No. Gabriel’s plans didn’t involve workhouses. He had other ideas. A vision for honest, aboveboard reforms to benefit the people of the Rookery and, ultimately, himself.

“I’m not interested in charity,” he said.

“Call it a business contract, then,” Compton responded.

“A business contract with you?” Gabriel’s tone was silky with disdain. “I’d sooner crawl into bed with a scorpion.”

Compton’s face went rigid. He set down his pen.

“Put away your money,” Gabriel told him. “All I require from you this evening are introductions to my betters.” He gestured for Compton to precede him to the door. “If you would be so obliging.”

Compton thrust his checkbook back into the desk drawer. He slammed the drawer shut. “Haven’t the good people of this city already done enough to clean up St. Giles? And succeeded, too. The slum is all but eradicated.”

It was a common misconception among the well-to-do. St. Giles was located in the heart of fashionable London, surrounded on all sides by the wealthiest communities. Many years prior, part of the slum had been cleared away to make room for the construction of New Oxford Street. But the wretches who had formerly occupied those long-removed lodging houses, gin shops, and prostitutes’ hovels hadn’t miraculously vanished into thin air. They had merely been pressed back into an even smaller area, the squalor of their living conditions now hidden from greater public view.

“Just because you can’t see us anymore, doesn’t mean we ceased existing,” Gabriel said. “The people of the Rookery are still there—only now they’re crowded one hundred to a cellar.”

Disgust crossed Compton’s face. “Such filth and depravity. I curse the day Tobias Wingard ever found his way there.”

“But he did find his way there,” Gabriel said. “And straight into my betting shop. Quite an impressive stack of papers he had with him, too.”

Compton flinched at the reminder. “Very well,” he said, coming forward. “I shall do what I can for you.” He stopped in front of Gabriel. “But I warn you, Royce. If you at any time expose me to even a hint of impropriety—”

“You’re warning me?” Gabriel took a step toward the viscount, bringing them face-to-face.

This time Compton held his ground. “Let it be mutual destruction, then.”

Gabriel met the viscount’s threat with a fleeting smile. “Don’t flatter yourself. You might destroy my business, but you could never destroy me. Street rats always survive, one way or another. While fine lords like you—” He gave a humorless chuckle. “There won’t be much welcome for Lord Solomon in Whitehall, will there, not once proven accusations of fraud are hung round his neck.”

The color drained from Compton’s face. “How dare you mention such despicable slander in my home, where my wife, or one of my servants might—”