“You mean if he’s not dead?” Robert braced one arm against the window’s frame, his eyes narrowing at some energetic activity around one of the whist tables almost directly beneath the window. Whist was not usually a particularly spirited game. He frowned, studying it as he replied. “I do. But I’m not certain how to make inquiries in that direction.”
Bill joined him at the window, his gaze, too, on the gamers below them. The activity at the whist table centered on a young man in a flat cap, who seemed to be winning all the tricks. The other players were distinctly unhappy, even the dealer. One of their most popular women, Lucy, stood behind the player, urging him on. “You cannot, Robbie. You reach out to those types of people, and it could have repercussions on you, this club... and your family. Their trade—” Bill paused. “This isn’t like the molly houses. Everyone is an adult. Everyone consents. Illegal but Bow Street tends to look the other way if possible. Even when they raid, almost everyone goes home the next day with a scolding or a fine. This is different. If you are even seentalkingto them, it could be dangerous.”
“And you do not know anyone in that community who is, shall we say, less obvious?”
Bill hesitated. “Perhaps. I know someone with discretion I can ask. He might know.” He looked at Robert. “So you have been with this woman twice. What is it about her that has you turned inside out? Or is it just compassion for what her brother is probably enduring because you understand?”
Robert remained still a moment. He was not sure how to answer the first question, and he definitely did not want to address the second one.
“Or,” Bill continued, “is this a reaction to finally losing Rose Timmons?”
Robert wanted to resent the question, but Bill was too good a friend and knew him too well. “The truth is that I never had her. I think I have known that for a long time. I just did not want to admit it.”
“The brain and the heart do not always communicate.”
Robert glanced at his friend. “Damnation, Bill. Now you sound like my mother.”
“Who is apparently a wise woman.”
Robert chuckled, then focused again on the whist table a mere twenty feet below them. “Does that whist game seem unusually active to you?”
“I was just noticing that. Who’s the kid in the flat cap? I’ve not seen him before.”
At that moment, the player in the flat cap had a rapid exchange with a man across the table, who stood and slapped coins down on the baize surface before stalking away. In a frustrated motion, the winner yanked off gloves and rolled up sleeves, revealing slender but strong forearms... and gray-stained fingertips.
Robert placed both hands flat on the glass, staring down. “What the devil?”
“Ink stains?” Bill muttered.
Robert pushed away from the window and pivoted, striding for the door. “Pencil stains,” he called over his shoulder. He jerked open the door and jogged for the closest staircase, his gut churning. On the floor, he approached the table from the side, studying the player’s profile, confirming his suspicion. A surge of fear and rage shot through him, and he stopped short of the table, fighting to get it under control. Finally, he moved smoothly in behind the player and addressed the table.
“Gentlemen.” He kept his voice firm but calm, struggling to keep the Robbie persona in place.
They all looked at him, with the exception of the player in the flat cap, who froze.
Robert looked at Lucy. “Go.”
With a quick glance at the player, she did, gathering her skirts and scudding toward another table.
The dealer put his hands flat on the table, a signal for play to stop. “Robbie.”
“Jimmy, please cash out this gentleman.” He nodded at the player now in front of him.
“Yes, sir.” The dealer gathered the player’s cards and pulled money from the ante and side bets, pushing it toward the kid in the flat cap.
The other players watched with a mix of expressions from curiosity to outright glee. One reared back in his chair, scowling. “If he’s been a-cheatin’, Robbie, we got a right to know.”
Robert glared. “No, Barnet. Cheating is not the issue.” He leaned down and whispered, “Pocket the money and come with me.”
The player scrambled to do so, standing, just as Robert took a firm grip on an elbow, steering the player toward the stairs. They went up, entering the office, where Bill waited, arms crossed, a look of pure curiosity on his face.
Robert shut the door, took a deep breath, then spun the player around. And exploded. “What the devil do you think you are doing?”
Lady Eloise Surrey crossed her arms and glared up at him. “What you said you would not do! Look for my brother!”
Across the room, Bill made a choking sound.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? Coming here, dressed like”—words failed him in his anger—“that!If anyone—anyoneof those men realized—” He broke off and scrubbed his face with both hands, his throat tight with fear.
