It fully hit Jameson then that the Proprietor might have chosen the players of this game for reasons of his own, reasons that went far beyond who had or had not impressed him or whose secrets he was most curious to hear.
Me. Avery. One Johnstone-Jameson brother and a powerful woman working on behalf of another. If there was one thing that those Saturday morning games had taught Jameson, it was how to look for a pattern.
How to read code.
So how does the duchess fit?
“The boy is Ian’s son.” Branford didn’t even look at Jameson as he imparted that bit of knowledge to Katharine. “Don’t try to pretend that Bowen ferreted that secret out long ago. If he’d been aware of a Hawthorne connection, he would have made a play when the old man was alive.”
Hearing Branford refer to his grandfather as the old man hit Jameson harder than it should have.
“Are you so sure he didn’t?” Katharine parried. Then she spared a glance for Jameson himself—which was more than his uncle gave him. “You’re playing for Vantage, then, Mr. Hawthorne, not just out of some sophomoric love of novelty.”
You’re playing for Ian. That was what this woman was saying. You’re just a stooge.
Jameson turned, rather than trying to keep his face blank. “I’m playing for myself.” That would have been true, back at the start, but now? Unwilling to dwell on the thought, Jameson returned his attention to the room.
The table. The fireplace. The logs. The design on the ceiling. The book on the window. It was the last of these that caught his attention and held it. Let the rest of the players think I’m dealing with daddy issues. Hawthornes have granddaddy issues instead.
Issues like the fact that part of Jameson’s brain would always look at the world in layers, would always question the purpose behind any action that seemed, on the surface, to have none.
Actions like Rohan bringing a book into this room—and leaving it here.
Allowing himself to look angry, maybe even hurt, Jameson faced the window… and subtly picked up the book.
The Smugglers’ Caves and Other Stories. It took nothing more than looking at the cover to determine that what he held in his hands was a collection of children’s stories—old ones. Now why, Jameson thought, not bothering to mask the smile on his face now that his back was to the room, would Rohan be reading this?
Immediately, his brain started going back through everything the Factotum had said about the Game. It would hardly be sporting, he’d told Zella, if I hadn’t given you everything you needed to win.
Jameson’s adrenaline surged. The Game? It wasn’t hide-and-seek. It’s Saturday morning. Not exactly—but Rohan had left a clue. Maybe more than one. Jameson’s brain latched on to something else that Rohan had said, when delivering the rules. Leave no stone unturned but smuggle nothing out.
The bastard had used the word smuggle. He’d left this book here. Jameson looked out the window—for real, this time, and let his eyes take in the grand scope of what he saw. Vantage wasn’t just built on a hill. It was built on a cliff, overlooking a large body of water.
The kind of body of water on which smugglers sailed, Jameson thought. He looked back down at the book in his hands. What are the chances that if we scale down the cliff, we’ll find caves?
Knowing better than to cast his lot on a single interpretation, Jameson subtly examined the book. Avery came to stand behind him. She wrapped her arms around his torso, in what likely passed for a gesture of comfort, and looked around him, to the book.
He hadn’t fooled her.
Jameson thumbed through the pages of the book, and when something fell out, he caught it before it could fall far. A pressed flower. Jameson turned that over in his mind. A poppy.
“Keep going,” Avery murmured behind him, soft words, charged ones, for only his ears.
Jameson kept going. On the back inside cover of the book, he found two words, scripted in familiar dark purple ink.
Ladies first.
CHAPTER 53
GRAYSON
Grayson stared at the photograph. He looked about sixteen in it. He was on a public street, alone. Based on the angle of the photo, it had been taking by an observer at least one story up.
A PI? Or Sheffield Grayson himself?
“This is you,” Gigi said, picking up the picture. She cradled it in her hand for a minute, then turned her attention back to the box. “And you,” she continued, lifting another photo out. “And you.”
Each photo was another slice of the knife. Suddenly, all he could hear was Acacia asking him, Do you ever play what-if, Grayson?