Cage took a swig from his glass of brandy as his thoughts slid to Grace. Had she felt hunted as well? He had made sure she was tucked away safely. Why had she left with Harlow? What had she been running from? These were the same unanswered questions that had run through his mind for the past few months. No clues, no leads.
Caroline and her mother crossed the room to speak with the hostess. After what looked to be goodbyes, they quit the drawing room. Cage turned to the other men. “Any of you interested in doing a little gambling? I know a good place down in the Garden.”
Chapter 8
Cage laid down a pair of aces on the green felt, and groans erupted around the table. He gathered the coins piled in the middle of the table and stacked them neatly in front of him.
“Another round, gents?” He flashed a wide smile. Of the three other men, only one got up to leave the game. Bentley always was a sore loser. Just as the dealer shuffled the cards, a firm hand clapped down on Cage’s shoulder. He glanced up with practiced indifference to find Holt Benedict, the owner of the hell attached to the hand.
“Care to have a drink, Wrotham?” Benedict commanded.
Cage shrugged and stood. He followed Benedict across the room to the long gleaming wood bar at the far end. They stood near the end, where privacy was assured.
“Two whiskies neat,” Benedict ordered. “Morgan, good to see your ugly mug again. Can’t say it wasn’t a surprise to see you walk into my place.”
“A nice place it is, Holt. You’ve come a long way from that hole in the wall you used to run. Not that I don’t have fond memories of that place.” He slapped Benedict on the shoulder.
The high ceilings dripped with crystal chandeliers. At the far end was a small stage, currently empty. Earlier, saucy dancing girls had entertained the guests. Gaming tables dotted the thick Aubusson carpeted expanse between the stage and the massive bar where they stood. The bartender came back with their drinks. Cage sipped his whiskey, appreciating the smooth burn down his throat. Benedict always served the best stuff.
Benedict gave him an assessing look. “Why are you in my place pretending to be a toff? What game are you playing? Who the hell is Lord Wrotham?”
“I’m not pretending anything. I am Wrotham.” Cage shot the rest of the drink.
Benedict’s eyes widened. Cage knew he had shocked him. When Cage first returned from fighting on the continent five years ago, he had worked a job for the Foreign Office in which he had to infiltrate a gang of highwaymen who had attacked a shipment of contraband goods coming across the channel from France. In one of the cases of French brandy, enemy military plans had been stashed. Cage had been tasked with finding where the shipment had been hidden and retrieving the plans without letting the gang know what they had really stolen.
Benedict had been the leader of that gang of highwaymen. The two men had become friends. Later, when Holt had opened his first gaming joint, Cage had spent his off-duty time raising hell there. Not that he had been in England all that often in the past five years. His assignments mostly took him to the continent and beyond.
“Listen, I damned well wish I wasn’t related to the bastard at all. But you can’t choose who you are, can you?” Cage signaled to the barkeep for another pour. He forced a smile. “Besides, I get to waste my inheritance on gambling and women. Wrotham is probably rolling over in his grave, the pious bastard. So the revenge is sweet.”
“Why waste it at all? I don’t know how much you have come into, but I can direct you to some good investments that I know about.” Holt sipped his drink. Cage could see the wheels in his brain turning.
“You always were far too practical and calculating to be a highwayman.” Cage avoided the question of his inheritance. Despite his boasting, in actuality, he refused to touch a farthing of it. He would take nothing from that man. He damn well survived just fine on his own. “I’m guessing the gaming business suits you.”
Benedict shrugged his shoulders. “It’s sure as hell easier than stealing on the road. The money walks right in and falls intoyour pockets. So now that you’re a proper toff, you have to hang out with fools like that?” He lifted his glass in the direction of Gaylord, Hughes, and Danville sitting at the hazard table. The glittering chandelier above them cast flickering shadows across the table as the dice rolled.
“Just between you and me, I’m working an angle with that lot.” Cage knew Benedict always appreciated a good angle. “But the side benefit of running in society is the women. Benedict, these rich women are dying of boredom, and their husbands are shagging every whore in London instead of them.”
Benedict laughed. “I know it. Half of them are shagging my girls.”
Cage raised an eyebrow.
“My club offers all kinds of ways to part a man from his money.” He paused to drink. “I know what you are thinking. Yes, there are all types of places that peddle sex. Some are more like workhouses than purveyors of kink.” Benedict’s lip curled in disgust. “But I simply rent out space to the girls to work. They take on their own clients when they want and charge what they want. The benefit to me is in having the option available for my patrons. To offer a whole package of entertainments in house.”
Cage was impressed by the business acumen that Holt clearly possessed. No wonder his club was the most successful hell in Convent Gardens. The table where Gaylord and his friends played erupted in raucous cheers.
“Another bottle of champagne!” called out Hughes.
The club’s inspector appeared at Benedict’s elbow, leaned down to speak softly to him. Benedict stood. “If you will excuse me, Morgan, I mean Wrotham. Duty calls.”
****
Cage rode his horse through Hyde Park at a slow walk, letting the cool misty air clear away the last vestiges of smoke and liquor from his head. At six o’ clock in the morning, he had thepark to himself. Cage ran a hand through his damp hair; he was getting too old for the kind of fun that Gaylord’s set participated in regularly. After they had lost money at Benedict’s, they had found other entertainments at the Birdcage Tavern of all places.
The women that danced there were not the discerning type. Cage had learned long ago not to dip his wick with questionable ladies of the night. He preferred to be far more discerning with his bed partners. Cage left around one in the morning and spent the rest of the night at Wilde’s. A considerably less desirable gaming hell than the Holt’s place, the Blue Angel. Cage spent his time at the cribbage table listening and observing the clientele and looking for the man named Harlow. How could one lousy card player be so damn hard to find?
As he approached the great field, Cage heard a horse approaching from the east. The rider rode toward him at full gallop. She was a burgundy blur, her dark hair streaming behind her. The lady turned her head to look at him as she passed by, perhaps as surprised as he that there was anyone else out this early. Well, well, if it isn’t Lady Caroline. And no groom to be seen. Cage tapped his horse’s flank, and Sullivan jumped forward after the girl. It took them several minutes to catch up as she rode with wild abandon. He fully enjoyed watching the lady ride from behind. She sat her horse beautifully, leaning low to whisper encouragement to the mount, her derriere thrust out, taunting him to catch up. Sullivan, with his long legs, finally pulled up alongside Lady Caroline and her horse. Again, she turned to look at him with surprise. He motioned for her to stop with a wave of his hand. She shouldn’t be gallivanting through the park unchaperoned. Her brother would be incensed if he knew the truth.
To his surprise, she leaned low again, and she and her mount sprinted forward. They were heading for the Serpentine. Cage wondered if she would slow finally or if she planned to plungeright into the chilly water. But at the last moment, she turned to the left and disappeared through a line of trees. Close on her tail, Cage followed. The chase invigorated him as nothing had in a long time. The horse and rider in front of him emerged onto the walking path and slowed to a trot.
