10. Madam Bittermann Commissions a Spy
Madam Bittermann Commissions a Spy
Lord Edwin Creswell, ensconced in a shadowed corner of the Sixes & Sevens entrance, worried a fine linen handkerchief between clammy fingers.
The heavy scent of cigar smoke and the distant clatter of dice, could not quell the mounting dread roiling in his belly.
The summons by Madam Bittermann to attend her promised no pleasantries.
A burly man, whom Creswell recognized from his duties at the door, parted the nearby draperies and, with a backward jerk of his head, indicated that his mistress would now receive him.
Creswell swallowed hard, rising on unsteady legs as he was led through a labyrinth of curtained alcoves and narrow hallways, each passage seemingly designed to constrict both movement and resolve.
After being led upstairs and via more sectioned-off corridors, he was ushered into a spacious private sitting room, where Lilith Bittermann, elegant but lethal, presided behind a mahogany desk.
At her side stood her brother Rudi, his bulk radiating menace with every breath.
“Ah, Lord Creswell,” said Lilith, her eyes rising only briefly from the page in front of her. “How fares your enterprise, sir?”
Edwin sat before her desk, fingers knotted around the handkerchief in his lap. “Miss Bittermann,” he began, his voice a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I—I assure you, my inquiries have been most uh…diligent.”
“Diligent?” echoed Rudi. “We were promised results, not excuses!” His fist met the table with a resounding crash.
The impact set a carafe and glasses trembling, and Edwin’s heart into a frantic gallop.
The sudden violence of the gesture was a stark reminder of the enforcer’s capacity for brutality—a silent promise of pain should satisfaction not be forthcoming.
Lilith interjected, “Enough, Rudi,” her tone but a whisper, compared to her brother. “Let us not be hasty,” she continued, “Lord Creswell understands what is at stake. Do you not, sir?” Her words left no room for misinterpretation.
“Indeed, Miss Bittermann,” Edwin managed, “I am acutely sensible of the, ah…weight of my obligations.”
Lilith’s smile, though devoid of warmth, calmed the atmosphere. “Therein lies wisdom, Lord Creswell,” she said, her gaze fixed on his fear-filled eyes. “We have anticipated your success with the keenest interest.”
“I have tried, Miss Bittermann, truly I have, but Mr. Nash is very busy at present and holds me and my requests of little account. He has the King’s favor, why would he hear me out regarding a new client that wishes an introduction.”
“You did speak just now of the gravity of your debts, Lord Creswell. I thought their weightiness would make you very persuasive in the simple procurement of an hour of the architect’s time.”
“Miss Bittermann, I—”
She raised a bony hand, bringing Creswell’s nervous words to an end. “Spare me your excuses. If you cannot move Mr. Nash perhaps there is something else you can do.”
“But name it, ma’am, I am eager to repay my debts in any way possible.”
Lilith’s eyes gleamed with a predatory light. Leaning back in her chair, she steepled her fingers thoughtfully, the glint of her jeweled rings catching the dim lamplight. Rudi stood beside her, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his gaze fixed intently on Edwin.
“Lord Creswell,” Lilith began, “I have a matter that requires discretion and a…a delicate touch.”
“I can be very discreet, Miss Bittermann.”
She smiled. “I require information of a different nature this time. I need you to uncover the identity of a certain lady—an heiress. One of your cronies has secretly become engaged, and I wish to know to whom.”
Creswell felt a glimmer of hope. “Ma’am, I am the confidant of many a gentleman. You only have to name him and I might have your answer ready.”
“Not burdened by the scruples of a confidant, I see. How pleasing.”
Creswell was impatient. “Please, ma’am, just say the name.”
“Has Mr. Miles Sinclair made you privy to his engagement, sir?”
“Miles Sinclair,” whispered Edwin, to himself. He echoed the name again in confusion.
“Well?” grunted Rudi impatiently.
“Uh, no! Sorry,” came Creswell’s startled reply. “Mr. Sinclair is known to me, but we are not in each other’s confidence.”
“Too bad,” said Rudi, coming forward, sending a shiver down Edwin’s spine.
With a muttered oath and a fumbling bow, Creswell retreated toward the door, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to escape.
“Best get to work, Creswell,” growled Rudi. “I’d hate to see what Lilith dreams up for a man who wastes her time twice.”
“The intelligence you require is within my grasp,” Creswell stammered, fumbling with the doorknob.
“ ‘Tis but a matter of delicate inquiry, ma’am, I assure you.” He had opened the door and half his person was behind it.
Since Rudi was no longer advancing on him, he was emboldened to inquire, “and when I produce the lady’s name, ma’am? ”
“I will halve your debts,” Lilith stated.
“I shall attend to the matter with all due haste.”
“Very well,” Lilith said. “Should you fail to do so—”
“Rest assured, ma’am,” Edwin interjected, striving to sound confident, “your expectations will be met.”
Rudi Bittermann shifted his weight, and the movement was enough to spur Creswell’s disappearance behind the closed door.
“He’s quite the obedient little lapdog,” Lilith remarked. “Do you think he’ll deliver?”
Rudi’s chuckle was a gruff rumble, “The pup’s scared out of his wits, Lil. He’ll dig up Sinclair’s dirt or dig his own grave trying.”
“Indeed,” Lilith replied, smoothing a nonexistent crease from her dress.
Lord Edwin Creswell exited the Sixes & Sevens gaming hell with a sense of foreboding.
His mind churned over the latest ultimatum: uncover Miles Sinclair’s secret fiancée or face consequences too unpleasant to contemplate.
He shuddered with the memory of Rudi and directed his steps toward the more amiable environs of the gentlemen’s clubs at St. James.
At White’s and Brooks’s, where the idle rich congregated to squander both time and fortune, the betting books reigned supreme.
No wager was too outlandish—whether it be the hour of a statesman’s demise, which raindrop would slide first down a pane of glass, or as Creswell hoped, the likelihood of a particular heiress’s marriage.
Such frivolities were the lifeblood of these clubs, where gentlemen, possessed of more wealth than sense, prided themselves on extravagant folly.
A man might stake his entire reputation on some absurd challenge, and if he won—ah! The triumph was worth every guinea.
White’s interior was a welcome contrast to the Bittermann den.
Warm lamplight glinted off polished wood, and the low hum of gentlemen’s voices rose occasionally with bursts of laughter.
Yet even here, Creswell’s unease persisted.
If gossip about Miles was to be found anywhere, it might be recorded in the betting book.
He approached the steward’s desk, where the club’s massive ledger sat open, its pages filled with wagers ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. To his mild irritation, the book was already occupied. Three young men lounged around it, examining the entries.
“Three hours and twenty-seven seconds!” declared one, with a wide grin. He jabbed a finger at the page. “That’s the winning time for His Grace to reach Brighton. By Jove, I could have sworn it took longer.”
“Nonsense, Windham,” replied his companion. “It was the road quality that did it. I heard the King himself ordered the potholes filled after his last carriage lost a wheel near Reigate. Made all the difference, I’ll wager.”
“Potholes or no,” interjected the third, “the real question is how many bottles of claret His Grace consumed before setting out. If it was more than two, I’ll lay odds the driver deserves the credit for the speed.”
This was met with raucous laughter as the three leaned over the book again, their mirth punctuated by snide remarks about the Duke’s driving skills.
Creswell cleared his throat. The sound, pointed and deliberate, drew their attention. Three pairs of youthful eyes turned to him, their owners appraising his severe demeanor.
“Well, well, a serious face at White’s,” said one, raising a brow. “Forgive us, sir, have you come to place a wager?”
“Perhaps he’s come to write a sermon in the betting book,” suggested another, leaning against the desk. “Shall we fetch him a pen?”
The stout fellow chuckled. “A sermon? No, no. Look at him. He’s here to record a scandal, I’d bet.”
Creswell resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I have no interest in sermons or scandals,” he replied. “I am seeking information.”
“Information!” Windham exclaimed. “How tedious. At least let it be a matter worth betting on. Something along the lines of how long Lady Abernathy’s next marriage will last. My money’s on six months.”
“Four,” his companion countered. “The new husband won’t endure her temper any longer than that.”
“Gentlemen,” Creswell interjected, his patience wearing thin, “I am seeking any mention of Miles Sinclair within the ledger you are monopolizing. Have you come across his name in the betting book?”
This brought a pause. The three exchanged glances, their amusement exchanged for curiosity.
“Sinclair?” repeated one, tapping his chin. “The fellow who’s got a dog forever at his ankles? Terry or something? A menace, if ever there was one. He’s not exactly the type to set the betting book ablaze.”
Creswell’s mouth tightened. “So you have no information.”
“Not a jot,” one said. “But perhaps you’d care to place a wager yourself? We’re debating whether the King’s new waistcoat will survive its first public outing. I’m inclined to say it will split before he’s left Carlton House.”
“Or,” the stout one offered, “you could join us in speculating how many duchesses will faint at the next Almack’s ball. The record currently stands at three.”
“Thank you, but no,” Creswell replied.
He stepped past them to the book, retrieving a quizzing glass from his pocket to examine the ledger for himself.
The three young men retired to a nearby table and watched him with interest, exchanging amused glances.
When he straightened, his face set in a mask of dissatisfaction, Windham couldn’t resist one last jab.
“Find what you were looking for, sir?” he called out.
Creswell offered no reply, merely a disdainful look that sent them into fresh peals of laughter as he stalked out of the room.
Walking the short distance down St James Street to Brooks’s Club, Creswell was not enlightened by their ledger of wagers, either. If Miles Sinclair was engaged, it was unknown to his peers.
The very notion of such an attachment sharpened Creswell’s indignation at Sinclair’s cavalier trifling with Miss Harrington.
To be dangling after her, provoking her to unladylike tittering, was indecent and more so if his heart was spoken for already.
Creswell’s loathing for Mr. Sinclair only deepened.
The image of Miss Harrington’s bright, laughing eyes—fixed so often on Sinclair—gnawed at him.
To see such a man, unworthy in every sense, play the coquette with her while hiding a secret engagement, filled Creswell with a rancor.
It was indecent. No, it was monstrous. If Miles Sinclair had already given his heart away, then his flirtation with Miss Harrington was not just idle vanity but a calculated cruelty.
Creswell’s loathing burned fiercer at the memory of Lucinda’s blush and that insufferable Sinclair grin.