Page 50 of The Games Lovers Play
Devlin nodded and walked out and went quickly down the steps. He paused with his boot on the hackney’s step and looked up at the jarvey—a youngish man who looked eager to please. “The corner of Pall Mall and Waterloo Place. As fast as you can.”
The jarvey grinned and saluted him. “Right you are, guv.”
Devlin flung himself onto the seat, and true to his word, the jarvey cracked his whip, and with a spray of gravel, the carriage shot off down the drive.
By the time the town carriage reached Waterloo Place, Therese was in two minds over Child’s presence. On the one hand, he might come in useful in dealing with the owner of Gentleman Jim’s. On the other hand, he was plaguing her with suggestions that she should remain safe in the carriage while he went in to learn what was going on.
Rather than argue, she simply said, “No.”
Exasperated, Child glared at her. Lips thin, he studied her face, then said, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve only recently returned to these shores after nearly ten years away. That means not only do I know nothing about this particular establishment, but I also can’t be sure I understand how, these days, matters are dealt with within such places. I’ll need to tread warily.”
“You might need to do so.” Therese elevated her chin. “I most certainly do not.”
Child’s jaw clenched so hard she thought it might crack.
The carriage rocked, then halted, and the flap in the ceiling rose. “Do you want to stop here, your ladyship?” Munns asked.
Therese peered out of the window. “Can we walk from here?” she asked Child.
He scowled. “If you’re set on going in, then let’s see if the carriage can get closer.” He raised his voice and ordered, “Go around the block to the left. Left into Pall Mall, then left again as soon as you can. There should be a lane there. The place we’re looking for is a club called Gentleman Jim’s. Stop as close to the door as you can.”
“Right, my lord.”
The flap shut, and the carriage smoothly rolled on. It turned left, then almost immediately swung left again, into a lane barely wide enough for two carriages to pass.
While not exactly seedy, the buildings along the lane lacked the polish of those on the wider streets. The façades were definitely less well-kept.
Therese and Child peered out to either side. Although the pavements weren’t particularly crowded, tradesmen, messenger boys, deliverymen, and even three flower sellers were walking along the lane. The carriage rolled past two gentlemen earnestly discussing something as they walked briskly toward Pall Mall.
Then Child pointed through the window beside him. “There it is—on the corner of an even narrower lane that must lead to Haymarket.”
Therese leaned forward to look. The sign—gold letters on a black board—was mounted flat against the bare brick wall above an unprepossessing black-painted door. Munns must have spotted it; the carriage slowed and pulled into the curb, more or less opposite the place.
Her footman dropped down and opened the carriage door. Therese gathered her reticule.
Child’s hand landed on her sleeve. “Therese—please!”
She shot him an aggravated, distinctly warning look, slid her arm free, and proceeded to step down from the carriage.
Child followed, but she didn’t wait. Head high, she sailed across the street.
Behind her, Child softly cursed and strode after her.
She halted in front of the black-painted door, grasped the heavy knocker, and banged it peremptorily.
She released the knocker and listened. After only a few seconds, lumbering footsteps approached on the other side of the door.
From behind her, Child muttered, “At least let me—”
The door swung open, and Therese found herself staring at the unlovely visage of a man who, judging from his cauliflower ear and misshapen nose, she took to be a retired pugilist. He certainly had the brawn.
The big man regarded her in patent surprise.
Before he could recover, she tipped her head higher and, in imperious tones, stated, “I am the Countess of Alverton. I understand my brother—Mr. Martin Cynster—is currently under this roof.”
Boldly, she stepped forward. Startled, the doorman—if that was what he was—all but leapt back.
Grimly determined, she swept over the threshold, forcing the man to squeeze back against the wall of the long corridor beyond the door. She glided on. Glancing to right and left, she saw dim, unlit reception rooms; all had the air of being unoccupied. She slowed.
