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?”
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.”