You aren’t going to ask what I’m referring to, but you won’t forget I mentioned it, either.
“What about Lady Monoceros?” another older gentleman asked. “She’s running today, is she not? Have you placed a bet on your own horse, Ms. Grambs?”
Avery met the gentleman’s gaze. “Jameson and I are interested in a different kind of wager. We hear that London offers some very intriguing… options.” The spacing in her last sentence spoke volumes.
“Sorry, Heiress.” Jameson brought a champagne glass to his lips. “But my money isn’t on Lady Monoceros.” He waited for one of the men to take his bait and wasn’t disappointed.
“Who did you put your money on, then?”
Jameson flashed a smile. “Devil’s Mercy.” He counted the beats of silence that followed.
“You mean Devil’s Duel?” a third man said abruptly. “He’s had some nice showings.”
Jameson let another beat pass before he lifted his glass once more. “Of course. Devil’s Duel. My mistake.”
And so it went, encounter after encounter, comment after comment, glass after glass. Someone here had to be a member. Someone here would recognize the name Devil’s Mercy and realize that he hadn’t misspoken. Someone would understand what they were really looking for when they talked of rumors and legends, wagers and intrigue and options.
And it’s anyone’s guess, Jameson thought, how that someone will respond.
CHAPTER 15
JAMESON
The hats came off at the after party. In the upper floors of a private club, Jameson and Avery mixed with the younger set—and requested that every photo posted online be accompanied by the same hashtag: TDM.
There was more than one way to make noise, and the more they made, the more alive Jameson felt. Hyper-alert, he missed nothing as he and Avery made their way back through the throng of socialites.
“Did you see the way he kissed her on the stairwell earlier?”
“I heard he overdosed in Morocco a few months ago.”
“You know there are four brothers, right? Do you think they all look like that?”
“If you ask me, she’s not nearly as pretty in person.”
“Can you believe—”
Jameson tried to filter out what people were saying about him, about Avery. He tried to focus on hearing something more, and one comment bubbled up over the rest. “It looks like That Duchess decided to grace us with her presence.”
Jameson followed the speaker’s haughty gaze and saw an elegant woman in her twenties. She was tall and lithe, her skin a deep brown, the cut, length, and fit of her bright yellow dress exquisite. Beneath a petite yellow hat, thick braids of varying sizes adorned her head. Those braids were gathered at the base of her neck and streamed down her back, all the way to her hips. More than one person seemed to watch as the woman closed her fingers around the stem of a champagne glass.
Jameson caught Avery’s hand and traced a symbol onto her palm. It was a game they played late at night, each touch a message to be decoded—in this case, an arrow.
Avery subtly turned her head in the direction he’d indicated—toward That Duchess. By the time they’d wound their way toward her, she’d taken up position with her back to a wall.
“Can I get you anything else, madam? Sir?” The waiter who’d been assigned to Jameson and Avery the moment they’d entered the club, obvious VIPs, appeared once more.
Jameson decided to use that as an opening and looked to his target. “What are you drinking?” he asked That Duchess.
“Prosecco and the tears of my enemies.” Her voice was wry, her British accent crisp, refined, aristocratic. “With a splash of elderflower liqueur.”
“Do you have a lot of enemies?” Avery asked.
The duchess—assuming she really was a duchess—looked out over the club. “You know how it is,” she told Avery. “Some of us exist just a little too loudly for the comfort of those who would prefer we did not exist at all.”
Midnight came and went.
“I have an idea, and you’re not going to like it,” Avery said. She traced letter after letter onto the palm of Jameson’s hand. S, P, L…
He closed his fingers around hers. “You think we should split up.”
“I’m either the bait or I’m not,” Avery told him. “And I won’t be alone.” She nodded her head toward the discreet position Oren had taken up nearby. “Give me ten minutes, and if none of the mysterious Proprietor’s emissaries seek me out, we’ll call it a night.”