At the end of the alley, they came to an iron gate that hung partially open on creaking hinges. The men stepped through it, finding themselves in a tiny courtyard, lit by a solitary lamp above a chipped and crooked red door.
Edmund scratched his chin. “Are you certain? This doesn’t exactly scream ‘illegal gambling den.’”
Patrick gave a wry smile. “That’s the point I suppose. Secrecy and all.” He pushed against the red door. A part of him hoped it might be locked. But it swung open easily beneath his hands.
A set of narrow stone steps led down into a basement. From behind the door at the bottom, Patrick could hear laughter. He could see a faint strip of light beneath the door.
He glanced over his shoulder at his friends.
“And none of them were ever seen again…” Simon said wryly.
Patrick began to walk down the stairs. Simon’s attempt at humor most definitely was not helping.
At the sound of their footsteps, the door at the bottom of the stairs creaked open, revealing a large man with a long grey beard and arms the size of tree trunks. The smell of pipe smoke and tallow billowed out to meet them.
“Pharo?” the doorman said shortly. He eyed the three of them curiously.
Patrick gave a short nod. “Yes. Pharo.”
The man pulled the door open the rest of the way and gestured for them to enter.
The gambling den was lit sparsely, with just two lamps flickering at each end of the small room. Three gambling tables had been set up in the middle of the space, and each had people crowded around them. A makeshift bar sat in one corner, little more than a few hastily knocked-together planks, with ankers of ale—and a terrifying-looking barman—behind. Smaller tables dotted the room. Most of the men sitting around them had glasses in one hand and pipes in the other.
Patrick shot a glance at Edmund and Simon. Both of them had their hands in their pockets, clutching their pistols, no doubt. Just as he was doing.
“Now what?” said Edmund, standing close to Patrick’s shoulder.
“I’ll fetch us some drinks,” said Simon. “We need to look as though we fit in.”
“He’s right,” Patrick agreed. “We need to look as though we’ve come here to gamble. I can keep a look out for Thorne and his men while we do it.”
Simon disappeared to the bar, while Edmund and Patrick made their way warily to one of the gambling tables. The first was surrounded by men midway through a hand of Whist.
“You’re good at the Whist tables,” Patrick murmured to Edmund. “You ought to join in the next hand.”
Edmund nodded silently.
As the round ended, he slid into a chair at the table, alongside a woman in a red dress with dark, lamp-blacked eyes. Her gaze moved slowly over Edmund and he turned away uncomfortably.
Patrick scanned the crowd at the table. Most of the clientele were men, but several had scantily-clad women dangling from their arms. It was difficult to make out the faces in the dim, flickering light. He saw no one he recognized.
Simon returned from the bar and pressed a glass into Patrick’s hand. He looked over at Edmund who was cupping his cards with a level of secrecy that didn’t seem entirely necessary, and casting furtive glances at his opponents.
“Featherstone seems to be enjoying himself,” said Simon. “I think he’s rather relishing being an undercover spy for the evening.”
Patrick flashed him a short smile. “I think you might be right.” He sniffed the amber liquid in the glass. The strength of the liquor made his eyes water.
“Over-proofed, I’d imagine,” said Simon, noticing his reaction. “And slid into this place beneath Customs’ noses.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows. “It’s been smuggled?”
“I’d say so.”
Patrick kept the glass in his hand, deciding against taking a sip.
As Edmund launched into a second hand, Patrick moved away from the table and began to make his way around the club. The crowds around the other two gambling tables were similar to the first, each with clouds of pipe smoke hanging above them.
There was no sign of Thorne, or any of the other men who had stormed the townhouse. If these villains were planning to be here tonight—and Patrick knew there was every chance they wouldn’t show—they had not arrived yet.
He slipped into the crowd at the Pharo table close to the door. From here he could watch who was coming and going.
Patrick glanced at the cards being skillfully dispersed by the dealer.
I’ve never felt more like my father.
The thought left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
After a moment, Edmund appeared beside him. “You owe me five pounds, Ramshay,” he said. “Only took part in this gambling lark for you.”
From behind them, Simon gave a short chuckle. “Five pounds? Didn’t take them long to empty your pockets.”
The door swung open revealing a figure clad from head to toe in black.
Patrick stiffened. His hand clenched around his glass.
“What is it?” Edmund asked.
“I know that man. He collects my father’s outstanding debts from me each month. He turns up on my doorstep and demands my money.”
The words felt brutal and bitter on his tongue. He hadn’t meant to put it so bluntly.
But Edmund just nodded, biting back his response. Patrick was glad of his unfazed reaction—or at least his attempt at one.
“We ought to speak to him.”
“I’ll speak to him alone,” said Patrick. “He could be dangerous. I don’t want the two of you involved any more than necessary.”
Simon gave a sudden snort of laughter. “A little late for that, Ramshay. Don’t you think?”
Edmund gave a wry smile. “Ayton’s right. We’re coming with you.” He pressed a firm hand to Patrick’s shoulder.
At the sight of them striding toward him, the man in black folded his arms across his thick chest. His gaze drifted between them, before landing on Patrick. “I know you,” he said, his lips turning up into that infuriating smile he had come to know so well. “Yes, yes. If it isn’t the Baron of Ramshay.”
“Glad I’m not so forgettable.” Patrick followed the man to the bar.
The man in black ordered a glass of whisky, then made his way calmly to one of the tables, seemingly untroubled by the presence of the three young men.
Patrick yanked out a chair and sat at the table, Edmund and Simon following suit.
“Didn’t expect to find you in this fine establishment, My Lord,” said the man in black. “Feeling the need to follow in your father’s footsteps, are you? I must say, I thought you more intelligent than that.”
“I’m being threatened,” Patrick told the man darkly. “And I need to know by whom.”
His lips quirked. “Threatened?”
Patrick glared at him. “In my own home.”
The man brought his glass to his lips and took a long gulp. “Well,” he said finally. “You do manage to find trouble, don’t you, Lord Ramshay. Or rather, trouble manages to find you.”
“Tell me what you know,” Patrick hissed, slamming a fist onto the table. “Do the men who are threatening me have anything to do with you and my father’s debts?”
“You know us better than that, My Lord. We’re gentlemen. First day of each month and nothing more. Like I told you when this whole sorry business began, you keep up your end of the deal and I’ll keep up mine. You pay what’s owed and we’ll leave you in peace for the rest of the month.”
Edmund leaned forward and fixed the man with hard eyes. “You’re lying,” he hissed. “You know more about these threats than you’re letting on.”
The man in black gave Edmund a dismissive chuckle. “And who is this?” he asked Patrick. “Your angry footman?”
Edmund rapped a hand hard on the table, making the man in black—and Patrick—jump. “We need the truth! Now! Or I’ll have no choice but to introduce you to my pistol.”
The man in black
howled with laughter. “He’s a fiery one, Lord Ramshay. You’d best watch him.” He turned to Edmund. “Go around speaking like that in here and you’ll end up with that pistol rammed down your throat.”
Edmund said nothing. His cheeks were flaming. Out of embarrassment or exhilaration, Patrick couldn’t be sure.
The man in black stood up and made his way to the Pharo table without giving Patrick another glance.
“He could be lying,” said Edmund, a little sheepishly.
Patrick shook his head. “He’s not lying. Thorne admitted this had nothing to do with my father. The man in black has confirmed it and I’m inclined to believe them.”
“Why?” Simon spat. “Why believe a word that comes from the mouths of these villains?”
“It’s like he said, he turns up at my house on the first of each month and nothing more. He sees it as a business arrangement. If he wanted to make trouble for me, he’s had three years to do it. Why start now?”
Simon leaned back in his chair and sipped at the pungent brandy, wincing as it slid down his throat. “Then where do we go from here? If you’re so certain there’s no connection to your father, then we have nothing. We don’t even know for certain that the men we’re looking for have anything to do with this gambling den. There are criminal gangs all over this place.” He pushed the glass away from him. “We may well be in the wrong place altogether.”
“Perhaps,” Patrick admitted. “But we have to start somewhere.”
“The proprietor of this place,” Edmund said, his eyes darting around the room. “Who is he?”
Patrick rubbed his chin. “I’ve no idea. But I’m sure someone here can tell us.”
“Well then that ought to be our next step. If this Thorne fellow likes to frequent this place, perhaps the proprietor can tell us.”
The owner of the Red Queen, they came to learn, via questionable conversations with questionable characters, was a vague underworld figure who never showed his face in the gambling den. But the manager for the evening was none other than the doorman.
Simon gave a humorless chuckle as they made their way toward the thick-set man. “Do we really imagine this fellow is just going to answer all our questions?” He glanced sideways at Edmund. “Even if Featherstone threatens to introduce him to his pistol?” He gave a snort of humorless laughter.
Patrick tightened his fingers around the gun in his pocket. “Featherstone has the right idea. We all have weapons.” He felt the muscles in his neck clench. “No harm in the man knowing that.”
He slid his pistol from his pocket and held it surreptitiously at his side.
The doorman raised his eyebrows as the men approached.
“I need information,” Patrick hissed.
The man snorted. “Think you’re going to threaten it out of me, do you?” He eyed the pistol. “I’d suggest you don’t. Not unless you want to end up dead in that alleyway out there.”
“We could kill you before you even had a chance to draw your weapon,” Edmund said theatrically.
“And just how long do you think my men would let you live?”
Edmund swallowed, stepping back slightly.
The doorman folded his arms, making his muscular shoulders bulge beneath his shirtsleeves. He turned back to Patrick. “Violence doesn’t speak to me,” he said calmly. “But coin does.”
Patrick dug into his pocket. Slipped a few coins into the man’s hand.
He glanced down at the money. “I’m loyal to my clientele,” he said. “You want me to start speaking, you’d best do better than that.”
Patrick grit his teeth and reached into his coin pouch again. “We’re your clientele now,” he said. “So start speaking.”
The doorman slipped the money into his pocket, his face breaking into a smile that was entirely unfriendly. “Gentlemen. What do you need to know?”
“I’m looking for a man named George Thorne. I’ve reason to believe he spends his time in this place.”
“There are a lot of men who spend their time in this place,” the doorman grinned. “And some lovely ladies too.”
Patrick glared. “I’ve paid you well.” He tightened his jaw. “George Thorne. Short, stocky man. Scar on his chin. There are two taller men who might have come in here with him.”
The doorman stroked his long beard.
“You know him,” said Edmund.
The corner of the man’s lips turned up. “Not seen him in days.”
“But he comes here often?”
The doorman nodded. “Conducts his business here. He’s always meeting with someone or other.”
“About what?” Patrick pressed.
“No idea. I’m a doorman, not a spy. Thorne ain’t here tonight. But if I were you, I’d try the Lady’s Grace. Next street over.” He grinned. “Weren’t me what told you that though, was it?”
Patrick gave a short nod of thanks, then marched out the door.
“The Lady’s Grace,” said Simon as they walked. “Who are they trying to fool with a name like that?”
Patrick gave him a wry smile. “I’m just trying to bring a little excitement to your life, Ayton.”
Simon snorted. “My life is quite exciting enough thank you.” He turned up the collar of his coat as they stepped out into the street. “Drinks are on you when all this is done, Ramshay.”
Chapter 26
“The Lady’s Grace,” said Edmund as they walked. “What do you imagine it is?” His eyes were wide. “A bawdy house?”
Patrick caught his eye and gave him a short smile. “There seems to be little else in these parts. Bawdy houses and gin shops.”
Edmund pointed at a two-story brick building on the opposite side of the road. “There. It’s that one.”
A large crowd was gathered on the street outside the building. Drunken men stumbled against each other, while women in colorful, low-cut gowns huddled together beside the door. The hum of anxious voices filled the air.
“A bawdy house and with a tavern attached by the looks of things,” said Simon, frowning. “What do you imagine is going on? Why are all the customers outside?”
“A fire?” Edmund suggested.
“No. Look.” Patrick pointed at the uniformed men pushing through the crowd. “Soldiers.”
Simon craned his neck, trying to see. “Soldiers? I thought the authorities didn’t bother with this place. Thought they’d decided it was easier to pretend Seven Dials didn’t exist.”
“Seems they’ve had a change of heart,” said Patrick. The thought brought a faint flicker of optimism.
“Any sign of Thorne?” asked Edmund, scanning the crowd outside the tavern.
Patrick shook his head. “If he was here tonight he would have run the moment the soldiers showed themselves, I’m sure of it.” He rubbed his hands together against the cold. “Perhaps I’ll wait. He may show himself once this trouble has died down.”
“Don’t be foolish, Ramshay,” said Simon brusquely. “He’s not going to show himself tonight. This place may not even open their doors again.”
“He’s right,” Edmund agreed. “There’s no point waiting around here.” He met Patrick’s eye reassuringly. “We’ll come back. Tomorrow.”
Patrick nodded. Tomorrow. Yes, he could do that.
Heads down, the men walked quickly through Seven Dials, heaving a collective sigh of relief when they emerged into the relative sanity of the theatre district.
“Well,” said Simon, rubbing his eyes. “Being friends with you gentlemen is always an adventure.”
“The Red Queen,” Edmund said suddenly. “I’ve just remembered where I’ve heard that name. At my cousin Robert’s trial.”
Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. “Robert Barnet? Catherine’s brother.”
Speaking her name set his heart quickening.
Edmund nodded. “He confessed to helping store and deliver contraband with the crime syndicate he became embroiled in. The Red Queen was one of their biggest buyers.”
“Perha
ps he knows who owns the place,” said Patrick, his impatience beginning to rise again. “Perhaps he can tell us who Thorne is working for.”
Edmund nodded again. “Indeed. Looks like we’ll be paying a visit to Newgate prison.”
* * *
As the three men made their way toward the prison the next day, Patrick’s head was full of Catherine.
How vivid his memories were of the day he had brought her here. He remembered watching her approach St. Bride’s in those borrowed worker’s clothes, looking scared but determined. He remembered the way her face had broken into a smile when she had caught sight of him waiting for her outside the church.
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 16
