Rohan didn’t work for the Factotum. Rohan was the Factotum. Not just a messenger. As Jameson strode forward, words Ian had spoken came back to him. He’d said that Jameson needed the Proprietor’s attention. Not his right-hand man’s. And he’d said that every fifty years or so, the Proprietor of the Devil’s Mercy chose a successor.
“Child labor?” Avery stood toe-to-toe with Rohan. “That can’t be legal.” “A certain type of child knows how to keep secrets better than adults.” There wasn’t a hint of apology in Rohan’s tone. “The Mercy can’t save every child it finds in a horrific situation, but those it does save rarely regret
it in the end.”
Jameson heard layers of meaning in those words. You were that child, weren’t you?
Rohan turned his back on them and placed his right hand flat on a black stone. It flared to life, reading his palm, and triggered the sound of a dozen locks being turned. Rohan stepped back, and the door opened toward them.
“Where angels fear to tread, have your fun instead.” Rohan’s voice was almost musical, but there was something dark in his tone. A promise. One that Jameson suspected that men in Rohan’s position had been making for centuries. “But be warned: The house always wins.”
With no hesitation—like a person incapable of hesitation—Jameson stepped through the door. The room beyond was round and domed, the ceiling at least two stories high, the architecture vaguely Roman. Other doors were barely visible in the walls.
Many entrances, many exits. Jameson thought briefly of Hawthorne
House and its labyrinthine secret passages, and then he focused on his surroundings, on the parts of the domed room far more visible than the doors.
Five soaring marble arches marked larger openings in the curved wall at equidistant intervals around the room. Thick, rippling curtains hung down from the arches, all of them black, each made of a different fabric. Velvet, silk…
Avery came to stand beside him, and Jameson continued his assessment. The floor beneath their feet was made of golden granite. In the center of the room, there was a circle of columns. Half of them surged up to the domed ceiling; the other half were only as tall as Jameson’s shoulder. On top of each of the smaller columns, there was a shallow golden pan filled with water.
Floating in the water in each of those golden pans was a lily.
Jameson strode inward, and as he did, he noticed the design on the floor, encircled by the columns. A lemniscate. The formal term came to Jameson before the common one. The infinity symbol. The pattern had been laid into the granite in sparkling black and white.
“Onyx.” Rohan spoke directly behind Jameson. “And white agate.”
Jameson whirled, expecting to see Rohan inches away, only to realize the Factotum was still by the door.
“Trick of the walls,” Rohan said with a smile, then he turned to Avery and held out his arm. “I have business to attend to, but the Proprietor has given me leave to get you situated first.”
The Proprietor. Jameson tried not to show his hand at the mere mention of the man, just like he tried not to glare at Rohan when Avery took his arm and the Factotum began to lead her around the room. All part of the game.
Jameson’s stride was long enough that he caught up to them long before they made it to the first grand archway.
“The Mercy has five archways,” Rohan said, his words seeming to echo all around them. “Each leads to entertainment of a different sort.” Rohan said the word entertainment with a wicked sort of smile. A roguish one.
The kind Jameson was used to wielding himself.
“Each area is dedicated to a deadly sin. We are, after all, the Devil’s Mercy.” Rohan swept aside the curtain to their left. Beyond, Jameson could make out dozens of canopies, whatever was beneath them obscured by
layers of chiffon.
“Lust?” Jameson guessed.
“Sloth,” Rohan replied with a smirk. “We keep several masseurs on staff, if relaxation is what you’re after.”
Jameson doubted most members of this club came here to relax.
“Gluttony, next.” Rohan led them to the next archway. “You’ll find our chefs second to none. All beverages are, of course, top-shelf and complimentary.”
Where angels fear to tread, have your fun instead. The warning came back to Jameson. But be warned: The house always wins.
Next, archway number three. Rohan pulled a velour curtain barely back. Inside, there was a spiraling staircase, the same shade of gold as the atrium’s granite floor.
“Lust.” Rohan let the curtain drop. “There are private chambers upstairs. What members use those chambers for”—he gave Jameson a moment to imagine—“is up to them.” Rohan’s eyes hardened. “But lay a hand on anyone who does not want a hand there or who is too inebriated to consent, and I cannot guarantee that you will still have a hand in the morning.”
That just left two archways. As they approached the first, Jameson realized that its curtain was much heavier than the others. The moment Rohan pulled it back, they were hit by the roar of a crowd. Past the archway, Jameson could see what looked to be two dozen people, and beyond the crowd—a boxing ring.
“Some of our members like to fight,” Rohan stated, lingering for just a moment on that word. “Some like to place bets on the fights. I would caution you against the former, at least as far as facing off against our house fighters is concerned. Those who fight for the Mercy never pull their punches. Blood is shed. Bones are broken.” Rohan’s lips pulled back from his teeth into something like a smile. “Caution must be exercised. If you end up in a disagreement with another player at the tables, however, you’re welcome to take the disagreement to the ring.”
“Wrath?” Jameson guessed with an arch of his brow.
“Wrath. Envy. Pride.” Rohan dropped the curtain. “People end up in the ring for all kinds of reasons.” Something about the way Rohan said that made Jameson think that the Factotum had spent time in the ring himself. “As you explore the Mercy, note that bets may be placed in four of the five
areas. Members bet on fights and on the tables, of course, but the first two rooms I showed you each have a book, and those books hold more unconventional wagers. Any wager written into one of those books and signed for is binding, no matter how bizarre. And speaking of binding wagers…” Rohan produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a velvet pouch and handed it to Avery. “Your transfer came through, untraceable, just how we like them. You’ll find five-thousand-pound, ten-thousand-pound, and hundred-thousand-pound marks inside. These chips will be handed over to me at the end of the night.” His teeth flashed in another smile. “For safe-keeping.”
The three of them made it almost full circle around the room, to the final arch. “Greed,” Rohan said, his lips curving upward. “Beyond this curtain, you’ll find the tables. We offer an eclectic selection of games. Ms. Grambs, you’ll want to concentrate on those where you’re playing against the membership, not the house. And as for you…” Rohan shifted his gaze from Avery to Jameson. “Don’t wager anything you can’t afford to lose, Jameson Hawthorne.” Rohan leaned forward to speak directly into Jameson’s ear, his voice a silky whisper. “There’s a reason that men like your father aren’t allowed back.”
