The duchess held out an arm to Avery, who took it, and then and only then did Zella offer Jameson the other. He took it as well, and she led them through the room, a promenade that he knew with every bone in his body served her purpose—whatever that purpose was.
“Men,” Jameson echoed. Aside from the dealers—all female, all dressed in old-fashioned ballgowns—there were very few women in this room.
“It’s rarer for women to be granted membership,” Zella said. She shifted her gaze to Avery. “You must be quite remarkable—or have something the Proprietor wants very much.”
The Proprietor. Jameson could almost taste the thrill of his next impossible task. Get his attention. Win entrance to the Game.
“Woman to woman,” Zella said to Avery, “let me help you become a bit more acclimated.” She nodded to tables as she passed. “Whist. Piquet. Vingt-et-un.”
Jameson didn’t recognize the first two games, but he was able to quickly figure out the last one. “Twenty-one,” he translated. “As in blackjack.”
“In the era in which the Devil’s Mercy was founded, it was known as vingt-et-un.”
Jameson took that as an indication that the Mercy was supposed to feel like leaving the world’s present reality behind.
“I don’t suppose there’s a poker table?” Jameson said dryly.
Zella nodded to a set of ornate stairs. “Poker is played on the balcony. A recent addition. Seventy years ago, perhaps? As you’ll discover, most games played here go back much further.”
Jameson had the feeling that when the duchess said games, she wasn’t referring only to those being played on the tables.
“And the Proprietor?” Jameson asked. “Is he here tonight?”
“I’ve found it best to assume he’s everywhere,” Zella said. “We are, after all, in his domain. Now,” she continued, having finished their little promenade, “if the two of you will excuse me, I have an eidetic memory, a reputation at the tables, and a plan.” The duchess turned her head toward Avery. “If anyone here makes you uncomfortable or does something they should not, know that you have an ally in me. Outsiders should stick together—to a point. Bonne chance.”
Jameson watched Zella walk away and mentally translated her parting words. Good luck. He scanned the room, taking it all in: so many games, so many possibilities, one task at hand. Feeling like an electric charge through his veins, Jameson turned to Avery and nodded to the staircase to the balcony overhead.
“What do you say, Heiress?” Jameson whispered. “Ready to lose?”
CHAPTER 27
GRAYSON
Grayson imported the photographs he’d taken of Gigi’s key the night before to his laptop. Using his hand in the photo for scale, he calculated the key’s dimensions, double-checked those calculations, and used them, along with a ghost image of the key, to begin building a digital model. By the time the Haywood-Astyria’s personal concierge came to check on him midday, he was nearly done.
“Is there anything we can get you, sir?”
For a black-card guest at this establishment, that question didn’t refer only to hotel amenities. “I’m going to need a 3D printer,” Grayson replied. He didn’t have to provide a rationale for the request, so he did not. “Please.”
The concierge left. Grayson finished his work. Saving it, he made a second, nearly identical file, altering the key’s teeth just enough to render this one useless. Sorry, Gigi. Not allowing himself to wallow in that thought, he turned his attention to an equally unpleasant one. “What exactly does one wear to a high school party?”
Even when Grayson had been in high school, he hadn’t ever needed the answer to that question. His brothers had attended such parties occasionally, but Grayson had never seen the point. And if he had gone, he wouldn’t have wasted a single second deciding what to wear. A fine suit was like armor, and Grayson had been raised to walk into every room armed.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he needed to blend in. Unfortunately, Grayson Davenport Hawthorne knew nothing about blending. “Shorts?”
Thankfully, his phone rang before he could meditate too long on that possibility. “Zabrowski,” Grayson answered, sliding smoothly into business mode. “I trust you have answers for me.”
If you allow people to fail you, he could hear his grandfather lecturing, they inevitably will. So don’t give them the option.
“I ran a basic background check on Kent Trowbridge,” the private investigator reported.
“Do I pay you,” Grayson said evenly, “for basic?”
“And then I fleshed it out,” Zabrowski said hurriedly. “As you’ve probably gathered, the guy’s a lawyer—and very connected. Comes from a whole family of lawyers. Or maybe dynasty is the better word.”
“I take it they’re financially… stable,” Grayson translated.
“Very. And interestingly for your purposes, the guy grew up alongside Acacia Grayson née Engstrom. The Trowbridge and Engstrom families go way back.”
Grayson filed that piece of information away. “Anything else?”
“He’s widowed, one son.”
Grayson was well aware of the son. “And the Grayson family’s current financial situation?” The list of assignments he’d given Zabrowski after the conversation he’d overheard between Acacia and Trowbridge was lengthy.
The detective kept his reply short. “Not good.”
The muscles in Grayson’s jaw tightened. He’d kept Zabrowski on retainer to make sure that the girls were taken care of, and he had been given the distinct impression that finances were not an issue in the Grayson household—and never would be. “Explain.”
“When the Engstrom matriarch passed away the year before last, everything was left to Acacia and her daughters—in trusts.”
Grayson thought about Acacia saying that her parents were the ones who’d bankrolled her husband’s companies. “And?” He had no intention of letting Zabrowski off that easily.
“Outside of those trusts, all of Acacia Grayson’s assets were jointly held with her husband… who has since come under IRS and FBI investigation.”
Grayson had never allowed himself a temper, so he didn’t lose it. He didn’t say What the hell have I been paying your retainer for? He didn’t have to. “What kind of investigation?” he demanded with icy, unnatural calm.
That tone had put the fear of God and Hawthornes in better men than the detective. Grayson could practically hear him gulp.
“White collar, presumably,” Zabrowski managed. “Tax evasion, embezzlement, insider trading—your guess is as good as mine.”
“Do I pay you to guess?”
“Point is, the joint accounts are frozen.” Zabrowski rushed the words. “Some have already been seized. Someone’s keeping it out of the press, but—”
“And the money left to Acacia in trust?” Grayson asked. Those funds would have been hers and hers alone, not subject to seizure based on her husband’s crimes unless she was implicated as well.
“Gone,” Zabrowski said.
Grayson felt his eyes narrow. “What do you mean, gone?”
“Do you know how many laws I had to break to even get this information?” Zabrowski shot back.
“Let’s assume none,” Grayson said in a tone meant to remind the private investigator that if laws had been broken, he couldn’t know about it. “Continue.”
If Zabrowski resented being given orders by a person less than half his age, he was wise enough not to show it. “Acacia Grayson’s trust was drained—presumably by her husband before he fled the country.”
Sheffield Grayson didn’t flee the country. “And the girls’ trusts?” Grayson asked.
“Intact and substantial,” Zabrowski assured him. “But the Engstroms must have had some reservations about their daughter and her husband, because neither were listed as trustees.”
Grayson processed that in an instant and wasted no time with his reply. “Allow me to guess: Kent Trowbridge.”