8. The Bitter Grip
The Bitter Grip
In the less wholesome quarter of Covent Garden, tucked away amidst narrow alleys and the reek of stale ale, stood a gaming hell known as Sixes an unsettling silence hung heavy.
Lilith Bittermann sat at a large polished mahogany desk, her wiry frame taut and erect.
Her sharp features, framed by tight, dark curls, gave her the air of a predatory bird, always watching, always calculating.
Her bony fingers traced the neat columns of figures in the ledger before her, a testament to her singular talent for extracting wealth from the foolish, the desperate, and the unwary.
Men of lesser mettle had been reduced to incoherent stammers under Lilith’s icy stare, and Miles Sinclair was shaping up to be no exception.
Across from her, Miles shifted uncomfortably in a chair that seemed designed to test the endurance of its occupant.
His Italian greyhound, Periwinkle, perched at his feet, ears twitching at every sound.
The little dog’s sleek beige coat gleamed in the firelight, his nervous gaze darting toward Rudi Bittermann.
Rudi stood by his sister’s desk, his hulking frame clothed in a severe black coat that only accentuated his threatening presence.
His countenance bore the evidence of several close encounters with fists, bottles, and the odd chair leg.
His misshapen ear and flattened nose completed the picture of a man who’d never met a fight he didn’t fancy.
His broad shoulders and scarred visage needed no animation to convey menace; even in stillness, his impassive expression was a promise of violence.
Lilith did not look up as Miles cleared his throat, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of his gloves.
“Miss Bittermann,” he began, his voice faltering, “Uh…I am fully aware of my, um…obligations.”
“Are you?” Lilith lifted her head, her piercing gaze locking onto Miles. “How gratifying, Mr. Sinclair. I trust your awareness extends to the interest, which, as you know, compounds with delightful regularity.”
Miles flushed. “Yes, of course. I was just about to mention that I am, uh…on the v-verge of resolving the matter,” he stammered, weaving a desperate lie. “I have, you see, um—secured the affections of an heiress.”
Lilith arched a brow. “An heiress? How charming. And convenient. You have my felicitations,” she said blandly.
Rudi snorted, a sound not unlike a disgruntled bull. Periwinkle growled at the noise. Miles silenced the dog with a quick hand on his collar.
“Thank you, Miss Bittermann,” Miles nodded before rushing on, “Her dowry, substantial as it is, uh, will suffice to clear any, um—outstanding obligations.”
Lilith smiled. The expression was more unnerving than her bland look of disdain. “How very convenient, Mr. Sinclair. Pray, who is the fortunate lady, and when is the blessed day?”
Miles’s unease was manifest. “I fear discretion compels me to withhold her name for the present, Miss Bittermann,” he said hurriedly.
“My beloved has only revealed her, uh, partiality to me. I need time to win over her father. You see her family’s approval is still, um…
forthcoming.” He saw Lilith’s under lid tighten and again rushed on to assure her, “But I will succeed with the old man, I assure you. Matters of the heart, and all that, Miss Bittermann, require delicate handling.”
Lilith’s expression remained impassive. “Indeed, Mr. Sinclair, but sentiment rarely settles debts. I’ll give you a month, to secure your father-in-law’s blessing.
Hopefully, by the end of the season, you’ll have transformed this supposed partiality into something tangible.
Should you fail, be assured, I will not be so understanding a second time. ”
Miles scrambled to his feet as Rudi stepped forward.
Periwinkle growled. With a muttered “Hush, Peri,” Miles scooped the little dog and made a hasty retreat.
Rudi’s bulk followed him the length of the room toward the door.
With a quick farewell, Miles exited in a rush, the door clicking shut behind him.
Rudi turned to his sister, his expression dark. “He’s lying,” he growled. “If there was an heiress, he’d have named her.”
Lilith smiled. “Perhaps,” she drawled. “But men like Miles Sinclair are seldom so forthcoming. He no doubt imagines his discretion the mark of a gentleman.” Her gaze turned speculative.
“Lady Eleanor Beauchamp springs to mind—though she has ten years on him and a temper. Not his style, I think. The wiser wager would lay odds on Miss Catherine Pembroke, whose father would no doubt sell his shipping empire to see her married to a Sinclair,” she added with a gleam in her eye, “and she has twenty thousand pounds coming her way.”
Rudi gave a low whistle. “Twenty thousand! And here I thought you disdained keeping track of the debs.”
“Debutantes do bore me, brother,” Lilith said with a shrug. “Heiresses, however, are investments worth monitoring.”
“Are you sending your spies in search of her?”
Lilith’s smile widened. “Naturally. It won’t take much to uncover who Mr. Sinclair has been sniffing after—if, indeed, there is anyone.” She turned the pages of her ledger before her finger paused over a name. “Yes. Perfect. Just the man for the job.”
“And if Sinclair has hooked a fortune?” Rudi asked, though his tone suggested he doubted such an eventuality.
“Then,” Lilith replied, her voice smooth as silk, “we shall see that both his debts and her dowry are redirected to their proper home. Ours.”
Rudi let out a bark of laughter, dark and approving. “You do have a knack, Lil. I’ll say that for you.”
The Bittermann siblings’ arrival in London six years prior had been as sudden as it was mysterious.
No whispers of their existence preceded them, no tales of their past ventures to hint at their origins.
So they established themselves as the proprietors of Sixes & Sevens, the most exclusive and scandalous gaming hell in Covent Garden.
Thus did their notoriety flourish, murmured in the hushed confines of drawing rooms and gentlemen’s clubs alike.
Tales of ruined fortunes and veiled extortion became inextricably linked to their name, yet such was their charm—and their cunning—that they remained ever beyond the reach of justice.
Their methods were insidious. Patrons drawn to Sixes & Sevens by its glamour found themselves ensnared by drink and dice, their senses dulled and their pockets emptied.
Those unable to pay their debts were given alternatives—reveal a secret, provide an introduction, or perform a favor.
Lilith Bittermann’s network of influence grew with every ruined man who left their establishment, his desperation a currency in their ledger.
Miles Sinclair was merely the latest in a long line of unfortunate souls.
In the gloom of the Sinclair library in Grosvenor Square, a room he still thought of as his father’s, Miles sank into the desk chair, his posture one of utter dejection.
The burden of his misfortunes pressed heavily upon him .
The mahogany desk was strewn with scattered papers.
Periwinkle leaped onto the desk, curling up amid the chaos and gazing at his master with large, doleful eyes.
“Oh, Peri,” Miles murmured, scratching the dog’s ears. “I’ve made a fine mess of things, haven’t I? No heiress, no dowry, only a mountain of debt and the Bitter Grip tightening around my throat.”
He sighed, reflecting on his previous confidence that fortune would favor him as it always had before.
When the first debts mounted, the solution had seemed so obvious—place another bet, raise the stakes, and let one decisive victory wash the slate clean.
But that victory had never come. Instead, each loss dug the pit deeper.
A streak of bad luck, surely. The next wager would turn things around.
Just one more hand, one more roll of the dice.
But the streak never broke, and the realization that it might never break was a weight that had settled deep in his chest. He faced a reckoning from which he could not escape—unless he could prevail upon the generosity of another.
So he reached for the quill and a blank sheet of paper to start his plea.
After admitting his wretched behavior and begging Alex for help, he set the quill down to pace the room.
Fragments of his earlier conversation with Lilith and Rudi Bittermann replayed in his mind.
He had lied to them, spinning a tale of an impending engagement to an imaginary heiress.
Would they believe him? Could such a flimsy fabrication buy him enough time for Alex to intervene?
But even as he clung to that hope, another thought gnawed at the edges of his mind. What if Alex couldn’t help? What if the debts were insurmountable, the Bittermanns too powerful? What if both of them became ensnared in the web that Lilith had woven?
Miles passed a weary hand over his brow and subsided into the chair, quite spent .
Periwinkle, who had been dozing atop a pile of papers, lifted his head and regarded Miles with kind eyes.
As if sensing his master’s distress, the little dog crawled into his lap and nuzzled against him.
Miles let out a deep sigh, burying his face in Periwinkle’s fur.