Chapter Twenty-Six
I n the early morning hours, Alfred stood by the window of his bedroom and stared into the night. A thin layer of frost sparkled on the roofs. Lights went on in a few houses, probably servants readying the households for the day ahead. A woman across the street opened the door and let a cat out. He heard the animal’s meow, birds chirping, and wooden carriage wheels on the pebbled street.
They’d hatched a dangerous plan and Ada was gambling with their futures. All he could do was to stay out of the way, which wasn’t in his nature. Alfred liked to jump to the rescue.
He glanced at the empty bed behind him, and his stomach turned. Seth should have brought her back by now. Whatever held them up could only be trouble.
On a typical day, he’d walk over to the patisserie and bring freshly baked rolls back for them all. He’d collect a few crocuses or tulips and watch the buds open just in time to hand them to his gorgeous girl when he brought her breakfast.
And then he’d bed her again, wrap himself around her deliciously slim body, hold her hips firmly, and spill himself into her while she peaked and grabbed him tightly. Alfred could virtually taste her sweet lips and hear her crying his name, moaning with pleasure as he’d catch her screams with kisses.
But she wasn’t with him, and he felt her loss acutely. This was not a typical day. He hated not waking up with her in his bed. His parents couldn’t arrive soon enough. He needed to marry Ada and ensure nobody could ever separate them. There was nothing he wanted more.
Restless, he went downstairs to the office. The ledgers that Ada called her “diaries” lay open on the desk. Alfred turned the pages and glanced at the writing. Her neat, upright letters had a feminine flourish. He flipped the pages back a year and found a different hand, one that transcribed a squiggly correction annotated with the initials ERS.
Curious, Alfred compared the entries—one that began a year ago in Ada’s handwriting with dates that matched her account of her arrival in England and earlier writing in a masculine hand, probably that of her father judging from the German “s.” But there were several instances of crossed-out numbers and overwritten notes. Each time, the player’s initials were ERS. Someone had altered her ledgers. Alfred riffled back through the pages and then it all made sense. Silvers had changed the entries to hide his debts to Ada’s father. It was right here, ink on paper, a motive for murdering Ada’s father. Instead of paying what he owed, he took Ada’s father’s life and forced him to write Charlotte into the will.
Did Ada know?
The clock struck seven.
Where was she?
Over the past twelve nights, he’d grown used to sleeping with her in his arms. Her slim body roused his senses. She’d become nestled into his heart, not merely his embrace. And even though he’d taken her virtue and her body, he wanted more. He wanted everything from this witty, spirited woman.
He’d had enough of uncertainty in his life. An engagement was a good start, but he couldn’t marry Ada without his parents present. He owed them his life, his heart, his education. But there was a nagging feeling that waiting too long would cost him his bride.
A bang at the door startled him. Alfred stepped to the window and looked down. One of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s men stood on the steps. His heart rose to his throat. Had something happened? Was Ada all right? Seth? Had their plans gone awry? He hurried down the stairs and flung the door open to greet Puck.
Puck looked at him with a calm expression and said, “Time to meet your bride.”
No! He didn’t want a bride. Not if it wasn’t Ada. But he didn’t even have time to grab his hat before Puck ushered him into the carriage, intent on driving straight to Cleveland Row.
“Wait! I need to get something in the house!” Alfred resisted. “Is Ada still there?”
Puck nodded.
Wrestling himself free, Alfred rushed back inside and retrieved the ledger before he returned to the carriage. It was time to confront Mrs. Dove-Lyon with the truth.
The Lyon’s Den looked harmless by day, painted light blue and sitting on a street filled with people and horses—far different than its nighttime appearance. The foreboding cleanliness struck Alfred as soon as the carriage came to a stop. Without roaring gamblers around, the Lyon’s Den was even more terrifying than usual. Puck escorted him to the front door, sticking close enough to grab him if Alfred tried to flee. He had no idea that the woman of his heart—his soul!—was inside the building and leaving her there was the last thing Alfred would do.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s room,” Puck said to the wolf at the door and let Alfred walk in first. Inside, servants were clearing dishes and glasses, tossing piles of cards in buckets, and cleaning up from the ball. The wolves still stood guard.
Alfred knew the stench of alcohol and sin all too well. The combination often comingled pain and blood when things got out of control. But this time, he had the sinking feeling he was about to become the casualty of the day.