19. Johan at the Tables
Johan at the Tables
For the rescue expedition, Lord Sinclair ordered his carriage brought round.
Though the distance to Covent Garden was negligible, their successful departure would require discretion unsuited to walking or relying on a hired coach.
Lucinda’s dubious disguise and the delicate nature of her predicament demanded not only a swift extraction but a discreet return to Marlstone House, free from prying eyes.
Alex’s coachman had been given strict orders not to wander and to keep the horses at the ready.
“Do attempt a smile, Miles,” Johan suggested as the carriage swept into St. Martin’s Lane. “You look as though you were en route to your execution.”
“I’ll leave the grinning to you,” Miles replied. “Someone must bring a touch of gravity to this farce.”
Johan’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Grave or not, my dear fellow, remember this is a rescue, not a funeral. And it may yet turn into a rather amusing evening.”
The carriage stopped before Sixes & Sevens, a discreet establishment marked only by the faint gleam of a brass plaque near the door. A bulky figure emerged from the entryway as they alighted from the carriage. The doorman’s face—a battlefield of old scars—relaxed into something like recognition.
“Well, well,” he rumbled, “If it ain’t Mr. Sinclair. Been an age since you graced us with your company.”
“Indeed, Carrick. But you know me, always saving the best for last,” Miles quipped with a wink.
Carrick gave a gruff chuckle. His eyes shifted to Johan and Alex. “And these gents?”
“von Falkenstein, of course, needs no introduction,” Miles replied, gesturing toward Johan, whose bow was all Continental polish. “And my brother Lord Sinclair.”
Carrick’s brow lifted, but he stepped back with deference. “Well, Mr. Sinclair, the house rules stand, the same as ever.”
“We shall behave.”
Carrick opened the door. “I’ll believe it when I see it, sir.”
With a quiet nod from the gatekeeper of the underworld, the trio stepped into Sixes & Sevens gaming hell.
Inside, velvet and heavy damasks swallowed sound and light dared not intrude except on the proprietor’s terms. Heavy drapes, the color of deep claret and edged in gold fringing, hung from polished brass rods.
These draperies divided the rooms into intimate spaces, each tense with the anticipation of wealth.
Dusty chandeliers, their crystal facets smudged with time, scattered light in fractured rainbows.
Just beyond the row of gaming rooms, concealed so cunningly, lay a feature known only to the Bittermanns and their servants.
A false wall the length of the house was a triumph of covert engineering.
Its outward surface matched the rest of the décor, adorned with the same wallpaper of scrolling vines and delicate blossoms. The floral design hid a clever deceit: obscured high within the floral pattern near the ceiling were dozens of small peepholes, no wider than the tip of a woman’s finger.
Behind this wall ran a narrow gallery, a shadowed walkway constructed before Sixes & Sevens had even opened its doors.
Supported by iron brackets concealed within the structure, the platform was only wide enough for one, allowing Lilith to spy on each room unseen.
From this hidden corridor, she could survey each room from multiple vantage points offered by the cleverly positioned peepholes.
Each opening was angled to capture a specific view: the turns of a card table or the conspiratorial lean of two heads bent together in confidence.
This evening, as Lilith moved silently along the gallery, her sharp eyes settled on the latest arrivals below.
She recognized Miles Sinclair at once, his confident stride and rakish grin not present this evening.
And well it might not, as she could guess the weight that made the hapless young man serious.
She had observed Miles often enough to know his habits, his tells, and even the way he twirled his walking stick when he was in high spirits.
But tonight, Miles was not in spirits nor was he alone.
Beside him stood a man she took to be his elder brother.
Lord Sinclair, she had not seen for years, but he was reputed to be more taciturn and calculating than his younger sibling.
These traits Lilith respected but had little use for in her games.
The third figure, with Miles, drew all her attention.
Tall and broad-shouldered, the stranger moved with a quiet authority.
His dark coat, tailored to perfection, hinted at wealth, but his bearing suggested something more: the unshakable confidence of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
This was no Town Beau frittering away his fortune.
This was a man who calculated his every move.
Lilith frowned and leaned closer to the nearest peephole to survey him better.
Lilith watched as Miles Sinclair nodded to acquaintances and exchanged pleasantries.
His brother took a seat at a card table apart from his companions.
The tall stranger remained more reserved, his eyes scanning the crowd.
It irked her, being unable to place him.
If he had been in her establishment before, she would have remembered.
In her hideaway, Lilith adjusted her position, peering through a different opening that afforded a better angle.
Whoever he was, she would know soon enough.
If not by observation, then by inquiry. Few secrets remained secrets in the Sixes & Sevens for long, and Lilith had no intention of permitting the mystery to endure.
“Fetch Rudi,” she said to the lackey, her voice low.
Lilith returned to her vigil, her eyes narrowing as she studied the Sinclair party.
Miles and his mystery companion surveying the card tables left Lord Sinclair and moved onward.
Where heavy drapes concealed the entrance to the third chamber, Johan raised the low swag that threatened to disturb his well-arranged hair and disappeared into the Hazard room.
High above them, in her hideaway, Lilith Bittermann watched on with hawk-like vigilance.
She flitted from one peephole to the next, ensuring they never slipped from her view.
She was nearer now to the flight of narrow steps at the end of the gallery.
Moments later, Rudi appeared, holding a single candle.
He ascended to join his sister on the raised walkway.
“Well?” Lilith’s quiet tone was terse. “Did you know Sinclair was here?”
Rudi raised a single brow, unimpressed with the urgency in her voice. He leaned against the railing, peering through the peephole with a practiced squint.
“That popinjay?” Rudi whispered. He gave a disdainful snort. “No, I was not informed. But I expected him to be coughing up his debts by now if only to recover his precious dog.”
Lilith was irritated. “And yet, he’s made no request to see us, or his precious hound. Instead, he saunters in as if he owns the place.” She gestured for Rudi to look again. “Who is the giant with him?”
Rudi shifted, angling for a better view. “Hmm,” Rudi muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Could be muscle, though he doesn’t strike me as the sort. He’s no ordinary lackey—that much is clear. Who’s your mystery man, Miles?” he mused quietly.
Lilith nudged Rudi aside with an impatient shove, reclaiming the peephole. “Enough guessing,” she hissed. “Find out from Carrick.”
Rudi straightened, giving her a mock bow. “As you command, my dear sister. But don’t expect miracles. If this fellow is as clever as he looks, he won’t have let much slip before stepping through our doors.”
Johan strolled into the Hazard room with the effortless grace of a man bred to such places. The current players leaned forward over the table edge, their faces flushed with drink and anticipation.
“Gentlemen,” said Johan, his voice a low accented drawl. “Might I and my cousin join the fray?”
A portly man in a garish waistcoat waved him in. “Be my guest. The stakes are high, but we’re all friends here.”
“How reassuring,” Johan replied.
The polished ivory dice lay at the center of the table, glinting under the chandelier.
Johan claimed them with a casual air, as though they were inconsequential.
“And who, pray, is bold enough to risk their fortune against mine this evening?” Johan drawled, rattling the cubes in his palm before dropping his own dice into the cup with an unremarkable flick of the wrist. The gesture was masterfully inconspicuous.
Even Lilith, spying unseen from on high, did not catch the switch.
A self-assured gentleman rose from the far end of the table. “I’ll not have it said that Laurence Fiske is afraid of a toss,” he declared. “Shall we see if fortune favors the bold—or merely the handsome?” His sally drew a murmur of amusement from the onlookers.
“Why, Mr. Fiske, your courage is an inspiration,” Johan replied, tipping his head in mock homage. “Let us begin, then. I trust your purse is as well-lined as your character.”
As Lilith watched Johan, she felt a sense of unease.
Something about him seemed familiar, though she couldn’t quite place it.
She shook off the feeling and focused on the game unfolding before her.
Johan’s winning streak lengthened, much to the chagrin of his opponents.
Yet where another might crow over his success, he remained as cool as a gamester who had expected nothing less.
Turning once more to her lackey at the foot of the steps, she said: “The special vintage for our tall guest at the Hazard table.”
Directly, that same footman approached Johan and Miles with a silver tray, offering a glass to each man with a bow.
“From our hostess, sirs. A token of her hospitality.”