Aristos lived on credit. If they could get credit for the air they breathed, they would, but fortunately, air happened to be free.

“The next time you see me,” said Leo, “bring me a coin.”

“What denomination?”

“It doesn’t bloody matter.”

Wansford appeared as if he was about to ask why Leo wanted a coin, but thought better of it. “Of course.”

“In the interim, I’ll do some investigating of this iron mine. See how it’s shaping up.” Leo did have abilities beyond his magic.

“Whatever guidance you can provide will be most appreciated.” The baron started to rise.

“One thing, Wansford. What do you intend to invest?”

The baron sank back down to his chair. “Pardon?”

“You cannot simply amble toward a venture and say, ‘I want to invest in you,’ and provide no funding. There has to be actual money involved, or some other form of capital. And offering your word as a gentleman won’t suffice.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. Ah.”

Silence descended.

“Supposing,” began Wansford, “supposing you lent me the funds.”

“On what security?”

“You know I shall pay you back. If all your investments succeed, then the money is as good as yours.”

Leo shook his head. “Unsound, to hold faith to something that doesn’t yet exist.”

The baron compressed his lips into a line. “You leave me little choice. I do have something to use as collateral.” He stared at Leo. “My estate.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Leo gazed at his father-in-law. The Wansford baronial estate did not amount to much—a leaky-roofed manor with poor yield on its crops—yet the significance of the place could not be discounted. Land was everything. Ancestral land held even more symbolic value. An aristocrat could not exist without his estate. He became as empty and fragile as a soap bubble.

For Wansford to offer up his estate to Leo ... The man had to be desperate. And Leo was just bastard enough to exploit his desperation.

He held out his hand. The baron stared at it as though it were a viper poised to strike.