CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
This time when I arrived at the Penny, I arrived alone and was greeted by Davey at the door. He gave me that surprisingly sweet smile, and rumbled, “My lady,” in his most respectful tones. I found myself smiling back up at him.
“Ash says I should stay close tonight,” Davey murmured low in my ear, “so if you see anything you don’t like, you tell me and I’ll sort it.” He cracked his knuckles with an impressive crunching sound. The man had fists the size of cabbages, cabbages made of stone. It was certainly reassuring.
I felt, when he led me inside, a strange sense of homecoming. The champagne fizz of excitement in the air, the noise, the explosion of energy… It was already familiar, and the warmth of the scene crept into my bones, chasing away any chill of fear and nerves. This was an adventure. I was eagerly looking forward to playing cards and finally putting all my theorizing into action.
Davey led me across the crowded floor of the main room, and despite his size we didn’t draw much attention – after all, they knew him here. The rabid focus of the crowd was on the dice, the turn of a card, the roll of a wheel. Davey pulled back a curtain in the far corner of the room and tapped four short, sharp knocks on the door concealed behind it. Almost at once, the door swung open on silent hinges, and a pool of golden liquid candlelight spilled out.
Before I could enter, Davey put one of his enormous hands on my shoulder.
“Remember,” he said. “Anything you don’t like, you give me a sign.”
“What should the sign be?” I whispered back.
His forehead crumpled. “Perhaps you could scratch your nose? Or we could choose a code word?” He tipped his head, thoughtfully, clearly getting into the spirit of things. “Sarsaparilla is a good word.”
“Sarsaparilla is an excellent word,” I agreed solemnly. “Or I could yell, ‘Davey! Help!’”
Davey nodded. “Right you are. Either of those things happen and I’ll start knockin’ heads.” There was the knuckle crunch again.
“Perfect.”
On that note, we entered the private room.
It was, as I had expected given the rest of the Penny, furnished tastefully, and it felt warm and inviting. There was a fireplace, already lit and emitting welcoming pops and cracks. A large window to one side gave barely any insight into our surroundings. The only thing visible was the dim burning orb of the streetlamp outside, like a star hovering close in the darkness.
The centre of the room was dominated by a round table, and six deep, comfortable-looking chairs. Across the far wall another long table had been set up with food and drinks – despite the late hour, it seemed breakfast was served – plates of thinly sliced ham, pink and tender, sunny-yolked eggs, freshly baked bread, a platter of fruit and cheeses, a covered dish, which when opened revealed a fragrant, steaming tumble of kedgeree. In place of tea and coffee, however, were pitchers of wine and beer, and a bottle of expensive brandy. Breakfast in the dead of night. It seemed at once to have the childish appeal of a midnight feast and an adult sense of decadence.
Arranged around the table of food, piling their plates high, were four men. One of these gentlemen, a dapper man in his fifties, who was tall and wide with laughing eyes, strode towards me. His voice was loud, his accent clearly American. He balanced his plate in one hand and used the other to pump mine up and down enthusiastically.
“This must be the charming lady Ash told us to expect! What a pleasure! I hear you’re quite the whizz at cards!” Every sentence was clearly punctuated with an exclamation mark. “Now, don’t tell me. Mrs … Wilson? No, Williams!”
“How do you do?” I murmured. He was still clutching my hand.
“Horatio. P. Peabody!” he said, as though announcing a great circus act. “Delighted. Delighted!”
He finally relinquished his grip on me.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said, summoning my most charming smile. In truth, it wasn’t hard. Horatio P. Peabody was extremely winning, with his kind eyes and boyish enthusiasm.
“Allow me to introduce you to this band of reprobates!” he said cheerfully. “This here is Mr John Johnson – hell of a name, if you’ll beg my pardon!” He gestured towards a man who had the look of a watchful spider. Older than Horatio by a good few years, he was tall and thin, almost to the point of gauntness. His mouth remained firmly in a flat, straight line as he muttered an unconvincing “Charmed.”
“And this is Lord Jasper Covington,” Horatio continued, gesturing to a younger man, much closer to my own age, who wore an expression of utter world-weariness, and whose face, when I examined it more closely, was aged by a sense of dissipation – a bleary pinkness to his eyes, which were lined with blue shadows, a pallor to his skin. His eyes flickered over me, taking no trouble to conceal their path along the lines of my dress, the curves of the body within it.
“Mrs Williams?” he said, almost on a sigh. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” That, it seemed, said it all, and I was dismissed as someone of no interest. If I had been worth knowing, then Jasper Covington would already know me.
“No, I think I’ve been denied that pleasure,” I agreed.
“And, finally, we have my good friend, Mr Edward Laing!” Horatio boomed, delighted.
I steeled myself to face the man who Izzy believed to be a ruthless killer, but saw, as I had before, only a friendly, open countenance and an air of polite interest. He was handsome in a mild, non-threatening sort of way, and immaculately turned out, shoes gleaming, everything perfectly buttoned up, starched and pressed. I was flooded with doubt. Had Izzy got the wrong man?
“I believe I had the pleasure of meeting you last week, Mrs Williams,” Edward Laing said, his voice smooth and rich, full of the playful amusement I remembered from our last encounter. “When you were dazzling with your skill at vingt-et-un.” He grinned at me.
“I don’t think dazzling is quite the right word,” I demurred.
“Don’t undervalue yourself,” a voice came from behind me. “Dazzling is precisely the right word to describe you.”
I turned, and there was Ash with his lopsided grin, and my heart jumped in a peculiar way. Ash lifted my hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across my fingers. This resulted in a sensation tearing through my body that I imagined was something like the experience of clutching a live wire.
“Mrs Williams,” he said. “Lovely, as always.”
I tugged my hand away and found Laing watching us with interest.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” Laing said, directing the words to Ash, and though they were easy I felt something rippling beneath them, something hard to pin down. An edge, perhaps. He stepped towards Ash and held out his hand. “I’m Edward Laing.”
Then the two of them were shaking hands with a heartiness that spoke of much masculine muscle flexing.
“Ash,” the pirate said, all ease, with a smile that showed his teeth.
“So it really is only Ash?” Laing’s brows raised.
“I am an economical man, Mr Laing,” Ash replied lightly. “One name suits me fine.”
“Ah.” Amusement crept into Laing’s voice. “But I’m afraid your reputation precedes you, Ash .” He gestured around the room. “Economical is hardly the first word that I’ve heard used to describe you.”
“Fair enough.” Ash turned his gaze to me, eyes glittering. “I must admit that in most things I do enjoy a bit of excess.” The words were almost a purr.
“Well, perhaps you’ll allow me to steal you away, Mrs Williams, and escort you to your seat?” Laing said, offering his arm with a chivalrous bow that tidily dismissed the other man.
“Don’t you want something to eat first, love?” Ash plucked a grape from the table and threw it in the air, catching it in his mouth. He winked at me as I gaped at his lack of manners. Clearly he had decided to behave outrageously.
There was the faintest crinkling of Laing’s nose, and he squeezed my arm as if reassuring me. “Perhaps I could fix you a plate?” he murmured, all good breeding.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, shooting Ash a quick and daggering glare.
Unrepentant, Ash shrugged. “Suit yourself, but don’t blame me if your stomach starts growling during the game.”
“A gentleman does not talk about a lady’s stomach,” I said. “In fact, I don’t think a gentleman is supposed to acknowledge that ladies have stomachs.”
“Ah, but as I have told you several times, Mrs Williams, I am no gentleman.” He didn’t need to add, “ and that’s why you like me ,” because I heard the words anyway, as clear as if he had whispered them straight in my ear.
“Perhaps you could show me to my seat,” I said, turning to Laing. “Is there a particular seating plan?”
“Indeed there is,” Laing said as he guided me in the direction of the table, his body curved gently over mine as if protecting me from Ash’s uncouth ways.
I had believed Izzy when she’d told me that Laing was some sort of criminal mastermind. Now I was here, beside him, it seemed impossible. He was so ordinary and our surroundings were so elegant and comfortable. It seemed the wildest fancy that a world full of conspiracy and murder could even exist.
“Now, the dealer will sit there.” He gestured to one of the seats.
“That would be me,” Ash said from around a ham sandwich that he had slapped together.
“You?” Horatio P. Peabody’s eyes lit. “But you never deal.”
“For my favourite clients there can always be an exception,” Ash said smoothly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some ham, Mrs Williams? It is very good.”
“Well, well.” Horatio rubbed his hands together. “You shall have to play with us more often, Mrs W, if it means Ash will join us. Perhaps you’ll even tempt him to play.”
“Yes,” Lord Covington said, perking up for the first time. “What do you say, Ash? Get one of the other dealers in and join the game. I’ll advance you a five-hundred-pound stake myself.”
I swallowed. It was an enormous sum, and yet Covington threw the words off easily.
“Kind of you,” Ash said, “but you gentlemen know I never play at my own tables.”
“Wise,” Laing said with a nod. “One must always be careful not to mix business and pleasure.” He slid a chair out for me to sit. Davey wheeled over a silver drinks trolley and then came to stand silently several feet behind me, and I felt comforted by his nearness.
“Oh, I don’t believe that old adage.” Ash shook his head cheerfully, as the rest of the men sat. “What’s the point of denying oneself? Don’t you take pleasure in your business, Mr Laing?”
The man seemed to think about it for a moment, and then he smiled. “You know, I do. I really do.”
“And what line of business are you in, Mr Laing?” I asked quickly, keen to dig out more information. I wondered what he would say. Murderer for hire seemed unlikely.
“I dabble in several areas,” he replied thoughtfully, reaching over to the drinks trolley and picking up a carafe of wine. “I manage money – my own and other people’s.” He poured the wine into a heavy cut-crystal glass, the deep burgundy colour picking up the light from the candles, and it was as if the drink itself flickered with some dark flame, a blood-red deal with the devil.
“Investments?” I accepted the glass from his hand, telling myself not to be so fanciful.
“Certainly, I invest. In companies, in people. And I’m a collector of sorts. When I see something I desire, I can be quite ruthless, Mrs Williams, quite determined.” He smiled above his own glass of wine. “Nothing stands in the way of what I want.”
“I think that’s enough chit-chat, isn’t it?” Ash cut in, sounding bored. He held a pack of cards in his hand and sent them into one of those lightning-fast shuffles, the kind that left the edges of the cards a blur and that drew a murmur of appreciation from Horatio.
Before anyone could answer, four sharp knocks rang through the room. Ash’s eyes raised above my head, and I realized he was looking to Davey, a crease of annoyance between his brows.
Davey lumbered round the table to see who was at the door.
“I thought we weren’t to be disturbed,” Mr Johnson said, his tone peevish.
“We weren’t,” Ash replied shortly.
Davey leaned over Ash’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, before handing him a sheet of paper.
I watched as Ash unfolded the note, his eyes scanning the words. His face gave nothing away; it was utterly still, and that, I thought, was his true tell. Nothing about Ash was still – even when he wasn’t moving, he was so entirely alive that some wild restless energy sparked about him. Now he looked like a book that someone had closed with a thump.
“Not bad news, I hope?” Laing asked lightly.
Ash carefully folded the note and slid it into his pocket. “Not at all,” he said, the words even. “A business matter, but nothing that won’t wait. Shall we play?”