Page 23 of A Spy’s Guide to Seduction

Greeting them, their amiable hostess explained certain house policies, including a rule against smoking. She said she would not have her drapery reeking of smoke. Lynley gave Phil a small stake for the faro table, told him not to lose too much, and made a complete circuit of the other rooms. There was no sign of Archer and his friend from the evening before, no sign of documents being exchanged, no one speaking Russian, merely Englishmen careless of their fortunes, willing to risk vast sums on the turn of a card. Again, Lynley had to concede that so far the leads he’d followed from Lady Ravenhurst’s party had led nowhere. He did find the lady herself at Barksted’s side in a room devoted to hazard.

The only woman at a table with six gentlemen, Lady Ravenhurst eagerly took the dice cup in hand and declared a main of eight. She rolled a nick to win her stake and barely paused to scrape her winnings toward Barksted before declaring another main. She rolled the chance three times, winning a streak of side bets, before losing her turn to the fellow on her left. Her spirits seemed to ride on the rattle of the dice in the leather cup, their tumble across the green baize, and the pair of numbers facing up. She reminded Lynley of a rider galloping neck or nothing at a fence, and he knew she wanted only to roll again.

After play had gone round the table, the group paused to refill glasses. Lynley did not know how badly she was dipped, but she turned to Barksted, appealing to him to stake her to another round. The man smiled and produced a roll of the ready from an inner pocket. She laughed, snatched at the roll, and withdrew to the ladies’ retiring room.

Lynley knew boredom. He knew restrictions. He knew the exhilaration of breaking out of one’s bonds. And he knew that losing and borrowing to play again was a sure trap. Nothing put a person in another’s power like borrowing blunt you could not return.

Minutes later, Lady Ravenhurst emerged from attending to her toilette, and frowned when she saw Lynley. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to escort you home whenever you’re ready to leave.”

Her mouth closed in a stubborn line. “I’ll not be going home until after supper.”

“Supper is available now if you’d let me escort you.”

“Pardon me.” Mrs. Hewitt’s voice came from behind him.

Lynley turned to find his hostess unsmiling, no longer cordial.

“I must ask you to leave, Sir Lynley. The club does not provide refreshment for those who do not play,” she said.

Barksted stood behind Mrs. Hewitt, and behind him stood Phil, holding their hats and coats and looking most uneasy.

“I’m ready if you are, Lynley,” Phil called.

Instinct rebelled against leaving any woman, no matter how lost in folly, with Barksted. Lynley hardly knew the man, but he did not doubt his power over Lady Ravenhurst. Still he knew better than to try to separate a woman from the passion that drove her. That was a lesson he’d learned early in life.

Lynley bowed to the ladies.

Outside the club Phil fixed his hat on his head. “Glad to be out of there. Breathe fresh air.”

London was hardly noted for its fresh air, but Lynley knew what Phil meant. The night felt cool and clean after Mrs. Hewitt’s stale rooms.

“Ugly customer, that Barksted,” said Phil. “Has Mrs. Hewitt in his pocket, I suspect.”

“Mrs. Hewitt?” Lynley woke the hackney driver waiting for them.

Phil nodded. “Saw Barksted set Mrs. Hewitt on you.”

“Thanks, Phil. That’s most helpful.”

Phil shrugged. “Friends, don’t you know.” He climbed into the hackney and looked back at Lynley. “You’re walking?” He sounded uneasy. “I don’t like it.”

“Only a few blocks. It’ll clear my head.” He waved Phil off. The carriage pulled away, the rumble of its wheels receding as it turned the corner.

Lynley started walking. He needed to think about the case. He had been certain when he’d joined the spy club that he would have no trouble finding the missing documents. His brief stint as a highwayman had ended, and he had blithely signed the year-and-a-day agreement that governed Goldsworthy’s spies, thinking only of the lark it would be. That was before he’d met Emily Radstock. She had an unexpected ability to distract him, and yet she seemed dangerously alert to his actions.

He had nearly reached Piccadilly when late bells rang the hour with remarkable unison from a half dozen or more nearby churches. As he turned into the short, dark block of Bennet Street, the peals faded, and he heard heavy footsteps close in on him from behind.

He spun around, flinging up his left hand and taking a blow to the forearm from a short club. His hat went flying. He aimed his right fist at his assailant’s jaw. Fist and bone collided with a jarring impact that sent the man staggering backward into a second fellow. The second man flung the first aside and came after Lynley like a bull, head down. Lynley stepped aside, letting the man plow with a heavy thud into the brick façade of a shop.

The second man grunted and rolled to one side, leaning against the bricks, his breath coming in thick pants.

Lynley lunged forward. His evening shoes slipped on the cobbles, and he went down hard. He scrambled up, quick, but not quick enough. His assailants had cut him off, one on either side of him, blocking the ends of the street. They were indistinguishable, compact and brutish, dressed in layers of rough, dark clothing, hats pulled low over their brows, hands in leather gloves. They knew their business.

Lynley could handle one of them easily enough, but two would be difficult. In his evening clothes and shoes, he was at a further disadvantage. In the light of a single street lamp he saw no weapon other than the short club in the first man’s hand, but he wouldn’t put it past the second fellow to produce a blade.

His pulse raced. His heart pounded. He made himself think in spite of his body’s clamor for action. Neither of them had spoken. There had been no demand for his blunt. They had not, then, been lying in wait to relieve some gentleman of his purse on the way home from a night’s gaming.