The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(53)

Jameson flipped to more recent bets. “Are there any rules,” he asked the bartender, “on what one may or may not wager?”

“This room is dedicated to longer-term outcomes, three months or more. If you’re looking to place a bet on the shorter term, you’ll require the book next door. Beyond that, you may wager on anything for which you have a taker, with the understanding that all wagers will be enforced.”

Jameson looked up. Compared to the ring, attendance in this room was sparse, but every man—and the one woman—present was paying attention to his exchange with the bartender, some doing less to hide their interest than others.

One man, who looked to be in his thirties, stood and crossed the room. “I’d wager ten thousand that this lad gets himself killed before he’s thirty. Any takers?”

“If you exclude illness and require the death be the result of his own actions?” Another man stood. “I’m in.”

Jameson ignored them. He caught Avery’s eyes, a silent warning for her to do the same. As the bet was written into the book and signed, Jameson let his gaze come to rest on the bartender’s ring. That and a mirror behind the shelves of liquor were the most likely points from which the Proprietor could observe.

What kind of bet will get me an invite to the Game? Jameson thought back to Zella’s advice. He needed to be surprising, tempting, threatening—or a combination of the three.

At that exact moment, Rohan stepped through the black curtains. His face wasn’t quite as battered as Jameson’s, and he wore it better. He walked like his ribs weren’t smarting at all.

It killed you, Jameson thought, with a slight twist of his lips, to stay down.

“Were I a member,” Rohan said, his words carrying, though his voice wasn’t loud, “I’d be wagering on the likelihood that Ms. Grambs breaks up with him within the year.” He met Jameson’s gaze. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Jameson replied.

“Lots taken,” Avery told Rohan, her eyes narrowing.

Jameson smiled like his bruised jaw had never felt better. “I’ll wager fifty thousand pounds that the Proprietor chooses someone other than his Factotum as his heir.”

Sometimes, Jameson felt like he knew things without knowing how. The glint in Rohan’s eyes told him he’d guessed correctly: Rohan hadn’t yet been named heir.

He was still being tested.

“I’ll take that bet,” the man who’d wagered that Jameson was going to get himself killed said. “Assuming you’re good for it.”

“I am,” Jameson replied, and then he looked back at the bartender’s ring, back at the mirror. Surprising. Tempting. Threatening. “And I’ll offer up another fifty thousand pounds that says the Proprietor is already dying. I’d give him… let’s say… two years?”

The look in Rohan’s eyes now made Jameson feel like the two of them were back in the ring, like Rohan was standing over him, saying, Stay down. A threat and a warning—and something more.

“No one is going to take that bet,” the bartender told Jameson. “Are you done here?”

Jameson could feel the clock ticking onward, feel the night slipping away from him. I’m not done. I can’t be done.

He had to do something. He swallowed. “Short-term bets are kept next door?”





CHAPTER 44





JAMESON


This time, Jameson went alone. Chiffon canopies lined the walls. From beneath one of them, a woman stepped out. Like the dealers and the bartender, she was dressed in historical garb.

“You’re hurt,” the woman noted, the cadence of her voice almost lyrical. “I can help with that.”

Jameson remembered what Rohan had said about having masseurs on staff. “I don’t mind hurting. I was told you had a book? Short-term bets.”

“And what will you be betting on?” the woman asked.

Surprising, tempting, threatening. Jameson wracked his mind for the right play for this exact moment, and his brain kept circling back to the same place.

To the same option.

Prague. Jameson Winchester Hawthorne thought back to that night—to what he’d heard, what he knew, what he wasn’t supposed to know. And then he made a choice. Not the obvious one, not even a good one.

Not without risk.

But what was more tempting than knowledge—or more surprising than a bet that, from the Proprietor’s perspective, he would have no reason, none at all, to make?

No fear. No holding back. “I’d like to wager on what’s getting ready to happen to the price of wheat.”





A single Hail Mary pass could be a sign of desperation. A series of them was strategy.

Jameson ended the night at the tables. This time, he didn’t bother himself about winning too much or playing at any one game for too long. His blood was buzzing in his veins. His body was shot, but his mind was going at the speed of light, and he wasn’t about to let anything slow him down.

When Branford and Zella sat down for a game of whist, Jameson lost no time taking one of the seats to play against them. Avery took the remaining chair at the table.

“Looks like I have a teammate.” Jameson met her eyes. Branford and Zella didn’t know what they were in for. “I’d offer to deal,” Jameson continued, “but I’d hate to upset the control freaks among us.” He handed the deck to Branford. “Uncle?”