Montague refolded the blackmail letter. “That last paragraph. It could be construed as a threat against your manager. If she doesn’t play nicely, take his money in return for information, he implies he’ll resort to less savory means of convincing her.”
Max’s arm jerked, and a red target ball bounced over the edge of the table onto the carpet. He forced his hands to ease their grip on the cue stick. He’d picked up on the threat, too, even though Mrs. Bonner had remained oblivious. She was an unsophisticated woman, too straightforward to understand how she could become a pawn in a deadly crime ring. It would be all too easy for someone to take advantage of that. All too easy to hurt her.
Dunkeld bent down and picked up the billiard ball. With one bushy eyebrow raised, he placed it on the table and rolled it towards Max.
Tossing the stick on the green baize, Max turned and leaned against the wall next to a heavy silver candelabra. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared into the flames. “Mrs. Bonner is anxious to end her employment. With this threat against her, I figured now would be a good time to send her on her way.” He ran his fingers through the flames, watching them flicker and bend around his skin. If his friends agreed with him, all would be well. He’d miss the little puritan, but it would be for the best. With her premium, he would have made amends for the wrong he did her, and they could part on good terms. His friends would agree. They—
“Of course, she can’t leave,” Montague said. “She will have to remain as manager. It would look too suspicious to Zed if another proprietress of The Black Rose left so quickly.”
“Suspicious or not, this Zed must know that we have Madame Sable under house arrest.” Summerset examined his nails. “And should know that Max is now the owner of the club. Why come after the manager that is under his control?”
Max held back his snort of derision. There was very little he controlled about Mrs. Bonner. Yes, he’d been able to remove her from her cramped living conditions, and the salary had improved her resources, but she’d only agreed from desperation. And with the premium he’d promised her for three months of service, she would no longer be desperate.
“Yes.” Dunkeld threw himself down on a padded leather armchair, and the rest of them held their breaths, waiting to see if the chair would survive. Max was a large man, but the Marquess of Dunkeld had him beat in size. The Scotsman was a veritable giant.
The chair remained in one piece. “Zed must have suspected Max would read that note,” Dunkeld continued. “So, what’s his game?”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Max said. He held his hand over the fire until the heat grew too intense. He turned to his friends, shoulders slumping. “But if it is a game, I guess we’ll have to play along to find out.”
Summerset pushed to his feet and clapped Max on the shoulder. “Why so glum, chum? This is our best chance to finally catch the bastard.” He rubbed his hands together, anticipation making his eyes gleam as bright as the jewels on his fingers.
Summerset loved their work with the Crown. Relished the chase. The danger. He’d never understand.
The muscles in Max’s shoulders drew tight. “I had a meeting with Liverpool yesterday.” One that the prime minister had been less than happy with. “I resigned from the special service that we provide to him. I’m tired of the clandestine assignments.”
Varying degrees of shock crossed his friends’ faces.
Summerset was the worst offender. His jaw hung wide enough to swallow a cod whole. “You can’t leave the service. It’s who we are. What we do.”
“Not for all of us.” Montague gave Max a small smile, understanding in his eyes. “Some of us do grow tired of the intrigue. Grow tired of the games.”
Max nodded, and the tension eased the slightest bit from his shoulders. He could only imagine how Montague and Rothchild felt now that they had wives to attend. A family to build. The thrill of near-death experiences must lose its luster knowing all that you would be leaving behind.
“Games are what make life worth living.” Summerset fisted his hands on his hips. “I swear, the lot of you are turning into a bunch of tight-kneed biddies.”
Max leaned against the pool table, weariness attacking his limbs. He rubbed his eyes. “Game or not, with Zed raising his head, my retirement has come to a quick end. What should we do?”
“I’ll write to Rothchild, tell him to get his arse back to London.” Dunkeld shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “Summerset, you go talk to Liverpool. Tell him what’s happened.”
“Why do I have to talk to him?” Summerset pursed his lips. “Tedious man. Why don’t you offer him a year’s free membership to The Black Rose?” he asked Max. “That should take the starch out of his falls.”
“It turns out proximity to bed sport and games doesn’t necessarily lead to wanton behavior.” Although Mrs. Bonner had shown a flicker of interest when it came to discovering Max’s predilections. But mere curiosity could account for that. “Should I have Mrs. Bonner respond to the letter? Send the man some false information?”
Montague nodded. “Even if he knows the letter is coming from you, we still need to engage. Play his game.”
Shrugging into his lime-green coat, Summerset added, “And even if he knows the information is false, he might not know that we know he knows.” The earl tipped his head to the side. “You know?”
Dunkeld grumbled, the sound reverberating from deep in his chest. “I can’t believe I followed that load of toss.”
“My manager won’t be happy that she has to stay on,” Max said. “She has dreams beyond the club.”
“But you’ll find a way to keep her.” Montague’s words weren’t a question.
Max slumped his shoulders. Yes, he knew a way. But he was under no illusions about what lay ahead in the next couple of months. His manager would be as angry as a cat in a burlap sack. When he finally released her, there would be hell to pay.
He put his cue stick away and trailed his friends to the door.
Summerset placed a hand on his arm, stopping him at the threshold. “Are you serious about leaving the Crown’s service?”
