In those moments, there was no hiding where he came from. Though Gabriel had made a kingdom of St. Giles, it was the Black Country where he’d been born and bred, and where he’d spent the first years of his life. He’d only come to London as a scrappy orphan lad of twelve, eking out a place for himself in the Rookery with his wits—and with his fists.

Lord Compton paced the library carpet in front of Gabriel, his brows pulled into a furious scowl. He was a well-favored man in his middle fifties, with graying brown hair, a full graying beard, and a slightly thickened, but still athletic, figure that spoke of good wine, aristocratic sport, and a life of unutterable privilege. Like Gabriel, Compton was clad in elegant evening wear, though his suit of clothes had likely been made in Savile Row rather than by a struggling back-slum tailor.

“Easy, you call it?” Compton echoed in dismay. “To welcome you into my home? To permit you to associate with my friends? My family?”

Gabriel was mildly entertained by the viscount’s distress. The man was usually unflappable—a model politician, with a thoughtful tone and a somber manner. “Come now, your lordship. It isn’t as though I’m asking to marry your daughter.”

Compton turned on Gabriel in the circle of light cast from the oil lamp on the desk. His face was transformed by fatherly outrage. “You go too far, Royce.”

“Not far enough, it appears, if you think you have the choice of refusing me.”

Compton snorted. “And have you unleash your band of ruffians on me?”

The distant strings of an orchestra drifted from the ballroom above. It was mingled with the muted murmur of voices, and the thump of footsteps as late-coming guests continued to arrive. A polonaise had been playing when Gabriel had first entered the library, followed by a country dance. Another dance was starting now. A spirited galop, which (by the sound of the stomping upstairs) had been joined by a crushing number of couples.

Compton’s ball was the first truly tonish party of the social season. The grandest people in London were reputed to be in attendance—illustrious lords, wealthy ladies, and powerful politicians. Compton and his wife had already welcomed most of them when Gabriel had turned up, unannounced and uninvited.

For a few coins, an obliging footman had shown him to Compton’s library. The viscount had marched in moments later to find Gabriel seated behind his desk, dressed for the evening’s entertainment, and possessing all the deceptive patience of a hungry wolf waiting to strike.

Watching the viscount now, Gabriel’s mouth curved in a lazy smile. “If you don’t do as I ask, my ruffians will be the least of your troubles.”