Page 37 of When You're Alone

Frederick hesitated, then gave a polite nod. “He has a private study on this floor, near the southwestern wing. At times, when he’s—” He stopped shy of calling Jeremy drunk, but the meaning was clear. “—when he’sdiscontented,he prefers to sulk there.”

“Could you show me the way?” Finn asked, keeping his tone casual, though urgency flickered in his eyes. “I’d hate to wander all night.”

“Certainly.” Frederick shifted the tray, gesturing for Finn to follow. “If you’d come this way,Mr. Foster.”

They set off together, Finn trailing a half pace behind the waiter. As they walked, the corridor’s hush felt even thicker, as though the building itself held its breath. Rounding a bend, they came to a series of doors set at intervals along the wall. None bore nameplates—anonymity was everything in a place like The Monarch. Near the end of the hall, Frederick stopped in front of a sturdy wooden door and inclined his head.

“That should be Mr. Ford’s study,” he murmured. “I heard a bottle clinking inside about ten minutes ago. He usually keeps the door locked, but, well…” He shrugged, implying that Jeremy might not be fastidious with security while intoxicated.

Finn offered Frederick a grateful nod. "Thank you. You'd better get back to your rounds; I wouldn't want you in trouble.”

Frederick didn’t need telling twice. He slipped away, footsteps fading quickly on the thick carpet. Finn turned his attention to the door. A thin line of light glowed beneath it, flickering slightly as though a lamp inside were dancing. He took a breath and rapped his knuckles gently.

From within, he heard a muffled, “Yes? Who is it?”

Finn cleared his throat. “It’s me—Devlin Foster. I thought you were more interesting than the others in the game.”

A brief shuffle followed, and then the door swung open to reveal Jeremy Ford’s somewhat bleary gaze. The man still wore his half-buttoned dress shirt and smelled faintly of expensive whiskey. A lazy grin curled on his lips when he recognized Finn.

“Dev… Devlin,” he slurred, waving him in. “Couldn’t stand the company down there, eh?” He made a sweeping motion with his free hand, half-laughing, half-wincing. “Come in… You want a drink?”

Finn slipped past Jeremy into a small but well-furnished study. A single desk lamp glowed on a cluttered wooden table, casting warm light over bookshelves stuffed with old tomes, financial ledgers, and an array of crystal decanters. The faint odor of cigar smoke clung to the room, mingled with Jeremy’s own whiskey-laced breath.

“Sure,” Finn said, keeping his tone amiable. “A nightcap wouldn’t hurt. Maybe we can talk for a minute?”

Jeremy grunted a laugh, stumbling over to a side cabinet. He grabbed a squat bottle of amber liquor and two tumblers, pouring generously. Handing one glass to Finn, he gestured for him to sit. Finn took a seat in an armchair upholstered in burgundy velvet. Jeremy lowered himself into the matching chair opposite, swirling his drink as if he couldn’t quite focus on it.

“So,” Finn began, eyeing his whiskey but not sipping yet, “why’d you leave the poker game so abruptly? Looked like something was bugging you.”

Jeremy snorted. “I’m sick… sick of them all bossing me around.Shut up, Jeremy. Don’t talk, Jeremy. Go away, Jeremy.Bah!” He slammed back a gulp of liquor. “Think they can treat me like some silly nuisance. I’m tired of it.”

Finn nodded sympathetically, leaning forward. “You shouldn’t let them push you around. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

A surprised flicker crossed Jeremy's face, as if few people had bothered to validate him. "You're right," he mumbled. Then, his eyes narrowed with a drunken mixture of suspicion and vulnerability. "But… you're new here, Devlin. Why do you care?"

Finn shrugged, letting a casual half-smile surface. “Call it curiosity. I come to a place like The Monarch expecting excitement, not hushed secrets. Then you mention this Mansfield Game… Everyone else looked ready to strangle you for bringing it up.” He tilted his head. “What’s the big deal, anyway?”

Jeremy drained half his glass in one swallow, wincing as it burned down his throat. For a moment, he seemed torn between fear and a craving to unburden himself. “They hate it because they know it was wrong,” he whispered at last. “They want it buried.”

“Why?” Finn prodded gently. “What happened?”

A soft sob escaped Jeremy’s throat. He leaned forward, propping an elbow on his knee. “Because… Iwas there.March 10th, 2003. I’ll never forget it. The others whisper about it, pretend it’s a legend, but no— Ilivedit.”

Finn’s pulse quickened. He set his own drink aside, focusing intently. “Who else was there? You, obviously. And from what I heard, Sir Richard Doyle, Geoffrey Wardlow...”

“James Rutherford, Harold Winthorpe, Charles Blackwood... And...” He stopped for a moment.

“Marcus Pembroke was there?” Finn asked. “But he's deceased?”

Marcus Pembroke,” Jeremy added, voice quivering. “Lady Pembroke’s husband.He’s deceased, all right. Self-deceased.” A strange, bitter note entered his tone, hinting at deeper tragedy.

Finn felt a jolt of realization. He was onto something. "So it was a seven-player game?"

Jeremy nodded, exhaling shakily. “Not quite. We... We weren’t alone. There was an eighth that night.” He paused, as if weighing whether to speak the name that seen to burn a hole in the top of his tongue

“Mansfield,” Finn murmured, taking a guess. “Was he the one the game was named after? He was the eighth?”

"Yes. He was new—just made his first million or something. Had some business conflicts with Rutherford, Wardlow, the others… They decided, behind his back, to teach him a lesson. Or, as James Rutherford stated it,put him in his place." Jeremy spat the last phrase with contempt. "It was a midnight game. We knew he had a gambling problem and could be goaded into going too far. The game was… High stakes, and… rigged."

---