Page 35 of A Murder in Mayfair
“The facts speak for themselves.”
I would need to fashion an excuse for returning to Walsh House. After all, Julia had asked me to leave. But it was something that needed to be done. If the murderer had been known to Walsh or Julia, a member of her staff might provide clues as to who it could have been.
A heavy silence settled between us, thick with things left unsaid. Then I asked, more softly than intended, “Have you considered a place we might meet again?”
He nodded, his gaze shadowed. “I own a house in Chelsea. Quiet. Discreet. No one of consequence will be watching.”
I rose and fetched paper and pencil, the scratch of graphite loud in the stillness. He scribbled the address with quick, deliberate strokes and handed it to me. His fingers brushed mine—a fleeting touch, no more than a breath—but it sparked through me like fire catching on dry paper. We both felt it, and neither spoke of it.
“I’ll go to Walsh’s club tomorrow evening,” he said, voice returning to its usual clipped control. “You should visit your cousin in the morning. Early afternoon at the latest.”
“When should we reconvene?”
“Our next meeting can’t happen for several days. There’s the inquest to get through. It won’t take place before Monday.”
“And the reading of Walsh’s will follows afterward. Not the same day, of course. So Tuesday? Wednesday?”
“I’ll send word. What time suits you best?”
“Not the morning. Early afternoon. Say two?”
He inclined his head. “Two it is, at the address I provided.”
“And Mr. Hanover?”
“I’ll see that he visits Julia tomorrow.”
I nodded, then paused—something twisting low in my chest. “Do you think your brother will stay away from her?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “If he doesn’t,” he said, each word like a stone dropped into still water, “I’ll make certain he regrets it.”
I didn’t doubt him for a moment.
Heaven help anyone—friend, brother, or foe—who stood in his way.
Chapter
Fourteen
BROKEN FORTUNES, BROKEN MEN
The following evening, I arrived at White’s a little after eight. Prime time, when the club’s walls practically hummed with power, ambition, and secrets better left unspoken.
Though the full evening bustle had not yet peaked, a fair number of gentlemen were already cloistered inside, dining, wagering, and murmuring over their brandy glasses. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the sharp tang of leather polish, and the musty weight of old sins. White’s was not a place one visited for virtue. It was a hunting ground for advantage, where truth could be cornered and dragged into the light. If a man had the nerve.
I handed my greatcoat and gloves to the attendant and moved through the polished mahogany halls, acknowledging a few acquaintances with the barest of nods. My title opened every door here, and tonight I intended to make full use of it.
The gaming salon buzzed with muted energy under flickering gaslights, the ancestral portraits glaring down in silent judgment. Here, fortunes were made and broken. Sometimes in a single hand of cards, sometimes by a whispered rumor.
It didn’t take long to hear the name that soured the very air.
“Cleaned him out,” a silver-haired peer muttered to his companion, cradling a snifter of brandy. "Young Bellamy. Poor fool. Lost his whole bloody estate to Walsh in a single night. The one he inherited from his aunt.”
“Foolish to play so deep,” came the indifferent reply. “Still, he did make a scene, didn't he? Accused Walsh of cheating. Loud enough for half the club to hear.”
My interest sharpened to a blade’s edge.
I turned away, locking Bellamy’s name in my mind, and crossed to a quiet alcove near the card tables, where the steward kept a discreet ledger of the night’s games. A few sovereigns changed hands under the table. The steward, suitably encouraged, showed me the entries without protest.
