Page 36 of When You're Alone

Charlie Blackwood’s jaw tightened, hand gripping his stack of chips. “We agreed not to speak of that. You’redrunk,Jeremy.”

“Maybe,” Jeremy conceded, swaying. “But Sir Richard and Wardlow are worm food now. But—ha! The Mansfield Game—no one wants to—?” He broke off, blinking in confusion as if recalling he was treading on forbidden ground.

At that, a palpable tension coiled around the table. The overhead lamp seemed to dim with the gravity of the moment. Finally, Jeremy slumped back, the fight draining from his posture. “Fine. You’re all spineless.” He shoved himself to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. He grabbed a half-finished bottle of whiskey from a side table, glaring at the other men. “I’llbe in my study… if anyone’s got the backbone to talk aboutwhat really happened.”

With that, Jeremy staggered away, the waiters watching impassively. The door at the top of the stairs clicked shut after him.

Lady Pembroke exhaled a soft laugh, though her eyes flickered uneasily. “Forgive Jeremy, Devlin. He sometimes drinks too much and… gets loose with the truth.” She leveled a pointed glance at Winthorpe and Blackwood, as if to say the conversation was closed.

Finn acted as though it were nothing, but he had the sensation of a hound on a trail. And he’d just smelled blood. His undercover plan was working.

The dealer cleared his throat, and the game resumed. Blackwood promptly raised, sliding forward a sizable stack of chips. Winthorpe called, but Lady Pembroke folded, her lips pursed in vague irritation at Jeremy’s theatrics.

Finn studied his hand—he had a brilliant chance to walk away with a hefty pot. But the mention of the Mansfield Game overshadowed everything. Jeremy’s drunken hints could be critical to uncovering the Club’s deadliest secrets. The pot, enticing as it was, came second to his real investigation.

He placed his cards face down on the table. “I fold.”

Lady Pembroke cast him a disappointed smile. “You’re done so soon, Mr. Foster? I had hoped you could keep up with me a bit longer.”

Finn offered a light shrug, slipping back into his half-charming grin. “Quality, not quantity, Lady Pembroke. I think I’ve gambled enough for one night.”

“Pity,” she mused. “But do come back another time.”

Rising from his seat, Finn bowed slightly to the table. “Lady Pembroke, Gentlemen, thanks for letting me join. Perhaps next time I’ll be bolder.” With that, he gathered his remaining chipsto cash them out. A waiter quietly moved forward to handle the process.

The dealer, Blackwood, and Winthorpe seemed all too happy to let him leave—anything to restore calm after Jeremy’s slip of the tongue. Finn left them to their tense game, climbing the short staircase back into the library.

Once the ornate door closed behind him, the library’s hush felt almost tranquil in comparison to the fraught atmosphere below. A reading lamp glowed softly on a table, illuminating dusty rows of leather-bound tomes. Finn took a moment to scan the shadows; the space was empty. He pressed a finger to his earpiece.

Amelia’s voice came through, tight with curiosity.“Don't tell me you've run out of money already? That's the public's money, remember.”

Finn stepped away from the door, heading for the corridor. “No. Jeremy Ford mentioned something called the Mansfield Game. Lady Pembroke and the others clearly want to bury it. Jeremy might be drunk enough to spill the truth.”

A pause, then Amelia’s tense reply:“It's difficult for us to hear, that old building must be built like a castle with unusually thick walls... So you think the game... It’s tied to the murders?”

“Feels that way,” Finn said. “Sir Richard Doyle and Geoffrey Wardlow played in that game, too. It’s a good lead. We need to investigate that game. Jeremy’s upset. If I find him now, he might tell me something without realizing its importance.”

“Alright,”Amelia said, her concern laced with encouragement.“Just be careful. If this Mansfield Game is a secret among the Club’s elite, they won’t want it exposed.”

Finn nodded absently, even though she couldn’t see him. “Understood. I’ll proceed with caution. Hopefully, Jeremy hasn’t passed out yet.”

With that, he stepped into the corridor, leaving the library’s muted lamplight behind. Shadows stretched along the hallway, and faint echoes from hidden corners suggested the Monarch Club was never entirely asleep. One hand resting lightly at his side—ready, just in case—Finn set off to locate Jeremy Ford’s study. The hush pressed in around him, amplifying his own footsteps. He moved with measured determination, the name “Mansfield Game” echoing in his mind like a promise of revelation.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Finn moved briskly through the Monarch Club’s darkened corridors, the hush pressing in around him like a damp cloak. The antique sconces along the walls shed a muted, amber glow—just enough to illuminate the portraits of long-deceased members and the plush burgundy carpets that muffled his footsteps. Midnight had long passed, and most of the building was asleep, or at least discreetly occupied behind closed doors. Finn imagined that half the staff had long since gone home, leaving only the night waiters and the occasional watchful night manager.

He peered around each bend, searching for some sign of Jeremy Ford. The man had fled the secret poker game in a drunken state, muttering about a forbidden topic: the Mansfield Game. If the lead was as crucial as Finn suspected, he couldn’t let Jeremy vanish. The corridor seemed endless, every corner nearly identical—a blend of old-world wood paneling, faint overhead lighting, and club insignia etched in polished brass. This must be how secrets stayed buried here, Finn mused: The Monarch’s labyrinthine design devoured the unwary.

A faint rustle of cloth made him stop. Ahead, a figure in a neat uniform stepped out from behind a corner, carrying a silver tray stacked with empty tumblers. Finn recognized the man’s thin frame, anxious face, and immaculate tie—Frederick, the young waiter who often worked late shifts and who was the last person to see Sir Richard alive.

The moment Frederick spotted him, he gave a deferential nod. “Oh, hello, Mr. W—” He caught himself, glancing nervously up and down the hall. “I mean… hello,Mr. Foster.”

Finn managed a tight smile, realizing that his disguise wouldn’t exactly work on those he’d already met. “Did Theodore not tell you? Remember, it’s Devlin Foster while I’m here.”

Frederick’s cheeks colored slightly. “Of course, yet he did. My apologies. The manager told us your instructions, but I— Well, it’s late, and I nearly forgot.” He balanced the tray carefully against his hip. “Are you… looking for something, sir? Or someone?”

“I’m trying to find Jeremy Ford,” Finn answered in a low voice. “He left a card game rather abruptly. He was upset. I’m concerned he might get into trouble—or cause it. Heard anything?”

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