Once she bested him in chess the next time, he’d have to show up some night and give the haughty beauty a lesson in the way of thieves. In the meantime, he’d have one of the lads at Bow Street keep watch on the small villa with its high-walled garden.
Not only were her flimsy locks putting her in danger of being at the mercy of London’s society of thieves, but he’d begun to worry someone meant her harm. Perhaps that same shadowy person was the one planting clues to lead the river police to believe she was the chess murderer.
He was certain she wasn’t guilty, but if Bow Street’s best were to interrogate him, he’d be damned if he’d be able to explain why.
And then there was the name of the man Captain El had insisted he promise to expose and bring to justice in exchange for giving him the identity of the current holder of his pages. Bernard Deauville was a chess master who had dodged incarceration at Old Bailey for years due to buying off the many victims of his coffee house betting fraud schemes.
* * *
April 7,1826
Goodrum’s House of Pleasure
Charlotte carefully applied her domino disguise makeup in front of the full-length mirror in her changing and retiring rooms at Goodrum’s. She felt a frisson of anticipation, wondering if the mysterious Bow Street runner would try again to best her at chess that final game night of the week, or if he’d wait until the next week.
The light tap at her door signaled the footmen were ready to escort her to the game room for the evening. She took one last look in the mirror, smoothed her skirts over her diamond-printed black and white silk stockings, and opened the door to join them.
The sight appearing in the doorway was not what she expected, and she had to stifle an un-ladylike scream. She never screamed, and she resented the man causing the commotion. He wore the same suit straining at the seams with not enough room for his impossibly wide shoulders.
“What is wrong with you?” She let out a long, hissing shush. “Do you want to be the next body found floating in the Thames, you ninnyhammer?”
His amber eyes glowed in the low light of her hallway. “All I wanted was to wish you luck tonight.”
She threw her head back and gave a disgusted huff. “You do know you could be killed for sneaking in this way.”
“Who would want to kill me?” He managed to maintain an innocent look.
At the sound of feet pounding up the stairway, she grabbed his arm and jerked him inside her room. She slammed the door shut and turned to point an angry finger his way and then in the general direction of the large wardrobe pushed against one wall.
Instead of doing as he was told, he advanced so close his warm breath scorched her cheeks. She stood motionless, mesmerized, while he took her into his arms and stole a quick, heated kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do that for the last two nights,” he whispered, before diving into the wardrobe and pulling the doors shut behind him.
Still smarting from the burn of his lips, she tentatively licked her lower lip before the firm knock she’d been expecting came at the door.
When she opened the door after a deep breath, Obadiah, her head footman, stood there, fury written in the frown lines on his face. “We chased an intruder as far as this level of the club.” He angled his head around the side of the door, as if he suspected a menace crouched in the corner. He turned his attention back to her. “You’re not harmed in any way?”
Charlotte nearly smiled. The only dangerous rat in the room was folded inside her wardrobe, waiting for the footmen to leave. “I’m fine, Obadiah. Let me get my mask before we head downstairs.”
She closed the door to her dressing room partway before abruptly winging open the wardrobe door to retrieve her domino mask hanging from a hook inside. She stared down for a brief moment at the man painfully jammed inside before slamming the door shut again and joining the band of waiting footmen in her hallway.
7
Col watched the clock at his chess table slowly tick away the minutes of his allotted time. He knew he didn’t have a prayer this time any more than the last two games at which he’d been thoroughly drubbed.
And he was having a hard time concentrating, considering the stares of malevolence being directed his way by an aristocratic old bugger dressed in finery of the last century. Charlotte, however, was pointedly ignoring his discomfort. She wove her way amongst tables, making rapid moves here and there, her icy smile unchanging beneath her mask.
The Goodrum’s Friday night crowd was more extensive than those on the other week nights he’d been there. This time there was a crowd of onlookers in addition to the poor bastards paying for the privilege of being humiliated by the most sensual woman he’d ever encountered. And that was saying something, considering all the women he’d serviced throughout the years.
“Service” was a word that left a rancid taste in his mouth even though he’d not uttered it aloud. But it was true. He’d spent time performing sex for coin, just like the poor, unfortunate women who haunted the area outside the theaters each evening.
The only difference in his case was he’d been well taken care of and cosseted by his, um, customers. No, on second thought, those women had been more like wealthy gaolers than customers. They’d wanted more than just his body. Most of them had also demanded a piece of his soul.
He stared again at his pawns lined up against Charlotte’s poor white bastards. He could easily knock off one of them, and she wouldn’t care. She didn’t need them. They were dispensable, like him. However, the minute he took one of her pawns, she’d take one of his and clear a path for that bitch of a queen of hers to glide somewhere and slaughter something he’d need later, like his queen, or a knight, or even his king.
Christ, there was no end of mayhem she could wreak after only one wrong move on his part. He nearly gave a self-deprecating laugh. That was the story of his life, especially since his path had intersected that of Charlotte Smythe.
He finally took her white pawn diagonally across from his black one. There. Now maybe she’d finish him off, and the old bastard at the table in the corner would stop looking at him like he wanted to use a sword to disembowel him.
* * *
