Chapter Two
One Hour Previously
Jules Habsburg pressed his body up against the brick wall with palms flat on the gritty surface and his stomach sucked in. He was breathing hard but tried to keep his inhales and exhales as quiet as possible. The last thing he needed was for Drake’s henchmen to find him in this back alley.
That would result in a fine, old kicking, black eyes, and a few broken ribs.
The clatter of heavy footfalls grew louder, echoing around the alley like ricocheting bullets.
He gritted his teeth and willed the shadows to hide him.
There were two of them—big brutes, likely with weapons hidden about their persons.
Nausea swelled inside him as Jules held his breath. His pulse raged in his ears. He was cornered, no way out.
How had his life come to this? It wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
He was a Habsburg, or at least of Habsburg descent, which meant he was part of the most powerful, influential family dynasty in all of Europe, if not the world.
He should have been feasting on turtle soup, pineapple, and candies from far-flung countries.
His home should have been a grand palace with more staff than he could count.
Around his neck, there should have been livery collars made of the finest gold and stuffed with gems.
His people should have been bowing to him, hanging on his every word, not chasing him down London’s back alleys.
The booted footsteps reached a crescendo.
His jaw tensed.
And then to his relief, they kept on going. They faded, becoming duller as the ruffians failed to spot his hiding place and they headed down to the River Thames.
Jules didn’t hang about for them to realize their mistake and slipped back onto the street. It had been market day and the street cleaners were out as the stalls packed up. A couple of urchins raced past him, giggling, an apple in each hand.
He glanced around and then headed toward Whitehall through a series of side streets he’d usually avoid.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
If he bumped into Drake before he had a replacement piece of art, then he’d be paying with more than paint and canvas.
Perhaps his life would be the ultimate price for the forgery.
The Lyon’s Den came into view. A tall, pale-blue building with a pillared front entrance, it had been a high-class trading establishment on many an occasion for Jules.
He had rich acquaintances there, he liked the staff, and a few times, he’d won big at the tables.
Plus, the port and wine were excellent and just the type of quality he’d imagined his royal Habsburg ancestors had enjoyed.
He jostled the coins in his pocket. If only he could triple, quadruple it over the course of a few hours, it would be easy money to buy another Turner for Drake, a legitimate one this time.
Selling him a forgery had been a mistake.
Not a mistake for Jules—he’d known all along it was a replica, a damn fine one.
He just hadn’t expected Drake to ever find out.
Drake had said it was for his castle up in Scotland, so why was he selling it on in London so soon? Damn art dealer at Sotheby’s hadn’t been able to help himself and spilled the beans.
Which left Jules in a predicament.
At the door to the Lyon’s Den, two huge guards stood with arms folded and surly expressions.
“Theseus. Egeus. Nice to see you.” Jules touched his top hat as he nodded to them.
“Mr. Habsburg.” Theseus gave a mere hint of a smile then narrowed his eyes. “I trust you are well?”
It always grated on Jules that he had no title when he should have had one more elite than anyone in the city, including the king himself.
Holy Roman Emperor, that was what he should be.
If that weak, distant relative of his Francis II hadn’t bolted back to Austria at the first sign of trouble with Napoleon, it could have been him on the all-encompassing throne.
He had the blood and the heritage and it would have been a chance for a catalog of errors in history to be put right.
Perhaps he should get himself to Europe, go and speak to his long-lost relative about a rightful succession.
“You look flushed,” Egeus said, observing him.
“Yes. I…” Jules glanced over his shoulder. “I was in a hurry.”
“The night is young. You have plenty of time to roll a dice, pick a hand of cards. Why the rush?”
“Yes, I agree, but…if you see two big chaps, one with no hair, the other a scar, here.” He touched his left cheek. “Don’t let on I’m inside.”
“We won’t do that, sir.” Egeus nodded and looked over Jules’s shoulder. “We take the safety and privacy of our gentlemen clients very seriously.”
Jules blew out a breath. Good. They understood. He’d be safe for a while. Now all he had to do was win so that he could get himself out of this fix without too much extra cost.
He stepped into the lobby and removed his hat.
For a moment, he paused. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had finally hung the Henry Raeburn he’d sourced for her a few months ago.
And this was no fake. A stunning piece in a heavy bronze frame, it showed an angelic-looking dark-haired boy in a ruffled, white linen shirt with his arm protectively around a snow-white rabbit who was busy munching dandelion leaves.
This wasn’t a rabbit for a stew; this was a beloved pet and the painting was both atmospheric and intimate.
Jules found it somewhat relaxing and heartening.
The artist knew the boy, so he’d been told, and it was easy to see they had been comfortable together.
Jules was glad it had found a home in London for many to enjoy.
He walked into the cloakroom and handed in his coat and hat. His breathing had returned to normal now and he hoped his cheeks weren’t so red.
As he stepped out again, he almost bumped into Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
“I do beg your pardon.” He pushed his hand through his hair. I really should get to the barber’s for a trim.
“Ah, just the man.” She peered at him from behind the black veil she wore over her face. “I trust you approve of the positioning.” She pointed to the Raeburn.
“It’s perfect. The lighting is just right. You’ve really done it justice.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Her eyes narrowed further.
“Is there…something else?” He got the feeling he was being judged harshly but had no idea why.
“You do seem to… How shall I put it?”
“Please go on.” His mouth dried a little. Now what?
“Trouble.” Her gaze held steady with his. “Find trouble, Mr. Habsburg.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She couldn’t possibly know that he’d just escaped a beating for selling forged artwork. How could she?
“It’s just… Well, you know what the ton is like for gossip.”
“Gossip is a wasteful pastime,” he said haughtily. “I much prefer to deal in truth and facts.”
“And, I too, Mr. Habsburg, I too. So I suppose what I’m saying is be sure to protect your reputation at all costs.”
“Naturally.” He pressed his hand to his chest. His mind was whirring, wondering just what she’d heard. It could have been several things, but he didn’t want to ask which, in case he got into more strife. “I am a man of my word.”
“Good. Because a man’s word… Well, it is really all he has, at the end of the day.”
Jules didn’t agree with that one bit. He had an expensive home in Mayfair, the walls adorned with landscapes and portraits, some by great masters, others by men who would become great masters given time. He had more than his word, he had his art, he had his home, and he had his connections.
“I couldn’t agree more, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and jangled the coins. “And with that in mind, I intend to have a few games of brag tonight in your fine establishment.”
“I thank you for joining us.”
“No, I thank you. You run a tight ship. I know I will always get a fair game, no cheating. That is worth a lot.”
“As is your custom.” She nodded. “Oh, and Baron Tate is here. I do believe he wants to speak to you about a painting.”
Jules smiled. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to catch up with him. Thank you.”
He took a quick exit from the lobby and made his way to the main gambling floor.
For the second time in an hour, sweat popped on his brow.
What bit of gossip had Mrs. Dove-Lyon been privy to?
He’d attended an illegal boxing match the week before, but it had been very cloak-and-dagger and he’d kept his scarf up around his face as he’d thrown a few shillings at the result.
Was it that? Or was it when he’d been at the Marylebones’ ball and had stepped outside to…
“Mr. Habsburg, sir, would you like a port?” A waiter appeared in front of him holding a tray of drinks.
“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.” He took a crystal glass holding an inch of amber liquid and looked around.
Instantly, his nerves settled. The casino was a familiar place. A local haunt. He enjoyed being surrounded by elegance and discreet, polite staff.
The tables were filling despite the early hour. On the main stage, draped with ruby-red curtains, a pianist played a gentle tune. Deep-voiced conversations whispered up to the chandeliers and the scents of herbs and meat filled the air, floating in from the kitchens.
His stomach rumbled and he took a sip of his drink. He’d have a game then peruse the menu, pick something out for a slap-up meal.
“Greetings, sir.”
A feminine voice to his right had him turning.
A beautiful, tall woman stood there, her eyelashes fluttering and her rosy lips tilted into a seductive smile. Around her neck was a thick-bodied snake of the most unusual shade of sunshine yellow.
“Good evening to you.” He looked at her pale fingers curled around the scaled body. “You have quite the companion.”
“This is Sydney. He’s from India. Do you like him?”
“He’s really something.” Jules found himself reaching out and stroking the snake’s dry skin. “Heavy, I would imagine, over your shoulders like that.”