The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  The maid didn’t waste a moment, but turned around immediately and hurried for the safety of the other room.

  Clarissa steeled her nerves then turned the handle, opening the door just wide enough to allow herself through but no more. “Pettibone, what are you doing?”

  “I need to speak with Marlowe. Is he abed?”

  “No,” Clarissa replied simply, her tone hiding her racing heartbeat. “I’ve need to speak with him as well. Come,” she urged, beginning to walk down the hall, “he often visits the library when he is unable to sleep.”

  Clarissa glanced over her shoulder to make sure the two men were following. The footman hesitated, looking to Pettibone. The agent began to walk after Clarissa, and the footman followed.

  “How fortuitous that we crossed paths, St. Michelle.”

  Clarissa’s skinned crawled. “Yes indeed.”

  James had chosen the Eagle’s Nest for a variety of reasons. Its location, within a mile of Kenwood House, was beneficial in its easy access. He could reach the gaming hell either directly through the busy warren of nearby streets or more covertly through the heath. Its distance from the more popular gambling establishments also meant, in theory, that fewer of the ton would bother patronizing it. The quality looked to a gaming hell for cards, women, and drink. For these gentlemen, going to the hell itself was dangerous enough. They didn’t require any further thrills from their fellow patrons.

  The Eagle’s Nest was, according to those in the know, a viper’s den that attracted only the most serious of customers. Seasoned criminals, gamblers, and drunkards made up the lion’s share of the patronage, which, when James had set about conceiving of Iris’s adventures, had actually made sense. It afforded him the greatest amount of anonymity, which was a primary concern at the time.

  And now? James fingered the mustache that he’d hastily affixed just above his upper lip in the barn before riding off at breakneck speed across the heath. He required anonymity even more now, the Corinthian’s sighting of him at the boxing match making his nerves burn.

  As for Iris’s proclivity for getting herself into the greatest amount of trouble she could possibly find? Well, he’d hardly known that when he’d chosen the Eagle’s Nest. He settled his top hat more firmly in an effort to assure his wig stayed in place. The Eagle’s Nest was the last establishment a risk taker such as Iris should ever enter. But there was little that could be done about that now.

  He reined the gray down Wessex Street, the smell of rotten produce and the stench of all sorts of iniquities being undertaken burned his nostrils as he neared the Nest. A man roughly the same size as the plain, painted door that he guarded glared at James as he pulled up his mount and jumped down.

  “You’ll see to my horse?” James asked the mountain of a man, in a slightly superior tone, aware that he needed to take the upper hand here.

  The doorman grunted, his beefy arms folding across his massive chest. “Now, why would I do that?”

  “The Bishop of Canterbury wishes it so,” James recited the sentence he’d memorized from Pettibone’s contact.

  The man nodded reluctantly at the secret password and snapped his sausage fingers loudly.

  A scrawny boy, no more than ten, came running from across the street. “Yes, sir,” he said anxiously in a high-pitched tone, cowering in front of the giant.

  “Take his horse, Squeak, and be quick about it,” the man ordered, making to cuff the boy with the back of his hand.

  But the boy was quicker, his meager form doing him a service. He slid out of the way, closer to James. Taking the reins, he looked up through a mess of tangled brown hair. “He’s a beauty, your horse.”

  James reached into his waistcoat and retrieved a few shillings, depositing them in the boy’s waiting hand. “He is indeed. Make sure to take good care of him and there will be more where that came from.”

  “Off with ya,” the man growled, tiring of the boy’s dallying.

  Squeak trotted away with the gray in tow, toward the back of the establishment.

  “Come along, then,” the man said impatiently, turning to the door and banging hard on it with one closed fist. A panel instantly slid open to reveal a pair of eyes.

  “Open up,” he demanded.

  The sound of locks being thrown followed and the door creaked open, revealing a man of similar build to the first.

  “Step inside, then,” the first grunted, moving aside to let James pass.

  James stepped over the threshold into a small antechamber. The room contained nothing more than the second waiting man and a second door.

  The first door slammed behind him, leaving James, the second guard, and one lone candle. “Not much of a job you have here,” James commented, looking about the sparse room.

  “Even less so when I’m expected to chitchat with the customers,” he grunted, clearly as charming as his counterpart. “Password, please.”

  “Fair enough,” James replied. “Nelson’s short pants.”

  The man nodded in the same manner as the first then beat on the door. A panel opened, revealing not only another set of eyes, but the sounds of drunken revelry.

  “Open up,” the man commanded, then turned his back on James and resumed his station.

  This door featured nearly double the locks of the first but an equally burly man behind it was revealed when he slowly opened the plain wooden entryway and gazed critically at James.

  “Are you all related, then?” James asked, gaining a smirk from the brute.

  He gestured for James to enter and closed the door behind him, sliding the bolts home as soon as James passed. “Such humor will get you good and killed here, sir,” the brute warned.

  James pulled two guineas from his vest and handed them to the man. “It would do to have a friend.”

  The brute grunted knowingly and took the coins in his meaty hand. “Just ask for Harry.”

  “I’ll do that,” James replied, then turned to take in the Eagle’s Nest. It wasn’t much to look at, though James hadn’t expected it to be. A low haze of smoke hung in the air, making the already dark environs even more so. He was standing in one of what he assumed to be several card rooms, this one hosting All-fours, Loo, Faro, and Ecarte. The large, round tables were full, each rickety chair occupied by a man resembling Harry in demeanor, though their clothing told a different story. Only one or two men of quality were present, their exquisite coats, obviously the work of Weston, and starched cravats making them stand out.

  A number of those a few rungs further down the social ladder occupied several of the tables. Business owners, if James was right in his assessment, their clothing noticeably poorer in quality to those of the ton, but vastly superior to the rest of the men who made up the crowd. These were the working class and lower. Their ragged appearance and complete lack of polish immediately identified them as such. The one fact that unified all the men was their utter seriousness toward the task at hand. Their faces told one another and James that tonight was not for frivolity and a bit of muslin. No, tonight was for winning.

  An old, scarred bar ran the length of the south wall, with several men behind it, serving rum punch. A serving wench approached, her rouged cheeks and lips practically glowing in the gloomy lighting, her round hips swinging seductively from side to side. “Welcome to the Eagle’s Nest, love. You can call me Rosie. What’s your pleasure tonight?”

  James smiled down at the woman as she caressed his lapel. “Well, I don’t rightly know. It’s my first time here. What would you suggest?”

  She quirked an eyebrow knowingly, her other hand playing with the ribbon at the neck of her low-cut bodice. “Me.”

  “I believe I’ve need of some sport—to whet my appetite, Rosie, before moving on to more intimate pursuits,” James answered, reaching for the ribbon and pulling it loose.

  Rosie shivered at his touch and smiled widely. “Well now, if that’s the case, I’d suggest a bit of Loo here, in the main gaming room. Or if you’re feeling more adventurous
, Commerce just back there.” She paused and gestured to an archway just beyond where they stood.

  James looked about, surveying the room for any more possible hallways. He felt sure that Iris would not have been content with Vingt-et-un or Loo.

  “Don’t worry, love. Go on back and I’ll bring you a drink. Anything you’d like.”

  James gently tugged on the ribbon, coaxing Rosie closer. “And if I required something a bit more challenging, then?”

  “Come now, you’re too sweet to go looking for trouble,” she replied, her breath heavy with gin.

  James skimmed a finger along her jaw then down her neck to her substantial bosom. “Don’t let appearances fool you, Rosie. I’m a man with a considerable appetite for many things,” he said, “a decent card game with skilled players being only one.”

  She shivered again, clearly understanding his meaning. “Oh, I know what you’re looking for, then. Through there,” she gestured toward the archway a second time. “Only, take a sharp right and ask for Bramble.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” James said, drawing his finger over her heart and tapping once gently. “Do save some time for me later, won’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t dream otherwise,” Rosie answered, then turned back toward the bar.

  James wondered, not for the first time that evening, whether the proprietor of the Eagle’s Nest had been offered a discount by organized cutthroats if he employed every last man of ursine frame, frighteningly ugly visage, and unremittingly surly nature. Bramble, a match for the men who’d allowed James into the hell, was even less helpful—if that were possible.

  He’d only stared at James for a moment as though he meant to refuse him entry into the room. “You can’t afford it,” he’d spat out, daring James to reply.

  “You really are all becoming quite predictable,” James growled, drawing yet more guineas from his pocket and tossing them in the air.

  The man, surprisingly agile for his size, caught the coins and tucked them away in his homespun waistcoat. “Right this way, then.”

  James followed Bramble through the door and stood for a moment, then leaned lazily against the wall, surveying the scene. The room, though smaller, looked very much the same as the one in which James had just been standing. Nothing about the furniture nor embellishments communicated that this one held the presence of “deep punters.” There was only one table, as opposed to the ten or so in the main room. But it was the same version of scarred oak covered with serviceable table linen as all the others. It sat squarely in the middle of the room, with six men seated on six rickety chairs about it.

  The windowless walls possessed a few worthless paintings scattered about haphazardly, as though someone had thought to pretty up the place then abandoned their efforts altogether. Two ancient carpets lined the floors. It was impossible to tell what color they’d once been, years of footfalls having worn down their surely once vibrant hues to a sort of mishmash of creams, dull browns, and what James could only describe as a scrubby bracken green.

  There were more candles here, lining the walls in sconces. One large candelabra was placed in the middle of the table, illuminating each and every player. James supposed this was done on purpose, the likelihood of someone cheating amongst this lot—and in a much more skilled manner—more of a threat than what the punters in the front room represented.

  There was no bar, but James watched as various and assorted serving wenches sailed in and out of the room, taking orders for spirits from the men, then returning with glasses, and occasionally entire bottles, in hand.

  At first, it appeared there was only one way in and out of the deep punters’ room—namely, the door through which James had just arrived. But the wall directly across gave him pause. There was something off in the line of the chipped wainscoting, and he decided a closer look was in order.

  Before making his move, he studied all six of the men at the table, aware that it was actually five men and one woman. Seated conveniently enough with her back closest to the troubling wainscoting was Iris, her elbows on the table and her head nearly touching her cards in a protective manner. If he’d not ordered the clothing himself and witnessed the woman in them before, James didn’t think he would have recognized her.

  She’d donned a different hat from the one she’d worn to the boxing match: probably nicked it from the Les Moines agent Daphne had assured him had accompanied Iris to the Eagle’s Nest this evening. It hid the length of her hair easily. The rest of her costume was the same, though it did look far more rumpled than it had before and there appeared to be a smear of mud just near the left shoulder.

  James stifled a smile at the thought of what could have caused the wrinkling and mud. His coin was on Iris having taken a tumble during her hasty ride to the gaming hell. He’d have to remember to ask once he’d removed her from the Nest and restored her to safety within the walls of Kenwood House.

  But first, he had to do just that. James strolled to a chair and carried it to the table. “Might I join in?” he asked, his movements making it clear that he intended on playing no matter what the answer might be.

  “Did you have a chat then with Bramble?” one of the men countered, the rest of the table turning their attention toward James.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” James replied, noting the bit of wainscoting that had caught his attention from across the room. It was a hinged door, painted to match the wall and devoid of any sort of handle.

  The man, as old as the carpet but in much worse repair, nodded. “If Bramble let you pass, then yes, we’ve room for one more.”

  James nodded and set his chair next to Iris, who hazarded a look at James while she scraped her chair to the right to make room. Her eyes darted back to her cards just as quickly. He couldn’t tell if she’d recognized him or not.

  James looked at his fellow players and offered a friendly smile. “And what are we playing this evening, gentlemen?”

  “Vingt-et-un,” the old man answered. James could see now that he was the dealer in what was, for all intents and purposes, a fairly straightforward game. Vingt-et-un, or Twenty-one, involved each man playing his hand independently against the dealer. At the beginning of each round, players were required to place bets, after which they were dealt two cards. The object of the game was to achieve a higher card total than that of the dealer without going over twenty-one.

  James emptied the contents of his waistcoat pocket onto the table, a small fortune in coin clinking as it hit. “Don’t let me waste any more time, my good man. Please, on with the game.”

  James had played Vingt-et-un while inebriated. He’d played it while naked. He’d played it blindfolded. He’d even played it while foxed, naked, and blindfolded at the same time, though admittedly, he’d not fared well that time.

  He casually looked over the group of men gathered at the table, certain that he’d easily win. There were two who appeared to still have their wits about them—seasoned card players who more than likely played for a living. A few were merchants or gentry of some sort or another, who might have had some skill if they weren’t in their cups, having obviously partaken of the Eagle’s Nest’s rum punch. As it stood now, these men were able to keep their heads up, but James didn’t know how much longer that would be true. That left himself and Iris.

  The dealer instructed the table to contribute their coin to the pool. James tossed his three crowns into the center of the table and watched as the others did the same. Each player was dealt three cards face-side down, the dealer finishing by placing three cards face up on the table to form the widow. James picked up his cards, taking note of the four of clubs and the jack of hearts before turning his attention to the dealer. The old man exchanged the five of diamonds from the widow for a new card, his thin lips spreading into a smug smile when it landed faceup and revealed the ace of spades. The dealer looked to one of the inebriated merchants and awaited his move. This continued on, with each player attempting to make his hand first. James was keeping even, w
hich was surprising for him. But even more surprising was Iris’s run of good luck.

  James began to watch Iris in earnest, careful not to draw attention to her. She followed each player’s cards with alarming intensity despite the growing tension at the table. And then he noticed the smallest of movements. Her bottom lip would twitch every time the dealer dealt a card. James continued to watch, mentally recording every time her lips reacted in such a way.

  God Almighty, she was cheating. Where on earth had the woman—really, more of a girl if one was being completely honest—learned to count cards? She was audacious—ridiculously so—he’d give her that. Even James hadn’t mastered the art of counting cards, though he preferred to blame this on his own laziness rather than any mental shortcomings. What he did understand was that it was a form of cheating in which the player kept track of the cards dealt, then used this to his—or her, as the case may be—advantage in one of two ways. Either the player placed larger bets when she had the advantage. Or … James could not remember precisely what the second strategy involved. But it was neither here nor there.

  Iris was employing the first strategy and doing a damn fine job of it. James was torn between admiration for her and a growing sense of dread—for if he’d detected her cheating, then surely it was only a matter of time before the others did.

  How could she be so intelligent, yet so wantonly reckless?

  “Just hold on a bloody minute.”

  James’s question would have to wait. He looked up at the player on Iris’s right who’d uttered the demand. “Is there a problem?”

  “He’s fuzzed the cards,” the man replied, gesturing toward Iris.

  Iris peered up from her cards and turned to take the man in. “Prove it,” she said in a low, menacing tone.

  Not again.

  The disgruntled player knocked Iris’s cards from her hand and eyed her pile of coins with disgust. “There’s no way you’ve won all that fairly. I’ve seen you. You’re counting cards.”

  Iris put her hands over her winnings and sneered at the rest of the men at the table. “As I said, prove it.”