“Have you learned more about the stolen profits from The Lady Valiant?“ Carstairs inquired.

“Not yet.”

His mother’s cat, Alexander, rubbed against his leg as Stephen seated himself. A low purr emerged from the feline’s throat. The creature would eat anything, it seemed, and already it was begging for food.

He addressed the viscount. “The last time I saw you, you revealed the tattoo on your arm,” he began. “May I see it again?”

Carstairs frowned but rolled up his sleeve. “Bad times, weren’t they, Whitmore? Hollingford and I were lucky to escape Calcutta with our lives.”

“You were in India with him?” Anant had said nothing of this.

“I was. Damned Chinese officials were inspecting the ships bound for Canton. They thought Hollingford and I were involved in opium shipments, if you can believe it.

“Between you and me…” Carstairs leaned forward, lowering his voice, “I think Hollingford might have been smuggling it. He kept disappearing with that servant of his. Wouldn’t say where they were going or why. With my blasted luck, I got caught and blamed with him.” He coughed, his face deepening in color.

Stephen studied Carstairs’s tattoo, noticing the puckered skin surrounding it. “They branded you.”

“Yes. And I spent a good deal of money buying our lives. The penalty for opium smuggling is execution.”

A prickle of uneasiness rose up on the back of his neck.

“What about you?” Carstairs asked. “How did you receive your marking?”

Stephen didn’t want to admit that he had no memory of the tattoo. Obviously, it had been done to him while he’d been on board the ship. He hedged, saying, “Like you, I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Carstairs grunted. “Unlucky, that’s what.” He poured cups of tea for himself and Stephen and then offered the plate of biscuits. “Could use a bit of luck right now. Wish I knew what happened to the shipment profits.”

Stephen took a biscuit but did not eat it. “Have you received any more threatening notes?”

“Yes. Last week.” Carstairs added milk to his tea and took a sip. “I borrowed money to pay the bastard that first time. But I can’t afford another payment. He wants the money by tomorrow.”

Stephen passed him the plate of biscuits, but Carstairs refused, patting his stomach. “I’m afraid I can’t. Biscuits are too much of a good thing, you know.”

“Who do you think is demanding the money?”

“One of the investors, I presume. Someone who thinks I know where the stolen funds are.”

“And you think Hollingford took the money?”

“I know he did. Who else could it have been? We both know how much he lost at the gaming tables. The man was desperate. He would have done anything to redeem his debts.”