Hours later, Jameson ducked out of the flat, with Nash, Xander, and the security team none the wiser. As for the British paparazzi, they weren’t used to tracking Hawthornes. Jameson arrived at 9 King’s Gate Terrace fashionably late and alone.
If you want to play, Ian Johnstone-Jameson, I’ll play. Not because he needed or wanted or longed for a father, the way he had as a kid, but because these days, doing something to keep his mind occupied always felt less dangerous than doing nothing.
The building was white and vast, stretching up five stories and running the length of the block, luxury flat after luxury flat, an embassy or two mixed among them. The area was posh. Exclusive. Before Jameson could press his finger to the call button, security strode down the walk. One guard for several units.
“May I help you, sir?” The man’s tone suggested that no, indeed he could not.
But Jameson wasn’t a Hawthorne for nothing. “I was invited. Number nine.”
“I was unaware that he was in residence.” The man’s reply was smooth, but his eyes were sharp. Jameson brandished the card. “Ah,” the man said, taking it from him. “I see.”
Two minutes later, Jameson was standing in the entry of a flat that made the Hawthorne London abode look modest. White marble inlaid with a glistening black B marked a foyer that seemed to stretch back forever, cutting all the way through the flat. Glass doors offered an undisturbed view
of the impeccable artwork lining the stark-white hall all the way down.
Ian Johnstone-Jameson pushed through one of those glass doors.
This family is prominent enough, Jameson could hear his mother saying mockingly, that any of the men I slept with would have to live under a rock not to know that they had a son.
The man striding toward him now was mid-forties with thick brown hair kept just long enough that he couldn’t pass for your typical CEO or politician. There was something achingly familiar about his features— definitely not his nose or jaw, but the shape and color of his eyes, the curl of his lips. The amusement.
“I had heard that there was some resemblance,” Ian commented in an accent as posh as his address. He cocked his head slightly to one side in a habitual motion Jameson recognized all too well. “Would you like a tour?”
Jameson raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to give me one?” Nothing mattered unless you let it.
“Tit for tat.” Ian’s lips twisted into a smile. “That, I can respect. Three questions.” The British man turned, strode back the way he’d come, and pushed open the first glass door. “That’s what I’ll give you in exchange for your answering one of mine.”
Ian Johnstone-Jameson held the glass door open, waiting. Jameson let him wait, then languidly strolled forward.
“You’ll ask your questions first,” Ian said.
Will I? Jameson thought, but he was far too Hawthorne to fall into the trap of saying that out loud. “And if I don’t have any questions for you, I wonder what you’ll offer me next.”
Ian’s eyes glinted, a vivid green. “You didn’t phrase that as a question,” he noted.
Jameson flashed his teeth. “No. I didn’t.” Down the long hall they went, through more glass doors and past a Matisse painting. Jameson waited until they wound their way to the kitchen—all black, from the countertops to the appliances to the granite floors—before giving voice to his first question. “What do you want, Ian Johnstone-Jameson?”
You couldn’t grow up Hawthorne without realizing that everyone wanted something.
“Simple,” Ian replied. “I want to ask you my question. It’s more of a favor, really. But as a show of good faith, I’ll go ahead and offer up an
answer to your question in the general sense as well. As a rule in life, I want three things: Pleasure. Challenge.” He smiled. “And to win.”
Jameson hadn’t expected anything this man had to say to hit him hard.
Focus. He could almost hear his grandfather’s admonition. Lose focus, boys, and lose the game. For once, Jameson leaned into the memory. He was Jameson Winchester Hawthorne. He didn’t need a damn thing from the man in front of him.
They were nothing alike.
“What does winning look like to you?” Jameson chose a question that was meant to give him the measure of the man. Know a man and know his weakness.
“Different things.” Ian seemed to relish his answer. “A lovely night with a beautiful woman. A yes from men who love to say no. And often…” He put special emphasis on that word. “It looks like a winning hand. I’m a bit of a gamesman.”
Jameson saw straight through that statement. “You gamble.”
“Don’t we all?” Ian replied. “But, yes, by profession, I’m a poker player. I met your mother in Las Vegas the year I won a particularly sought-after international title. Frankly, my family would prefer that I’d chosen a more respectable pastime, like chess—or better yet, finance. But I’m good enough at what I do that I generally don’t have to drink from the family cup, so their preferences—my father’s and eldest brother’s in particular— are irrelevant.” Ian drummed his fingers lightly on the countertop. “Most of the time.”
You have brothers? Jameson thought the question but didn’t say it. Instead, he offered up a statement. “They don’t know about me.” Jameson raked his gaze over Ian’s face. “Your family.”
Everyone had a tell. It was just a matter of finding it.
“That wasn’t a question,” Ian replied, his expression never changing. And that’s the tell. This was a man whose face had a thousand different ways of conveying that life and everyone in it were naught but amusements. A thousand ways—and he’d just locked into one.
“Not a question,” Jameson agreed. “But I got my answer.”
Ian Johnstone-Jameson liked to win. His family’s opinions of him were irrelevant most of the time. They didn’t know he had an illegitimate son.
“For what it’s worth,” Ian said, “it was a few years before I realized
myself, and at that point, well…” Why bother? his little shrug seemed to say.
Jameson refused to let that sting. He had one question left. The smart move was to go for leverage. What’s your eldest brother’s cell phone number? Your father’s direct line? What is the question you’re most hoping I don’t ask?
But Jameson wasn’t the Hawthorne known for making the smart choice. He took risks. He went with his gut. This might be the only conversation we ever have. “Do you sleepwalk?”
It was such an inane question—trivial, could be answered in a single word.
“No.” For an instant, Ian Johnstone-Jameson looked a little less above it
all.
“I did,” Jameson said quietly. “When I was a kid.” He gave a little
shrug, as careless as anything Ian could manage. “Three questions, three answers. Your turn.”
“As I said, I find myself in need of a favor, and you…” There was something knowing in the way that Ian said that word. “Well, I think you’ll find my offer enticing.”
“Hawthornes aren’t easily enticed,” Jameson replied.
“What I need from you has very little to do with the fact that you’re a Hawthorne and a great deal to do with the fact that you’re my son.”
It was the first time he’d said it, the first time Jameson had ever heard any man say those words to him. You’re my son.
Point, Ian.
“I find myself in need of a player,” the man said. “Someone smart and cunning, merciless but never dull. Someone who can calculate odds, defy them, work people, sell a bluff, and—no matter what—come out on top.”
“And yet…” Jameson summoned up a smirk. “You’re not playing the game in question yourself.”
And there it was again—Ian’s tell. Point, Jameson.
“I have been asked not to tread on certain hallowed ground.” Ian made that confession sound like yet another amusement. “My presence is temporarily unwelcome.”
Jameson translated. “You were banned.” From where? “Start at the beginning and tell me everything. If I catch you holding anything back—
and I will catch you—then my response to your request will be no. Clear?” “As glass.” Ian braced his elbows against the glittering black countertop.
“There’s an establishment in London whose name is never spoken. Speak it and you may find yourself on the end of some very bad luck courtesy of this country’s most powerful men. Aristocrats, politicians, the extraordinarily wealthy…”
Ian studied Jameson just long enough to make sure he really had an audience, and then he turned, opened a black cabinet, and removed two lowball glasses made of cut crystal. He set them on the island but didn’t retrieve a bottle.
“The club in question,” Ian said, “is called the Devil’s Mercy.”
The name stuck to Jameson, emblazoned on his brain, beckoning him like a sign declaring that no one was allowed past.
“The Mercy was founded in the Regency period, but while the other elite gambling houses of the day aimed for renown, the Mercy was a different sort of enterprise, as much secret society as gaming hell.” Ian ran a finger lightly over the rim of one of the crystal glasses, his gaze still on Jameson’s. “You won’t find the Devil’s Mercy mentioned in history books. It didn’t rise and fall alongside the likes of Crockfords or compete with famous gentlemen’s clubs like White’s. From the beginning, the Mercy operated in secrecy, founded by someone so high in society that a mere whisper of its existence was enough to guarantee that anyone offered a chance at membership would give nearly anything to obtain it.
“The location of the club moved frequently in those early days, but the luxury on offer, the proximity to power, the challenge… there was nothing like the Mercy.” Ian’s eyes were alight. “There is nothing like it.”
Jameson didn’t know anything about Crockfords or White’s or the Regency period, but he recognized the story beneath the story. Power. Exclusivity. Secrets. Games.
“There’s nothing like it,” Jameson said, his mind churning. “And you were banned. The name must never be spoken, but here you are, telling me its entire secret history.”
“I lost something on the tables at the Mercy.” Ian’s eyes went flat. “Vantage—my mother’s ancestral home. She left it to me over my brothers, and I need to win it back. Or rather, I need you to win it back for me.”
“And why would I help you?” Jameson asked, his voice low and silky.
This man was a stranger. They were nothing to each other.
“Why indeed?” Ian walked over to a different set of cabinets and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He poured an inch of it in each glass, then slid one across the black granite to Jameson.
Father of the year.
“There are only a handful of people on this planet who could do what I’m asking of you,” Ian said, his tone electric. “In two hundred years, only one person that I know of has ever set out to gain entrance to the Mercy and succeeded. And getting in is just the beginning of what it will take to win Vantage back. So why would I hold out any hope your answer would be yes?”
Ian picked up his glass and raised it in toast.
“Because you love a challenge. You love to play. You love to win. And no matter what you win”—Ian Johnstone-Jameson lifted the glass to his lips, the unholy intensity in his eyes all too familiar—“you always need more.”
