The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(54)

Simon Johnstone-Jameson’s poker face was immaculate. Ian had said that his family didn’t know about his illegitimate son. Jameson couldn’t tell, looking at Branford now, if that was true.

“Your presence has been requested.” Rohan appeared above them.

Branford went to stand, and Zella cocked her head to the side. “Not you,” she told Branford. Jameson’s gut said that was a guess—but hopefully, a good one.

Rohan’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and a moment later, the rogue’s smile was back, split lip be damned. “Not just you, Branford. The Proprietor will see all four of you in his office.”





CHAPTER 45





JAMESON


The office in question wasn’t grand. It wasn’t large. It was empty but for a desk. On the desk, there was a book—bigger than either of the others that Jameson had seen that night, its cover made of shining metal.

Jameson didn’t need to ask what that book was. He knew just from the way that Zella looked at it. Just from the way that Branford did.

“Ms. Grambs,” the Proprietor said. “If you wouldn’t mind joining Rohan in the hall?”

Jameson didn’t like that idea, but he didn’t object, either. Once the door closed behind Avery and Rohan, the Proprietor turned his attention to the three who remained. “You know why you’re here.”

Jameson was struck by how ordinary the man’s voice was, how normal he looked up close. If you passed him on the street, you wouldn’t look twice.

Jameson couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t passed him on the street at some point.

“I wouldn’t dare to assume,” Zella said demurely.

“We both know that’s not true, my dear.” The Proprietor leaned forward, his elbows on the desk that separated him from the three of them. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t dare much, much more.” He shifted his weight again, slightly back. “Only one person,” he commented softly, “has ever managed to break into the Mercy.”

Jameson turned toward Zella and raised both eyebrows.

The duchess gave an elegant little shrug. “Glass ceilings and all that,” she told Jameson.

“Your place in the Game is assured, Your Grace.” The Proprietor reached into a desk drawer and withdrew an envelope, much like the one that had held Avery’s initial invitation to the Mercy. He held it out to Zella, who took it, then the Proprietor’s hand returned to the drawer. “While you’re at it,” he told her, “I would be most obliged if you’d take Avery’s to her.”

Avery this time, Jameson thought. Not Ms. Grambs.

Zella closed her fingers around both envelopes and made her way to the door. “Bonne chance, gentlemen.”

And then there were two.

“Luck.” The Proprietor snorted. “If you’re going to compete against that one, you’ll need it.”

The word compete had Jameson’s pulse quickening. This was it.

Branford, however, latched on to a different word. “If,” he repeated.

“Your places in the Game, I’m afraid, are not assured,” the Proprietor said. “Simon, you’re well aware of the cost to join the Mercy.” The use of Branford’s given name seemed deliberate, a reminder that here, his title did not matter. Here, he wasn’t the one with power. “What more might you be willing to pay in exchange for an invitation to the Game?”

Branford’s jaw tightened—slightly, but it was there. “Another levy.” That wasn’t a question or an offer. That was the Viscount Branford cutting to the chase.

The Proprietor’s smile didn’t look like any that Jameson had ever seen. “It need not concern yourself this time,” he said. “But you must, as I’m sure you realize, make it worth my while.” The Proprietor drummed his fingers lightly over the top of the desk, a sign, Jameson thought, that he was enjoying this. “And it must be something you would rather not come out. After all, these things are always more interesting when at least a few players have ‘skin in the game,’ as the Americans like to say.”

The Proprietor turned his head toward Jameson. “And that, my boy, leads us to you. There’s a bit of a resemblance to your brother, don’t you think, Simon?”

Branford didn’t so much as flick his eyes toward Jameson. “In rashness, if nothing else.”

Jameson chose not to take that personally. All his focus remained on the Proprietor.

“You’re bold, young man.” The Proprietor stood and caught his cane between his thumb and forefinger and swung it lightly back and forth, like a metronome or a needle on a scale. “If I’d encountered you when you were younger, if your last name wasn’t Hawthorne…,” the Proprietor told Jameson, “you could have had an interesting future at the Mercy indeed.”

Jameson thought about the young boy who tended the boats, about the bartender, the house fighters, the dealers. About Rohan.

“But here you are,” the Proprietor mused. “Not a member of the Mercy and not in my employ.” He nodded toward the desk. “Do you know what this book is?”

“Am I supposed to?” Jameson replied, the barest hint of challenge in his tone.

“Oh, most assuredly not.” There was something dark and serpentine buried in the Proprietor’s tone as he studied Jameson’s face. And then he smiled. “Your grandfather trained you well, Mr. Hawthorne. Your face gives away very little.”