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Combined with her status as an heiress, she wasn’t without influence.

Upon her arrival on Montpelier Row several minutes ago, Vanessa had discreetly pulled the royal blue velvet window covering aside—just enough to afford her an unobstructed view of the building she meant to enter this night. A deceptively benign façade that hid every manner of vice and sin.

Squinting the merest bit, she confessed to a sense of disappointment. She’d expected such a disreputable gaming hell would sport a bright ruby door at the very least—something to pronounce the place as the devil’s playground.

Another man boldly strode up and rapped his cane’s silver handle upon the unpretentious entry. He was promptly admitted by a giant of a man, who looked up and down the street before shutting the door.

The notorious Fortuna gaming hell andsocial club.

Owned and operated by the equally notorious Mrs. Jessie Dorrian-Lane—The Wicked Widow of Whitechapel.

A little shudder raised Vanessa’s nape hairs.

Surely she didn’t honestly wish to know how the Widow of Whitechapel had earned her unflattering title.

Mrs. Dorrian-Lane was a matchmaker extraordinaire, providing services to only the most elite clients–according to the twitchy cook’s helper, whom Vanessa had bribed information from these past weeks. Or rather, her footman had bribed the girl on Vanessa’s behalf.

Eyeing her dubiously from across the carriage, that same footman, Leroy Gaines, sat beside his betrothed, who was also Vanessa’s lady’s maid and chaperone, Daisy Struthers.

“This is the height of folly, Miss,” the large, well-muscled man grumbled for at least the sixth time. Serving the family for ten years, he leaned forward a fraction as if to impart the urgency of his words. “Once you’re inside, I cannot keep you safe. Should I try to enter Fortuna, I’ll be tossed out on my backside. They only cater to rich nobs, gentry, and aristocrats.”

He made the pronouncement with such authority and conviction that Vanessa couldn’t help but wonder if he’d previously tried to gain admittance and been turned away. Or had he actually been tossed on his backside, as he had so eloquently put it?

Gaines was right, of course.

All manner of things might go wrong, and if she were of a more timorous nature, she’d order the coach home. But Vanessa wasn’t a timid mouse. Never mind that her knees practically knocked together in apprehension, and her pulse fluttered so fast, it felt like a thousand winged insects zipped along her veins.

“Douse the carriage lights,” Vanessa murmured, determinedly turning her attention back to the multi-story building. Having no wish to be identified, she’d walk from here—Gaines and Daisy trailing her at a discreet distance, of course.

Her midnight blue coach was sure to draw attention if she were to alight directly in front of the gaming hell. In point of fact, though parked almost a full street away and under cover of darkness, someone might recognize the unique conveyance.

Vanessa really ought to have listened to Gaines and hired a hackney. But previous experience had taught her hackney drivers couldn’t always be relied upon to remain and wait as directed. That first night she’d followed Owen, she and Daisy had disembarked the hackney to peek inside the club’s windows. Their bounder of a driver had taken another fare and disappeared into the night, despite her promise of a generous tip if he waited for her.

Besides, what if Vanessa needed to make a swift escape? Yes, having her coach nearby was the wisest course of action.

Leroy snuffed the lamps, and at once, the inside of the vehicle grew dark. However, Vanessa experienced no fear. She’d never been afraid of the dark. Fine, she was a trifle uneasy, but not from the shadows gyrating against the buildings or flitting eerily across the lane.

Gas lamps cast luminous halos along the street, though the farthest reaches remained dark and slightly ominous.

Her heart pulsed a frantic rhythm at her intention to brazenly enter an establishment of such ill-repute and retrieve her priceless heirloom.

Pray God, she wasn’t too late.

Every female ancestor for over one hundred years had worn the brooch on her wedding day. If Vanessa couldn’t retrieve it…

But wasn’t that the point?

To date, she’d found every suitor, beau, and gentleman unsuitable.

She veered her attention to the jewelry store. Even now, were her jewels on display there? Her brooch, glittering blue and white beneath a glass countertop?

Or did the club dispose of contraband in another manner?

Greedy blackguards.

She’d asked Mr. Dobkin to visit the jewelry store for that very purpose after she’d provided him with detailed descriptions and even sketches of her missing gems. She very much suspected he had ignored that request, too. Had she taken it upon herself to make inquiries about the jewelry, the proprietor might’ve alerted Owen when next he attempted to sell his stolen bounty.

She couldn’t take the risk of alerting Owen that she was on to his schemes.

He was up to something more than just helping himself to her valuables. Vanessa was convinced of it. Without a doubt, his machinations somehow involved her.

Mouth pulled into a grim line, Vanessa scarcely checked the unladylike curse balanced on the tip of her tongue. She felt nothing but contempt for those who frittered away their inheritances or for the people who owned or worked in such despicable establishments as Fortuna.

They were the dregs of humanity, preying on other’s weaknesses and faults.

And those women who retained The Wicked Widow of Whitechapel to find husbands for them, through fair means or foul?

Weren’t they also worthy of contempt?

Indeed. Why shouldn’t they be?

According to the Fortuna servant Gaines had obtained information from, not all the grooms had been willing partners in the arranged unions.

Blackmail, extortion, and rigging the games had been used to garner their cooperation.

Vanessa shuddered.

Just what was she walking into?