“Lust?” Jameson guessed.
“Sloth,” Rohan replied with a smirk. “We keep several masseurs on staff, if relaxation is what you’re after.”
Jameson doubted most members of this club came here to relax.
“Gluttony, next.” Rohan led them to the next archway. “You’ll find our chefs second to none. All beverages are, of course, top-shelf and complimentary.”
Where angels fear to tread, have your fun instead. The warning came back to Jameson. But be warned: The house always wins.
Next, archway number three. Rohan pulled a velour curtain barely back. Inside, there was a spiraling staircase, the same shade of gold as the atrium’s granite floor.
“Lust.” Rohan let the curtain drop. “There are private chambers upstairs. What members use those chambers for”—he gave Jameson a moment to imagine—“is up to them.” Rohan’s eyes hardened. “But lay a hand on anyone who does not want a hand there or who is too inebriated to consent, and I cannot guarantee that you will still have a hand in the morning.”
That just left two archways. As they approached the first, Jameson realized that its curtain was much heavier than the others. The moment Rohan pulled it back, they were hit by the roar of a crowd. Past the archway, Jameson could see what looked to be two dozen people, and beyond the crowd—a boxing ring.
“Some of our members like to fight,” Rohan stated, lingering for just a moment on that word. “Some like to place bets on the fights. I would caution you against the former, at least as far as facing off against our house fighters is concerned. Those who fight for the Mercy never pull their punches. Blood is shed. Bones are broken.” Rohan’s lips pulled back from his teeth into something like a smile. “Caution must be exercised. If you end up in a disagreement with another player at the tables, however, you’re welcome to take the disagreement to the ring.”
“Wrath?” Jameson guessed with an arch of his brow.
“Wrath. Envy. Pride.” Rohan dropped the curtain. “People end up in the ring for all kinds of reasons.” Something about the way Rohan said that made Jameson think that the Factotum had spent time in the ring himself. “As you explore the Mercy, note that bets may be placed in four of the five areas. Members bet on fights and on the tables, of course, but the first two rooms I showed you each have a book, and those books hold more unconventional wagers. Any wager written into one of those books and signed for is binding, no matter how bizarre. And speaking of binding wagers…” Rohan produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a velvet pouch and handed it to Avery. “Your transfer came through, untraceable, just how we like them. You’ll find five-thousand-pound, ten-thousand-pound, and hundred-thousand-pound marks inside. These chips will be handed over to me at the end of the night.” His teeth flashed in another smile. “For safe-keeping.”
The three of them made it almost full circle around the room, to the final arch. “Greed,” Rohan said, his lips curving upward. “Beyond this curtain, you’ll find the tables. We offer an eclectic selection of games. Ms. Grambs, you’ll want to concentrate on those where you’re playing against the membership, not the house. And as for you…” Rohan shifted his gaze from Avery to Jameson. “Don’t wager anything you can’t afford to lose, Jameson Hawthorne.” Rohan leaned forward to speak directly into Jameson’s ear, his voice a silky whisper. “There’s a reason that men like your father aren’t allowed back.”
CHAPTER 26
JAMESON
Stepping into the gaming room was like stepping back in time to a ballroom from eras past. The towering ceilings made Jameson wonder just how far underground they were. He focused on that question, not the more obvious one: How long had Rohan known that Ian was Jameson’s father?
And what else does he know? Jameson pushed back against the thought. He needed to focus on what mattered. Let nothing escape your notice. Take it all in. Know it. Use it.
The walls of the ballroom were made of pale wood. Gold moldings covered the ceiling, like something out of a Venetian palace. The shining white marble floor was partly covered with a massive, lush carpet, sapphire in color, struck through with gold. Ornate tables, obviously antique, were positioned strategically around the room. Different shapes, different sizes.
Different games.
At the closest table, a dealer dressed in an old-fashioned ballgown handed a pair of dice to an elderly gentleman.
“Hazard,” a voice said to Jameson’s left. That Duchess stepped into his peripheral view. “The game you’re watching? It’s called hazard.” The duchess’s gown was jade green tonight, made from fabric that flowed with her movements, slit on either side up to her thighs.