Elizabeth hardened her resolve. “Agreed. Once we have Finch’s attention—and gain his master key—we find and free Jasper.”
Bella patted her suitcoat’s breast pocket, making Elizabeth instinctively reach for the beribboned locket that collared her throat. Annabelle had prepped two handkerchiefs, and Elizabeth wore arsenic about her neck.
They were as ready as they’d ever be.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Another win fer th’ young gentleman!” the dealer announced, reshuffling the deck while Bette squealed French delight and peppered Bart’s cheek with kisses.
“There now.” Bart peeled the lady off him. “Y’ can show yer pleasure later in bed, woman, I’ve another round t’ win.” Annabelle made sure to grimace, because Bart looked older when he scowled. She’d practiced in the mirror.
The crowd gathered about their table laughed, making Bette pout, her hand lingering at Bart’s arm. “Don’t play too long,mon amour.” Lizzie smiled seductively. “A lady does not like to wait.”
“Yer call, sir,” barked the dealer.
Bart gave Bette a small nod. He had to win but a few more hands before his lucky streak was noticed and an audience with Finch all but guaranteed.
He inhaled a breath, pretending to scratch an itch as he felt for the knife he wore at his waist, hidden beneath his vest. Arthur had demonstrated how easily one could be unmasked; Annabelle as Bart would not make that mistake twice.
“An’ t’ whom do I owe this pleasure, good sir?” Finch sidled up behind Annabelle, making her insides briefly quake.
“Brown, sir. Bartholomew Brown, at yer service.” Bart kept his head low, offering no hand to shake or hat to tip.
“Well, well, Mr. Brown. Fer a lad so young, y’ play exceptionally well. An’ a fair lady by yer side, my my.” Squinting, Finch looked Bette over. “We ought t’ ave ourselves a wee chat in me office t’ discuss opportunities here atThe Canaryfer a talented lad like yerself.”
“Why, I’d be delighted, Mister…?” Bart feigned ignorance.
“Finch, young sir. An’ may I ask who this fetchin’ creature is?” His gaze raked Elizabeth again, settling on the fake mole at her cheek.
“Mademoiselle Babette,” Bart introduced. “Me very own Lady Luck.” He gave a healthy swat to Lizzie’s posterior.
“Why, Monsieur Brown, you naughtygarçon!” Bette chirped, leaning into Bart’s arm to afford Finch a better view of her French bosom. “I am not yours alone, sir.”
It was Lizzie’s job to locate the key kept on Finch’s body; she’d need to get close, repulsive though that task may be.
She threw Finch a wink. “I can be any man’sbonne chance, for a price.”
“Knows ’er worth.” Finch’s hand clapped heavily to Bart’s back, jolting Annabelle. “You’ll have t’ earn big t’ keep her.” His nasty laugh sent chills up her spine. “Let’s talk in private o’er a glass o’ port, lad.” Finch guided Bart by the nape of his neck from the table. “You too, miss.” His beady eyes flashed at Bette. “We’ll make a party of it.”
Harris scanned the room, cap low and head down, pretending to focus on his game. He didn’t care that his hair was carrot red, didn’t care if he won or lost this hand. He cared only for findingJasper alive and getting his men safely out of this rat hole, for the place was crawling with lowlifes, though as yet still no bloody sign of Finch. The devil would walk the floor at some point, though. An owner always showed his face at least once in the course of a night.
And this night was ripe for surprise. Harris’s army of yobs from the docks and men fromThe Leafhad discreetly trickled in with coin aplenty to play the tables—and promise of more should the job go as planned. The moment he gave the signal, they’d storm the hall and cellars to spring Jasp free. A better plan by far than that poison nonsense cooked up by Bella and her sister; no way in hell would he let his bloody wife into Finch’s lair. He hadn’t needlessly tortured himself marrying Miss Winthrop for her to end up in the devil’s maw.
“Well hullo, handsome.” A painted lady sidled up to watch him play.
“Miss.” Harris tipped his cap. “You’re a sight fer sore eyes, but I aim t’ earn more’n I spend this night.”
“Pity.” Her hand trailed his arm with a pout.
He merely smirked in response, following her swinging hips until his eyes hit upon a different backside whose crooked gait he knew. Harris watched Finch lead a young man and wench away from the tables. He didn’t like the grip Ronny had on the boy, and he didn’t like the look of that boy’s own hips either. His hackles rose with infuriating alarm, for the wench beside the young man’s shapely arse had Lady Milton’s blasted stature. And from behind, that lad looked suspiciously like one Bartholomew Brown.
Finch brought them to the bowels ofThe Canary,to an office decorated with brocade tapestries and dark, velvet drapes, all blood red in color, next to gold-gilt sconces reeking of gaudy taste. It was just as Li had described it, which meant Finch’s dungeons must also be close. Caverns, Li had called them, or underground caves hollowed out. A single burly guard stood watch at Finch’s door just like Mary Audrey had foretold.
The man’s brawn made Elizabeth anxious, though everything now made her insides flip, most especially the fact Finch had not letherfetch his port, but had poured himself and Annabelle two glasses instead. Arsenic foiled, damnation!
He looked like Midas himself seated behind his massive desk as he clicked his dangling tooth back and forth, back and forth. Bella as Bart simply sipped her drink, leaning back in her chair the way a man would—a man who did as he pleased and knew what he wanted.
Her sister was shockingly good at being that man.
