“Onyx.” Rohan spoke directly behind Jameson. “And white agate.”
Jameson whirled, expecting to see Rohan inches away, only to realize the Factotum was still by the door.
“Trick of the walls,” Rohan said with a smile, then he turned to Avery and held out his arm. “I have business to attend to, but the Proprietor has given me leave to get you situated first.”
The Proprietor. Jameson tried not to show his hand at the mere mention of the man, just like he tried not to glare at Rohan when Avery took his arm and the Factotum began to lead her around the room. All part of the game.
Jameson’s stride was long enough that he caught up to them long before they made it to the first grand archway.
“The Mercy has five archways,” Rohan said, his words seeming to echo all around them. “Each leads to entertainment of a different sort.” Rohan said the word entertainment with a wicked sort of smile. A roguish one.
The kind Jameson was used to wielding himself.
“Each area is dedicated to a deadly sin. We are, after all, the Devil’s Mercy.” Rohan swept aside the curtain to their left. Beyond, Jameson could make out dozens of canopies, whatever was beneath them obscured by layers of chiffon.
“Lust?” Jameson guessed.
“Sloth,” Rohan replied with a smirk. “We keep several masseurs on staff, if relaxation is what you’re after.”
Jameson doubted most members of this club came here to relax.
“Gluttony, next.” Rohan led them to the next archway. “You’ll find our chefs second to none. All beverages are, of course, top-shelf and complimentary.”
Where angels fear to tread, have your fun instead. The warning came back to Jameson. But be warned: The house always wins.
Next, archway number three. Rohan pulled a velour curtain barely back. Inside, there was a spiraling staircase, the same shade of gold as the atrium’s granite floor.
“Lust.” Rohan let the curtain drop. “There are private chambers upstairs. What members use those chambers for”—he gave Jameson a moment to imagine—“is up to them.” Rohan’s eyes hardened. “But lay a hand on anyone who does not want a hand there or who is too inebriated to consent, and I cannot guarantee that you will still have a hand in the morning.”
That just left two archways. As they approached the first, Jameson realized that its curtain was much heavier than the others. The moment Rohan pulled it back, they were hit by the roar of a crowd. Past the archway, Jameson could see what looked to be two dozen people, and beyond the crowd—a boxing ring.
“Some of our members like to fight,” Rohan stated, lingering for just a moment on that word. “Some like to place bets on the fights. I would caution you against the former, at least as far as facing off against our house fighters is concerned. Those who fight for the Mercy never pull their punches. Blood is shed. Bones are broken.” Rohan’s lips pulled back from his teeth into something like a smile. “Caution must be exercised. If you end up in a disagreement with another player at the tables, however, you’re welcome to take the disagreement to the ring.”
“Wrath?” Jameson guessed with an arch of his brow.
“Wrath. Envy. Pride.” Rohan dropped the curtain. “People end up in the ring for all kinds of reasons.” Something about the way Rohan said that made Jameson think that the Factotum had spent time in the ring himself. “As you explore the Mercy, note that bets may be placed in four of the five areas. Members bet on fights and on the tables, of course, but the first two rooms I showed you each have a book, and those books hold more unconventional wagers. Any wager written into one of those books and signed for is binding, no matter how bizarre. And speaking of binding wagers…” Rohan produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a velvet pouch and handed it to Avery. “Your transfer came through, untraceable, just how we like them. You’ll find five-thousand-pound, ten-thousand-pound, and hundred-thousand-pound marks inside. These chips will be handed over to me at the end of the night.” His teeth flashed in another smile. “For safe-keeping.”
The three of them made it almost full circle around the room, to the final arch. “Greed,” Rohan said, his lips curving upward. “Beyond this curtain, you’ll find the tables. We offer an eclectic selection of games. Ms. Grambs, you’ll want to concentrate on those where you’re playing against the membership, not the house. And as for you…” Rohan shifted his gaze from Avery to Jameson. “Don’t wager anything you can’t afford to lose, Jameson Hawthorne.” Rohan leaned forward to speak directly into Jameson’s ear, his voice a silky whisper. “There’s a reason that men like your father aren’t allowed back.”
CHAPTER 26
JAMESON
Stepping into the gaming room was like stepping back in time to a ballroom from eras past. The towering ceilings made Jameson wonder just how far underground they were. He focused on that question, not the more obvious one: How long had Rohan known that Ian was Jameson’s father?
And what else does he know? Jameson pushed back against the thought. He needed to focus on what mattered. Let nothing escape your notice. Take it all in. Know it. Use it.
The walls of the ballroom were made of pale wood. Gold moldings covered the ceiling, like something out of a Venetian palace. The shining white marble floor was partly covered with a massive, lush carpet, sapphire in color, struck through with gold. Ornate tables, obviously antique, were positioned strategically around the room. Different shapes, different sizes.
Different games.
At the closest table, a dealer dressed in an old-fashioned ballgown handed a pair of dice to an elderly gentleman.
“Hazard,” a voice said to Jameson’s left. That Duchess stepped into his peripheral view. “The game you’re watching? It’s called hazard.” The duchess’s gown was jade green tonight, made from fabric that flowed with her movements, slit on either side up to her thighs.
Like Avery, she was holding a velvet pouch.
“It’s the predecessor of dice—or what you Americans call craps,” the duchess continued. “But a bit more complicated, I’m afraid.” She inclined her head toward the man with the dice. “The person throwing is known as the caster. He picks a number no lower than five, no higher than nine. The number chosen dictates the conditions under which you win or lose. Fail to do either after the first throw, and the number thrown becomes a part of the game as well.” She smiled. “Like I said, it’s complicated. I’m Zella.”
Jameson raised a brow. “Just Zella?”
“I’ve always been of the belief that titles tell you less about the player than the game.” Zella gave a graceful little shrug. “You may use mine if you wish, but I do not—unless there’s a reason to.”
Every instinct Jameson possessed converged into a single thought: There is a reason for everything this woman does.
“And what about the two of you?” Zella said. “What would you like to be called here at court?”
“I’m Avery. He’s Jameson.”
The fact that Avery had answered the question let Jameson be the one to ask: “Court?”
“It’s how some people refer to the Mercy,” Zella said. “The bed of power and all that, just rife with politics and intrigue. For example…” Her dark brown eyes roved over the room—and the copious amounts of attention the three of them were now attracting. “Almost everyone here tonight is now wondering if we know each other.”
Avery studied the duchess. “Do you want them to think we do?”
“Perhaps.” Zella smiled. “The Mercy is a place where bargains are struck. Deals made. Alliances formed. That’s the thing about power and wealth, isn’t it?” she said, addressing the question to Avery. “Men who have a great deal nearly always want more.”