Page 27 of When You're Alone

He revved the engine lightly, squinting as a drizzle began hitting the windshield. “I want to see what’s behind that ornate door in the library. James Rutherford all but blocked me from it. Maybe that’s where the high-stakes poker ring is set up. He said someone would need to invite me in, but without anyone knowing me, it's going to be tough. My cover story of being vouched for by another member won’t take me beyond the threshold. I guess I'll have to be extra charismatic.”

She shuddered at the mention of James. “He’s suspicious. Don’t poke too hard, or he’ll see through your ‘Devlin Foster’ persona.”

Finn pursed his lips. "I'll be subtle. But if there's anywhere where board members like Sir Richard and long-standing members like Geoffrey Wardlow might meet away from the others, it's behind that ornate door." He paused, meeting her eyes. "We're running short on time—who knows when this killer will strike again?"

“Be careful,” Amelia stressed, placing a hand on his forearm. “Your hunch might lead somewhere, but just remember, any of them could be involved in this. Maybe even more than one of them.”

Her concern warmed him, a reminder of the closeness they’d forged. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, giving her hand a quick squeeze. “I’ve got a knack for stepping out of nooses…most of the time.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Finn sat in a luxuriously upholstered armchair, pretending to read a newspaper with quiet concentration, the mid-day sounds of London unable to penetrate the thick stone walls. The Monarch Club’s sitting room was all hushed voices, faint rustling of pages, and the gentle crackle from a corner fireplace. Thick drapes covered high windows, and lamps cast a warm glow across plush carpeting. He turned a page—albeit more for show than interest—until the door creaked open behind him, interrupting the soft tranquility.

Finn glanced up to see a woman enter, her presence immediately drawing the attention of every occupant in the room. She was striking, likely in her early fifties, with a confident stride that conveyed both elegance and power. A couple of the gentlemen mumbled greetings, but her gaze locked on Finn. Her lips curved into an inviting smile as she approached.

He rose from his seat—emulating the courtesy he’d seen other club members perform, though they rarely did it with such urgency—and set the newspaper aside. She offered a hand in a gesture that spoke of both formality and an obvious flirtation.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, voice low and self-assured. “I’m Lady Pembroke.”

“Devlin Foster,” Finn responded, using his alias and shaking her hand lightly. “A pleasure, Lady Pembroke.”

She settled gracefully in the armchair next to him, smoothing her skirt. “I’ve heard rumors that The Monarch has a handsome American as its newest applicant.” Her eyes glinted. “I came to see for myself.”

Finn offered an easy laugh, feigning confidence. “Then I hope I don’t disappoint.”

Lady Pembroke’s features were refined, but there was a sultriness in the way she tilted her head, the slow sweep of her gaze. “So far,” she drawled, “I’d say you’re living up to the hype.” Her tone was playful, leaving no doubt she enjoyed flirting.

Finn’s mind flicked to Amelia’s voice in his ear, reminding him to tread carefully, but he gave Lady Pembroke a quick, modest grin. “I’m only sorry I didn’t realize the club wasn’t strictly for gentlemen.” He shrugged in mock confusion. “Not that I’m complaining.”

She let out a soft laugh, producing a delicate wave of her hand. “Normally, it is a gentleman’s club, yes. But upon my dear husband’s untimely passing, I inherited his membership, as per the club’s rules. A pity for the men, don’t you think?”

Finn feigned a thoughtful pause. “I can imagine the effect you must have on them.”

She leaned slightly toward him, and he caught a whiff of heady perfume beneath the sharp tang of her lipstick. “Sometimes I like to make them a little nervous,” she whispered, conspiratorially.

He chuckled. “I can see how that might work.”

Before she could say more, Lady Pembroke beckoned to a passing figure. Finn recognized Theodore Crawford—always hovering about, keen to ensure everything ran smoothly. He approached, offering Lady Pembroke a small bow.

“Yes, my lady?” Theodore asked, eyes flicking briefly to Finn, as though to gauge how he was handling her attention.

“Be a dear, Theodore, and fetch my box of Cuban cigars,” she said. “I want to share one with our new friend.”

Theodore nodded, disappearing toward a side door. Lady Pembroke turned back to Finn, crossing her legs as she examined him with frank curiosity. “Don’t look so surprised,” she teased, “that a woman might smoke a fine cigar.”

Finn cleared his throat. “No offense meant. Just… new to the idea of lighting up indoors. The ban on public smoking and all that.”

Her smile glinted. “At The Monarch, ordinary rules rarely apply.”

Theodore reappeared with a polished wooden humidor, opening the lid to reveal a row of dark-brown cigars. Lady Pembroke selected one with an indulgent purr of satisfaction, then offered the box to Finn.

He hesitated, glancing at the thick smoke curling from the tip of her freshly lit cigar.Focus on the role,he reminded himself. This is how the older, wealthy crowd might bond. He took a cigar, letting Theodore cut and light it for him. The moment he drew the first puff, the rich, earthy flavor nearly made him cough, but he hid it behind a casual swallow.

“Delightful, isn’t it?” Lady Pembroke asked, exhaling a plume of smoke that haloed around her head.

Finn forced a small nod. “Very. A bit stronger than I’m used to.”

She gave a throaty laugh. “I’ll have you converted in no time, Devlin.” Then she flicked ash into a crystal tray, the motion so practiced it seemed second nature.

---