“Cora says Randolph’s been out with you a lot lately. Has he been going to these games?”
Headley stiffened almost imperceptibly. “I can’t tell you that.”
Hollis held up his hands in a show of surrender. “Fair enough. If there’s room in an upcoming game, I’d be interested in joining.”
“There’s always room.”
Interesting.
“I can come to your place with a hackney tomorrow,” Headley offered.
They quickly exchanged details. As they continued their circuit of the room, they drifted a pace from one another. Easy as that, Hollis had secured an invitation to a game that likely held the secret to more than one spot of difficulty in London.
We need to recruit another gentleman,” Fletcher said. “It ain’t safe sending only one of us off on a mission like this.”
“Especially if that one is me?” Hollis asked dryly.
“You ain’t exactly Stone.” Fletcher motioned to the very man, standing nearby and watching them with his usual unreadable expression.
Hollis turned to him. “Do you have as little faith in me as this codger does?”
“You’ll do.” Coming from Stone, that was high praise.
Hollis wished he were that confident in himself. “Other than the friendly games with no stakes at headquarters, I’ve not taken up cards since I was paying for Eton.”
Stone’s gaze narrowed. “You won enough for that?”
Hollis nodded. “I was good.”
Fletcher grinned. “You’ll do.”
Hollis pulled his money clip from his jacket and did a quick recount. The DPS was funding this mission, though they weren’t exactly flush in the pockets. Every pound they had was hard-earned.
Stone, standing near the front window, peered around the side of the curtain. “Hackney’s here.”
Hollis snatched up his hat and set it jauntily on his head. “I’ll report back what I discover.”
“At headquarters,” Stone said. “The fella’s’ll be there for parliament tomorrow.”
Hollis eyed Fletcher. “How does Elizabeth feel about us still referencing each other as ‘the fellows’?”
“She rolls her eyes,” Fletcher said. “But I don’t think it bothers her too terribly much. She knows old habits ain’t broken easily.”
They followed Hollis into the vestibule. He grabbed hold of the door handle. “Wish me luck.”
Fletcher slapped a hand on his shoulder in a show of support. Stone just nodded. The two of them slipped out of view as Hollis pulled the door open and stepped out onto the walk, locking the door behind him. He was sure Stone and Fletcher could get back out and lock up after themselves despite not having a key.
Headley remained in the hackney. Considering they were headed for a gentlemen-only destination, the man ought to have been more civil than that. The contradiction, Hollis feared, was more a sign of what awaited him than a mere slip in manners.
The driver, at least, hopped down long enough to open the door for Hollis.
Hollis climbed in and sat across from Headley. “Ought I to be blindfolded?” He asked the question with a laugh, but it died away when his companion produced a long, thick cloth.
This was proving even stranger than expected.
As the hired conveyance began moving forward, Hollis obliged and covered his eyes, tying the cloth snugly in place.
“You let me do the talking when we first arrive,” Headley said. “There’s a ritual to entry and you, obviously, don’t know what it is.” Headley somehow sounded equally authoritative and nervous. “You’ll recognize people there, but don’t acknowledge that you know them. Anonymity is a requirement, and anything that hints at breaking that will see you tossed out immediately.”
Hollis nodded. “Anything else?”
“Outside of the house where the games are held, we don’t talk in any detail about our activities.”
“Anonymity,” Hollis repeated.
“Precisely.”
They made the rest of the journey in silence. Hollis couldn’t help picturing Randolph making this same journey with this same man and, likely, this same blindfold. How could his brother not have backed out at the absurdity of it all? If Hollis weren’t on a mission for the DPS and in need of rescuing his often-idiotic sibling, he’d have told Headley to forget the entire thing.
Upon pulling to a stop, Headley told Hollis to remove the blindfold. A truly observant participant would have pieced together where they were even without watching the route they’d taken. Perhaps the blindfolding was meant merely to intimidate.
As he walked with Headley toward the Thompsons’ door, the hackney drove off. It was precisely the scenario he’d watched from the window across the street. He had to fight down a laugh, knowing that Brogan was watching him now.
Headley took hold of the door knocker and clanked it in a specific rhythm: Clunk-clunk-pause. Clunk-pause-pause. Clunk-clunk. Did people not easily memorize the “secret knock”?
A peephole cover slid open, though who might have been on the other side wasn’t at all clear.
“Napoleon was twice exiled,” Headley said.
The cover slid back with a whack. A lock turned. In the next moment, the door opened, the person on the other side still in shadow.
Hollis followed Headley inside. The man who’d let them in stood in clear anticipation of something. He was dressed like a butler but was built like a prizefighter or a blacksmith.
“I have a new recruit,” Headley said.
“The master’s in ’is office.”
Headley nodded and moved past the large front staircase to an ornate door. He gave the same knock he had when they’d first arrived. Looking back at Hollis, he motioned him over impatiently.
This door was opened by a wiry slip of a man who watched them over the rim of his thick spectacles.
“New recruit for approval,” Headley said.
They were motioned in. Hollis eyed the beanpole’s hands as he passed. Five fingers apiece.
The “office” had the look of a gentleman’s library. The man behind the desk wore a suit of fine fabric in the latest fashion, but something in the fit was strange, as if the tailor had been talented but in a hurry.
The man set his neatly piled papers to one side and looked up at Headley. His eyes moved quickly to Hollis, assessing him.
Hollis didn’t flinch, neither did he return the studying gaze with one of his own. He simply stood and waited with the assurance men of his standing were supposed to possess.
“You look familiar.” The man’s voice matched his suit: the impression of sophistication but executed with some sloppy details. “Have we met?”
“I don’t know that we have,” Hollis answered.
“He’s Hollis Darby,” Headley said.
The man nodded. “You resemble your brother.”
“I have been told that before.” Hollis suppressed the triumph he felt at hearing this man acknowledge that he knew Randolph. His brother’s troubles had begun in this house; he was certain of it.
“Do you play?” the man asked.
“Play what, exactly?” Asserting a bit of confident ignorance would abate suspicion.
“Baccarat. Whist. Piquet. Whatever your pleasure, we likely have a table of it.”
“Faro?” Hollis named a game often played by highborn gamblers.
The man nodded. “Of course.” He looked to Headley. “He’ll do.”
“That’s my quota met, then,” Headley said.
Another slow, deliberate nod.
Headley left without a backward glance, without hesitation. He didn’t quite run, but nearly.
“Johnson, here, will show you to a faro table,” the man told Hollis.
“Excellent.” He extended his hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”
> “I did not offer it. I am called the Raven.” He shook Hollis’s hand. The man had all five fingers. Hollis’s quarry was proving as elusive as Randolph. “And this”—he motioned toward the door—“is Serena, our housekeeper.”
Housekeepers were never called by their Christian names. That alone would have told any observant visitor this was not a typical Pimlico home.
Hollis turned around. Serena was slight of frame and, if her expression was any indication, not at all at ease in her surroundings. He would place her age at somewhere circling thirty, though the heaviness in her expression and posture made her seem older.
She dipped a curtsey. “What is it you’ll be drinking when you’re here, sir?”
“Ginger cordial or lemonade.”
She looked to the Raven, clearly confused.
Her employer responded with impatience. “Do we not have either of those?”
“We’ve lemonade,” Serena said. “But none of the genn’elmen ever want . . . lemonade.”
Most men, when gathering for games of chance and social interactions, preferred alcohol. That, of course, was part of the reason why so many lost so much.
“Mr. Darby wishes for lemonade.” The Raven pushed the words out through his teeth. “Is there a reason he cannot have it?”
She dipped another quick, anxious curtsey. “Of course not. I’ll make certain we’ve ginger cordial in the larder for him the next time.” With that, she slipped away.
The Raven’s bony assistant showed Hollis out of the room. He was led back through the entryway and into what, in any other house, would have been a drawing room. In this one, it contained six tables, two of which were empty. At the others, fashionably dressed gentlemen sat, fully engrossed in card games. Glasses of liquor were at the ready. More than one cigar was being smoked. No one appeared to be wanting for food.
Hollis had no difficulty finding the faro table. The dealer eyed him as he sat in an empty seat at the table and watched.
The dealer flipped a card. “Ace loses.” He flipped another. “Seven wins.”
Groans and sedate cheers followed. The dealer paid out to those who’d placed their wagers on seven and their coppered wagers on the ace. More coins were placed on more cards. Another two cards were flipped over.
Hollis studied the upward facing cards already revealed, then back at the wagers. “The five’s dead,” he said.
A hush fell. All eyes darted to the upturned cards. With no more fives remaining in the deck, those bets were worthless, unless someone—like him—caught it and pointed it out
“So it is.” The dealer dipped his head and handed Hollis the bets that had been placed on the five.
Serena arrived a moment later with his glass of lemonade on a tray. He accepted it with a nod. She answered with a curtsey, looking at him for the briefest of moments. Her gaze was haunted, afraid. Was she being mistreated, beyond the pompous dismissal of the Raven? Was she under the crushing thumb of Four-Finger Mike as well?
It seemed every time the Dreadfuls uncovered one dastardly corner of London’s underbelly, they found more and more suffering in more and more shadows.
Hollis ended the night with a sizeable number of coins in his pocket. He’d discovered that every player in the room was, indeed, a gentleman of some standing. Shouts from distant rooms told him others were having more drastic experiences than he was.
Of all the things he learned that afternoon, though, the most important was that the Thompsons’ house had indeed been transformed into the gambling den the Dreadfuls had been looking for.
“Everyone had all their fingers.” Hollis wrapped up his report with that disappointing tidbit.
“Four-Finger had to’ve been there somewhere,” Fletcher said. “Keeping up the appearance of being highbrow likely meant keeping the riffraff in the root cellar.”
“The one calling himself ‘the Raven,’” Stone said. “Somethin’ sounds wrong about that fella.”
Hollis nodded. “And it’s more than dressing and speaking a little awkwardly.”
“Mr. Headley said he had met his quota?” Elizabeth asked. “That part I cannot shake from my mind.”
“They’re recruiting,” Martin said. “Those allowed to play are required to bring new players.”
Hollis shook his head. “I wasn’t asked to bring anyone.”
“But you left the night ahead, yeah?” Fletcher said. “Recruiting might be offered as a way of having a debt forgiven.”
“Then why did they tear my brother’s house apart and send his family into exile?”
Fletcher slumped back in his throne, the way he did when thinking. “Could be your brother’s rubbish at recruiting.”
“And gambling,” Martin tossed in.
The laughter was subdued. The matter of this gambling den was proving a heavy one. Mistreated staff, a connection to the criminal underworld, lives ruined.
“I’ve been invited back,” Hollis said, “though I’m meant to come with someone already included in their numbers.”
“Do it,” Fletcher said. “Sooner rather than later. I’ve a feeling more than just your brother has been ruined by this business.” He looked out over the others. “Penny for your thoughts.”
Martin rose, taking the floor. “I’m following the trail of another little thief, but we’ve a bigger problem.”
“How’d’ya mean?” Fletcher asked.
Some of the thefts they’d credited to children had actually been carried out by Ana. Hollis hadn’t told the others that.
“I’m hearing whispers that our efforts ain’t going unnoticed,” Martin said. “We’ll have more difficulty snatching up the little’ns moving forward.”
“And we still have children up to their smudged little foreheads in trouble?” Fletcher guessed.
Martin nodded. “We need to bring down Four-Finger Mike before he gets all the urchins in London put away.”
Thieves. Missing brothers. Shady games of chance. A slippery thief master.
London was many things, but it certainly wasn’t boring.
by Lafayette Jones
Chapter IV
Pudding sat on Snout’s bed with a high-stacked plate of Bakewell tarts on his lap. He’d already eaten the bowl of boiled potatoes and chipped beef Bathwater had brought up from the dining hall.
“None of you want any?” Pudding held up one of the round pastries. “Best I ever had.”
“If eating was one of the Spirit Trial challenges, we would have this competition wrapped up and tucked in our pockets.” Snout watched Pudding with amazement. “How does he do it?”
“He’s a Perishable,” Ace said. “Some things come naturally to them.”
Pudding set aside his tray of tarts and leaned against the headboard. “Can’t believe you told everyone I’m going to be on your team for some sort of ghost challenge. What do I know about being a ghost?”
“Nothing really.” Snout leaned his shoulder against the bedpost but didn’t quite do the thing properly. Half of him slipped through.
“You look like you’ve been impaled.” Pudding cringed. “That would make a person run like a fox in hunting season.”
“Good to know.” Snout righted himself. “Fourth Forms have ‘Terrify a Perishable to the Point of Hysteria or Loss of Consciousness’ in their Spirit Trials. I’ll have to remember the impaling.”
“Do we have to scare peop—I mean, Perishables?” Pudding asked.
Ace shook his head. “First Forms are limited to dogs and cats.”
“We have to scare dogs?”
“That test is called ‘Artful Dodging,’” Bathwater said. “We have to sneak past a dog and a cat without either of them noticing us.” Bathwater had struggled with that one. Even talking about it now he sounded nervous. “Animals see a lot more than Perishables do. And cats are malicious about it.”<
br />
“Both of them would spot me straight off.” Pudding’s mouth twisted to one side.
Ace tried subtly mirroring Pudding’s expression, but he couldn’t quite get it. He’d learned to float through walls with only the occasional mishap, but he couldn’t work his own face.
“There’s also ‘Churchyard Chase,’” Bathwater continued. “The student chases a stand-in for a Perishable all around a churchyard, with the aim of getting them to stop at a particular headstone.”
Pudding slipped his hands behind his head. “I’m a fast runner.”
“Won’t work,” Ace said. “If you fall, you’ll scrape yourself up. Blood would be a dead giveaway.”
“A not-dead giveaway, more like.” Pudding had a way of making them laugh even when they were weighing heavy matters.
“If not Artful Dodging or Churchyard Chasing,” Bathwater went on, “then maybe ‘Is That the Wind, or Is This Place Haunted?’”
Pudding’s eyes pulled wide. “That’s the name of the test? That whole mouthful?”
“Rattlebag said it used to be called ‘Ghostly Sounds, Beginner Level.’”
“Ghostly Sounds,” Pudding repeated. “Like moaning and wailing and saying things like ‘Who dares disturb my eternal slumber?’” He pulled the last word out long and singsongy, throwing his hands up like he was towering over something.
They all burst out laughing.
“Pathetic!” Ace said between chuckles.
Pudding pretended to be offended; no one seeing his exaggerated pout and pulled brows would believe he was in earnest. “If that was so bad, you try it.”
Ace rose up from the bed—floating for effect—and hovered slowly closer to his new friend. He pitched his voice low and rumbling, dropping the volume and speaking almost painfully slowly. “Who dares disturb my eternal slumber?”
For just a moment, Pudding truly looked scared. But the fear dissolved on the instant. “That was brilliant! I could feel your voice shaking inside of me. Can you teach me to do that?”
The Gentleman and the Thief Page 19
