Destroy him.

“Good to see you, old friend.” He strode up and shook Norwood’s hand.

The charlatan grinned. “Surprised to see you here today. Word is out that yesterday you took a wife.”

Leo decided not to mention that he had married Anne, yet as to the taking of her ... that would happen later. “A husband I may be, but the ’Change is my mistress, and I can never stray.” He glanced toward the door of the coffee house Norwood had just exited. “You and I haven’t spoken in far too long. Join me inside?”

Though he maintained his grin, Norwood’s eyes were chary. If he knew what Leo had planned, he had good cause for concern. But no one save another Hellraiser or the Devil himself could know what Leo intended.

“I have good intelligence on some new investment prospects.” This was Leo’s bait, for he was renowned, some might say notorious, for his faultless ability to select the best ventures. He’d been strong in business before gaining his gift of precognition. Now, he was unstoppable.

Wariness left Norwood’s gaze, replaced by eager greed. “No greater pleasure than to renew our friendship.”

They ducked into the coffee house and removed their tricorn hats. Inside, men of business hunched at battered wooden tables and crowded into settles. Brokers, jobbers, men seeking capital for their schemes, and those, like Leo, keen to invest in the next profitable ventures. The close air within the shop was thick with the smell of coffee and the sounds of speculation. London was an old city, a city built upon the detritus of centuries rotting into the earth. Yet here, in this coffee house, in the narrow, crowded alleys of the Exchange, men lived in the future. They dwelt in the possibility of what could be, what might be, and in that gauze-covered world of chance, they staked their fortunes.

Leo had an advantage no one else possessed. And that made him one of the most feared and respected men in the Exchange. Him. A saddler’s son, who’d never drunk tea from fresh, unboiled leaves until he was fifteen years old.

He and Norwood managed to find a table, pushing aside the newspapers stacked there. As they sat, the proprietor flung two steaming mugs of coffee toward them and quickly trundled off.

“Have you change for a bob?” Leo asked Norwood. He held up a shilling.

“Only a tanner and thruppence.”

“That shall suffice.”

“Are you sure?” Norwood raised a brow, believing that the benefit would be all to him.

“Truly, it’s satisfactory.”

With a shrug, Norwood slid his coins across the table and accepted Leo’s shilling. The moment Leo touched the coins, he smiled, for though he had lost three pennies in the exchange, he now gained something far more valuable.

To Norwood, and to all the men in the room, Leo sat at a table within the same coffee house. He did not rise up from his seat. He barely even moved, except to curl his fingers around the coins. Yet with just the brush of his fingers over the money’s metallic surface, Leo’s mind became a spyglass. Time folded in on itself, collapsing inward. Dizzying. The first few times Leo attempted this, he’d found the unexpected sensation unpleasant, like drinking too much whiskey too quickly. Now, he’d learned not only to anticipate the feeling, but to welcome it, for it meant that soon the future would be his.

Leo felt the rough wooden table beneath his fingertips, heard the voices of men around him, yet his eyes beheld not the coffee house but a distant port. Palm trees and golden-skinned people in colorful wraps. Tall-masted ships bobbing at anchor. Buildings both Oriental and European—no, not just European, but the tall, narrow facades of Dutch structures, and battlements. He knew this place, never having been there, but by reputation: Batavia, in the East Indies.

The lurid light spilling over the city’s walls came not from the setting sun, but a ship burning in the harbor. Sailors tried to douse the flames. Their water buckets failed to stem the fire—it spread like a pestilence over the hull, up the masts, engulfing the sails. The sailors abandoned their task. They shoved themselves into jolly boats and dove overboard, and people on the shore could only watch as the ship became a black, shuddering skeleton, its expensive cargo turning to ash upon the water. The crew had escaped, but the pepper they shipped did not.

A disaster.

“Bailey?”

Norwood’s voice broke the scene. Leo quickly pocketed the coins and the vision of distant calamity faded. He was back in a London coffee house, amidst news sheets and talk of business, with Norwood gazing curiously at him across the table. A phantom scent of burning wood and pepper pods remained in Leo’s memory.

“Are you well, Bailey?”

“Forgive me. My mind ... went somewhere else for a moment.”

A knowing grin spread across Norwood’s face. “Back to your new bride, I imagine.”

Leo manufactured a smile. His ability to foresee financial disaster had been his particular gift from the Devil, a gift that remained a secret between Leo and the other Hellraisers. Anne would never learn of it—for many reasons.

“Are you at the ’Change today in search of new ventures?” he asked.

“There are several, all clamoring for my coin,” answered Norwood, “and the matter remains only to discern which would be the wisest investment.”

“I’ve more than a little intelligence in such matters. Tell me which have commandeered your attention.”

Norwood raised a brow. “To what end? That you might seize an opportunity and leave me out in the cold?”

Leo placed a hand on his chest. “Injurious words. My offer was extended in friendship, that I might advise you.” He glanced down at the heavy ruby he wore on his right ring finger. “And I’ve no need to cut you out of the profits, not when my own are so abundant. There is plenty to share.”

If Norwood understood that Leo threw his own crime back at him, he made no sign. Slowly, he nodded. “Everyone has said that lately your investments never fail.”

Leo always possessed good sense, but with the Devil’s gift, he had become infallible. The gold in his coffers and the country estate he had purchased for his mother’s use testified to this.

“Unburden yourself,” he urged Norwood. “Make use of my council.”

After taking a sip of his coffee, the other man proceeded. “Three ventures have applied to me for investment funds. A housing development here in London, sugar from Barbados, or a pepper shipment from Batavia.” He spread his hands. “They have all presented themselves in the best possible light, and I have done as much research into each business as feasible, yet I cannot decide which shall be the recipient of my capital. For I can invest in only one.”

Leo kept his outward appearance calm. He crafted his expression into one of contemplation. Within, however, he felt the quick, exhilarating anticipation of a predator lying in wait. He had merely to let his prey wander farther into the kill zone, and the deed would be accomplished, his claws bright with blood.

“All three have their merits, their potential.”

“But one must be better than the others, surely?”

How long could Leo toy with him? A pleasure to draw it out, knowing that the blow would come, or strike quickly, and then watch the carnage? Both appealed.

“Housing developments are certainly intriguing,” he said. “Every day, more and more people come to London, looking for work beyond tenant farming. They all need places to live.”

“So, that should be my investment?”

Leo feigned deliberation. Finally, he said, “Choose the pepper from Batavia. The appetite for spice goes unabated, and it always finds a buyer. With the desire for French cooking growing, especially amongst the swelling ranks of the bourgeoisie, such goods can only increase in value.”

“Are you certain?” Norwood’s brow pleated.

“A better investment cannot be found.”

For a moment, Norwood simply stared at Leo, as if trying to make sense of a labyrinth. He released a breath. “You are ... generous.”

“This surprises you.”

“No. Well ... aye. You’ve something of a reputation.”

“The Demon of the Exchange.” Leo laughed at Norwood’s pained expression. “I know every name I’m called.” Including upstart, peasant, lowborn bastard. Leo had once overheard Norwood call him that. The lowborn bastard won’t know the difference in the balance sheets. A simple matter, and the profits are ours.

Abruptly, Norwood pushed back from the table and stood. He held out his hand. “My thanks to you, Bailey. You’ve done me a kindness.”

“Nothing kind about it.” Leo resisted the impulse to crush Norwood’s hand in his own, and merely shook it instead. “I have a very good feeling about your investment.”

“I wish you great happiness in your marriage.” With that, Norwood bowed before hurrying out of the coffee house.

Leo sat alone, with two cups of coffee growing cold, yet within, he was a volcano of hot, vicious joy. He took from his pocket Norwood’s coins, the thruppence and tanner, and set them on the table.

Seeing the coins, the proprietor quickly walked over and hefted a steaming pot. “More coffee, sir?”

“Consider that a gratuity.”

“All of it?”

“I’ve no use for the coin.” Not anymore. It had given him precisely what he needed, for his gift of prescience required him to touch an article of money belonging to an individual, and from that, he would have a vision of their future financial disasters. Seldom did he not encounter a disaster, for they marked everyone’s lives, and he’d gained most of his fortune since by counterinvesting. On the rare occasion when he saw no calamity, he knew the venture to be solid. Yet in the time that he’d gained this gift, he’d been witness to scores, perhaps hundreds, of catastrophes. Difficult now not to see disaster everywhere, lurking around corners and in the shadows of crumbling bridges.