Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
“Another win fer th’ young gentleman!” the dealer announced, reshuffling the deck while Bette squealed French delight and peppered Bart’s cheek with kisses.
“There now.” Bart peeled the lady off him. “Y’ can show yer pleasure later in bed, woman, I’ve another round t’ win.” Annabelle made sure to grimace, because Bart looked older when he scowled. She’d practiced in the mirror.
The crowd gathered about their table laughed, making Bette pout, her hand lingering at Bart’s arm. “Don’t play too long, mon amour.” Lizzie smiled seductively. “A lady does not like to wait.”
“Yer call, sir,” barked the dealer.
Bart gave Bette a small nod. He had to win but a few more hands before his lucky streak was noticed and an audience with Finch all but guaranteed.
He inhaled a breath, pretending to scratch an itch as he felt for the knife he wore at his waist, hidden beneath his vest. Arthur had demonstrated how easily one could be unmasked; Annabelle as Bart would not make that mistake twice.
“An’ t’ whom do I owe this pleasure, good sir?” Finch sidled up behind Annabelle, making her insides briefly quake.
“Brown, sir. Bartholomew Brown, at yer service.” Bart kept his head low, offering no hand to shake or hat to tip.
“Well, well, Mr. Brown. Fer a lad so young, y’ play exceptionally well. An’ a fair lady by yer side, my my.” Squinting, Finch looked Bette over. “We ought t’ ave ourselves a wee chat in me office t’ discuss opportunities here at The Canary fer a talented lad like yerself.”
“Why, I’d be delighted, Mister…?” Bart feigned ignorance.
“Finch, young sir. An’ may I ask who this fetchin’ creature is?” His gaze raked Elizabeth again, settling on the fake mole at her cheek.
“Mademoiselle Babette,” Bart introduced. “Me very own Lady Luck.” He gave a healthy swat to Lizzie’s posterior.
“Why, Monsieur Brown, you naughty garcon!” Bette chirped, leaning into Bart’s arm to afford Finch a better view of her French bosom. “I am not yours alone, sir.”
It was Lizzie’s job to locate the key kept on Finch’s body; she’d need to get close, repulsive though that task may be.
She threw Finch a wink. “I can be any man’s bonne chance, for a price.”
“Knows ’er worth.” Finch’s hand clapped heavily to Bart’s back, jolting Annabelle.
“You’ll have t’ earn big t’ keep her.” His nasty laugh sent chills up her spine.
“Let’s talk in private o’er a glass o’ port, lad.
” Finch guided Bart by the nape of his neck from the table.
“You too, miss.” His beady eyes flashed at Bette. “We’ll make a party of it.”
Harris scanned the room, cap low and head down, pretending to focus on his game.
He didn’t care that his hair was carrot red, didn’t care if he won or lost this hand.
He cared only for finding Jasper alive and getting his men safely out of this rat hole, for the place was crawling with lowlifes, though as yet still no bloody sign of Finch.
The devil would walk the floor at some point, though.
An owner always showed his face at least once in the course of a night.
And this night was ripe for surprise. Harris’s army of yobs from the docks and men from The Leaf had discreetly trickled in with coin aplenty to play the tables—and promise of more should the job go as planned.
The moment he gave the signal, they’d storm the hall and cellars to spring Jasp free.
A better plan by far than that poison nonsense cooked up by Bella and her sister; no way in hell would he let his bloody wife into Finch’s lair.
He hadn’t needlessly tortured himself marrying Miss Winthrop for her to end up in the devil’s maw.
“Well hullo, handsome.” A painted lady sidled up to watch him play.
“Miss.” Harris tipped his cap. “You’re a sight fer sore eyes, but I aim t’ earn more’n I spend this night.”
“Pity.” Her hand trailed his arm with a pout.
He merely smirked in response, following her swinging hips until his eyes hit upon a different backside whose crooked gait he knew.
Harris watched Finch lead a young man and wench away from the tables.
He didn’t like the grip Ronny had on the boy, and he didn’t like the look of that boy’s own hips either.
His hackles rose with infuriating alarm, for the wench beside the young man’s shapely arse had Lady Milton’s blasted stature.
And from behind, that lad looked suspiciously like one Bartholomew Brown.
Finch brought them to the bowels of The Canary, to an office decorated with brocade tapestries and dark, velvet drapes, all blood red in color, next to gold-gilt sconces reeking of gaudy taste.
It was just as Li had described it, which meant Finch’s dungeons must also be close.
Caverns, Li had called them, or underground caves hollowed out.
A single burly guard stood watch at Finch’s door just like Mary Audrey had foretold.
The man’s brawn made Elizabeth anxious, though everything now made her insides flip, most especially the fact Finch had not let her fetch his port, but had poured himself and Annabelle two glasses instead. Arsenic foiled, damnation!
He looked like Midas himself seated behind his massive desk as he clicked his dangling tooth back and forth, back and forth. Bella as Bart simply sipped her drink, leaning back in her chair the way a man would—a man who did as he pleased and knew what he wanted.
Her sister was shockingly good at being that man.
“Now Mr. Brown, might I call yer Bart, sir?” Finch stared hard at Bella.
“Mr. Brown’ll do.”
“So that’s how ’tis, eh?” He leaned forward, stare narrowing. “A man o’ business, same as me. Good, good.” His head flicked to Elizabeth, who stood just behind Bart’s chair. “Y’ won’t mind if th’ lady sits with me then, while we chat?”
In the distant recesses of this foul man’s lair, Elizabeth thought she heard metal scrape, chain on stone.
“She’s a mind of her own,” Bart nodded at Bette, “an’ can do as she likes.”
Elizabeth took the opportunity to sidle over to Finch and boldly seat herself on his lap, placing her arms about the foul man’s neck. He immediately slid his arm about her waist and squeezed.
“Now here’s a lass what knows her place.” He pinched her roundly, making her wince, though she began to twine her fingers into the greasy curls at his neck, searching for a chain between skin folds—in vain.
Bart kept his cool. “I’d remind you th’ lady came with me, sir, an’ she’ll leave with me too.”
“That so?” Finch leveled. “Why don’t we play for her then?” He pinched Elizabeth hard enough this time she yelped. “She understands th’ stakes, an’ you’ve a clear talent, boy.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a deck. “My win takes th’ lady, and yer win takes her back.”
Bart remained shockingly calm. “Yer game don’t favor me no gain, sir.”
“Right-o, Bella.” Finch lurched forward, violently knocking Elizabeth from his lap. He planted both hands atop his desk and loomed across the surface. “But it sure do even th’ score.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt as Annabelle thrust her own chair away from the desk, refusing to back down.
“You just call me some girlie name?” Bart puffed himself up as much as he possibly could, making Elizabeth both proud and terrified for her sister. When and where had Bella found such courage?
Finch coughed a sick snort while the scrape of metal grew more audible from the dark.
Someone was here. Could it be Jasper? Or was it a different, sad soul in chains?
Elizabeth’s skin tingled as she peered into the dark, far arches of this cavernous vault.
Her eyesight was too poor to make out more than shadows, but her hands now roamed Finch’s body from behind.
She patted his pockets in tease, pretending to stroke his upper arms, his chest, his waist. She felt something hard through the lining of his waistcoat as hope leapt.
“Annabelle, darlin’,” the devil drawled at Bart, “y’ make a handsome lad, but them hips swing too well on yer fine, heart-shaped arse. An’ yer eyes, me sweet”—he leaned closer across the desk—“are too rare a color t’ mistake.”
Elizabeth froze.
“Wondered how soon I’d get a visit after yer sister’s maid delivered me message.” He laughed, and Elizabeth’s hand scrambled for the key, but his own gripped hers in a twist so vicious he made her cry out.
“An’ as fer you, Lady Milton…” He wrenched Elizabeth to his side, painfully pinning her arms behind her back.
“Though I’ve enjoyed having yer French self on me lap, dearie, ’tain’t no place fer a married lady, now is it?
” His voice slid malevolently into her ear.
“Did y’ wish t’ pay yer husband a visit, ma’am?
” He snickered. “He’s here in me lair, trussed an’ waitin’.
Go on then—go an’ give yer man a kiss.” He pushed her so roughly, Elizabeth landed hard on the floor, her hidden spectacles biting into her thigh with a crunch.
She scrambled to her feet, shaking with rage. “You’ve no right to hold my husband hostage, sir, just as you’d no right to swindle my father for Annabelle’s hand!”
“Quite th’ spitfire.” His laugh was pure wickedness.
“Only I’ve had enough o’ yer type assumin’ I’ll do yer biddin’.
” His laugh all but died. “Because this here’s my turf, Baroness, so you’ll do as I say now, yer bonny sister too—if y’ know what’s good for yer.
” He reached across his desk and dragged Bella clear across the surface.
“Please!” Elizabeth cried. “Let her go or—”
“What?” Finch snorted. “Y’ think a few screams down here’ll disturb my sorts o’ guests?
Think me guard’ll come runnin’ t’ yer rescue?
I’ve men crawlin’ this den, ready t’ pounce at a word, nay, a blink from me.
” He hauled Bella off the desk, planting her body flush against his own, his hand gripping her neck.