Page 18 of Rakes & Reticules
KISS A RAKE AT MIDNIGHT
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR COLLETTE CAMERON
CHAPTERONE
De la Chance Social Club
London, England
July 1827 – Early morning
As was Fletcher Westbrook’s wont, he walked through his social club’s now silent and empty rooms with a cup of strong coffee. Tonight, like every other night, the place would teem with glittering guests eager and, in some cases, desperate for a few hours of entertainment.
Caution and wariness tempered the sense of pride that accompanied these daily inspections. Someone had slipped a threatening note beneath his office door last night.
The first such secret message in months.
“Bloody, sodding hell.”
Fletcher swore beneath his breath before blowing on the scalding, sweetened brew and taking a bracing gulp. Nothing suspicious had occurred since last March when Torrian Westbrook, his cousin and a private detective, had apprehended the offender responsible for setting two fires, as well as sabotaging and vandalizing Fletcher’s enterprises and sending other ominous letters.
The culprit, Mike Prescott, a low-end gaming hell competitor, hadn’t appreciated Fletcher’s scruples or losing elite customers to the classier, and quite frankly safer, establishment. Prescott had grown careless, hence his apprehension and imprisonment.
As Fletcher stood in the card room with its dozens of round tables, black Italian marble fireplace, and the occasional cobalt blue and gold striped damask settee, he pondered this unwelcome and unfortunate turn of events. He honestly believed he’d put that troublesome annoyance behind him for good.
Until last night.
His half-brother, Leonidas, and the only Westbrook besides Fletcher and their cousin Torrian Westbrook, who knew the whole situation, believed the harassment was over too. So much so the deliriously happy scoundrel had married Fletcher’s new Scottish bookkeeper and currently enjoyed a honeymoon in the South of France.
Perhaps Fletcher had grown lax—let his guard down too soon.
But why shouldn’t he have done?
Convicted of attempted murder, arson, and a half dozen other crimes, Prescott rotted away in Newgate.
One thing was for certain.
Hecouldn’t be behind this latest episode.
So, who was?
Perchance, Prescott hadn’t acted alone as he vowed, and his accomplice had become emboldened once more.
Mouth tight, Fletcher searched his memory for unfamiliar faces when he’d made his final surveillance of the club last evening, just before midnight. The mental inventory did little good. New club members were as numerous and common as pigeons in London.
What setDe la Chanceand his other establishments,Ivories & AcesandThe Emporium Theater,apart from other gaming dens and men’s clubs was Fletcher’s strict, unrelenting vetting of members as well as absolute intolerance for known cheats, rakehells—present company excluded, of course—and randy men on the prowl making overtures toward Fletcher’s female employees.
He employed over twenty of the best bodyguards in London to ensure the women remained unharried and the premises were as impenetrable as a cloistered virgin nun behind convent walls. Yet, somehow, someone had managed to not only sneak onto the grounds, but they’d found their way undetected to the private quarters on the club’s other side.
Unlike many gaming hells, his upper rooms weren’t available for liaisons with bit o’ muslins on his payroll. Fletcher never had and never would employ prostitutes.
It must’ve been a guest who breached his inner sanctum.
But who?
Why hadn’t one of his security team seen them?
Fletcher’s nape hair stood on end, alerting him that he wasn’t alone.
