Page 35 of When You're Alone

Lady Pembroke withdrew a tiny key from an unseen pocket in her nightgown, unlocked the door, then led Finn into a narrow passage. A short flight of steps descended into a hidden room below. The glow of warm lamplight spilled up the staircase, accompanied by the low hum of conversation.

At the bottom of the steps lay a compact chamber, every wall paneled in dark wood, the ceiling lower than in the grandspaces above. A single round poker table dominated the center, illuminated by a hanging lamp that cast a ring of golden light on the green baize surface. The shadows along the edges of the room felt conspicuous, adding to the sense of a clandestine gathering.

Two waiters in black vests stood near one wall, each holding a silver tray adorned with gleaming glasses and bottles of fine liquors. They regarded Finn with polite disinterest. Meanwhile, at the table sat four individuals: three players and a dealer.

Lady Pembroke advanced, skirting the table to take her seat. Finn moved behind her, pulling out the chair with deliberate courtesy. As she gracefully lowered herself, she beckoned him to join the circle.

“Gentlemen,” she declared, “this is Mr. Devlin Foster—he’s new, he’s American, and I hope you won’t go too rough on him.”

The three men looked up, each wearing an expression that ranged from cool welcome to mild suspicion. The dealer, a slight figure with dark hair combed back, gave Finn a perfunctory nod but said nothing, already shuffling a deck of cards with rapid fingers.

Finn set his briefcase down and unclipped the lid. A neat bundle of bills lay inside, glinting faintly under the lamp’s glow—his bankroll for the night. As he arranged his buy-in, Lady Pembroke gestured for each man to introduce himself. Finn flicked his gaze to them in turn.

Jeremy spoke first, lifting a half-filled tumbler of whiskey in a sloppy salute. He was sandy-haired, possibly in his mid-thirties, with a face that might have been friendly if not for the bleary, heavy-lidded look of someone who’d had too much to drink. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of an undershirt; it appeared he’d abandoned his tie hours ago. A flush crept across his cheeks, and the slight tremor in his hand suggested he was already deep into his cups.

“Jeremy Ford,” he slurred, forcing himself upright in his chair. “Welcome, Dev—Devlin, is it? Yes. Don’t let these old wolves scare ya.” He tried to flash a grin, but it came off crooked and uncertain. Still, there was a glimmer of warmth in his eyes—when he wasn’t pressed by sobriety, he probably carried an easy-going demeanor.

Next came the man with a sharp goatee and penetrating dark eyes. Charlie Blackwood looked to be in his forties, wearing a tailored pinstripe suit that spoke of impeccable taste. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and a single gold ring adorned his right hand. He inclined his head in a measured greeting.

“Blackwood,” he said curtly. “Charlie Blackwood. A pleasure to meet an American who appreciates what The Monarch has to offer.”

His voice had a clipped quality, suggesting he preferred directness over small talk. His gaze flicked over Finn’s suit, the briefcase, the watch—assessing everything with a practiced eye. If his expression wasn’t outright hostile, it was at least guarded, as though he wanted to size up Finn’s worthiness for this private table.

The last man sat with a posture so upright it bordered on rigid. He was older than the others—mid-fifties, perhaps—with silvering hair neatly combed to the side. His angular features and slightly hooked nose lent him an aristocratic air. He wore a dark suit with a subtle silk cravat at the neck, evoking a style from an earlier generation.

“Harold Winthorpe,” he announced, his voice calmly assured. “I trust Lady Pembroke has explained our little… midnight gatherings to you?”

As he spoke, he barely spared Finn more than a glance, as if uncertain whether the newcomer deserved his full attention. There was no direct malice in his tone, but an unmistakablesense of superiority clung to him—someone who’d spent a lifetime among Britain’s elite.

Finn greeted them with a polite dip of his head. “Gentlemen, it’s an honor to join you.” He took the empty seat beside Lady Pembroke, feeling the tension that underlay the table’s polite veneer. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the waiters step forward with a tray of glasses. Finn waved him away—he preferred to keep a clear head if possible.

With the introductions done, the dealer dealt a round of cards. Finn eyed the chips as they were given out, and recognized them immediately as the ones found on Sir Richard and Geoffrey Wardlow's bodies. The chips were swapped for Finn’s money, and soon a small pile of the vintage clay tokens sat in front of him. The overhead lamp glimmered on them, each chip worth a staggering sum. An air of polite civility settled over the table, punctuated by the rustle of cards and the occasional clink of glass as Jeremy Ford sipped steadily from his whiskey.

“Newcomer is the big blind,” Jeremy said with a cheeky grin.

“How much?” Finn asked.

“A grand,” Winthorpe said, dryly.

My money won’t last long at this rate, Finn thought.

He placed the bet on the table, and the cards were dealt. He knew he had to stay in the game as best he could. That way, he could find out as much as possible about how the murders were connected to the club. And he had to do that without slipping up and revealing who he was.

It was going to be a long night.

***

After over an hour, Finn had managed to stay relatively sober, unlike the others, and had finally ended a bad run of luck, picking up a promising hand: a pair of queens and a pair of ninesafter the flop. He had allowed a flicker of confidence to show, increasing his bet just enough to keep the others curious.

“This is quite a setup,” he remarked, glancing meaningfully around the discrete poker room. “I imagine, given the club’s pedigree, there’ve been some pretty big wins here—and some cataclysmic losses.”

Charlie Blackwood sniffed, tapping his chips against the felt. “I don’t like to brag, but I’ve seen my share of high-stakes nights here.”

That was when Jeremy Ford, cheeks tinted with drink, chimed in. “High-stakes? Hah! You should ask Blackwood and Winthorpe… about theMansfield Game.” He nearly toppled his glass as he gestured theatrically, his eyes bright with mischief or drunkenness—perhaps both.

Harold Winthorpe’s face darkened. He leaned forward, voice low and menacing. “Jeremy,shut up.”

But Jeremy, emboldened by inebriation, pressed on. “Why not tell Devlin about the biggest hush-hush game in Monarch history? You were there…wewereallthere that night.” He cackled, though there was an edge of bitterness behind the laughter.

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