ONE YEAR AGO
There was a price to be paid for power, always. The only question was how steep that price was—and who was going to pay it.
Rohan knew that better than most. He also knew better than to get his knickers in a twist about it. What was a little blood loss or the occasional broken heart or finger among friends?
Not that Rohan had friends, per se.
“Ask me why you’re here.” The Proprietor’s quiet command slashed through the air like a sword.
The Proprietor of the Devil’s Mercy was power, and he’d raised Rohan like a son—a Machiavellian, amoral, useful son. Even as a child, Rohan had understood that in this hidden, underground palace, knowledge was currency, and ignorance was weakness.
He knew better than to ask a damn thing.
Instead, he smiled, a rogue’s smile, as much a weapon in his arsenal as any blade or secret he’d collected. “Asking is for those without other ways of obtaining answers.”
“And you are a master of those other ways,” the Proprietor acknowledged. “Observation, manipulation, the ability to go unseen or command a room at will.”
“I am also quite easy on the eyes.” Rohan was playing a dangerous game, but then, that was the only kind of game he’d ever played.
“If you will not ask…” The Proprietor’s hand curved around the handle of his ornate silver cane. “Then tell me, Rohan: Why have I summoned you
here?”
This was it. Certainty thrummed through Rohan’s veins as he answered. “The succession.”
The Devil’s Mercy was, on its surface, a luxurious gambling club, hidden and known only to its members: the ultra-wealthy, the aristocratic, the influential. In truth, the Mercy was so much more. A historic legacy. A shadow force. A place where deals were struck and fortunes set.
“The succession,” the Proprietor confirmed. “I am in need of an heir. I’ve been given two years to live, three at the outside. By December thirty- first of next year, I will pass the crown.”
A different person might have focused on the prospect of death, but Rohan did not. In two hundred years, control of the Mercy had passed only four times before. The heir was always young, the appointment for life.
This was and had always been Rohan’s endgame. “I am not your only option for heir.”
“Why should you be?” Coming from the Proprietor, that was not a rhetorical question. Make your case, boy.
I know every inch of the Mercy, Rohan thought. Every shadow, every trick. The membership knows me. They know not to cross me. You’ve already spoken of my skills—the more palatable ones, at least.
Out loud, Rohan opted for a different tactic. “We both know I’m a magnificent bastard.”
“You are everything I made you to be. But some things must be won.” “I’m ready.” Rohan felt the way he did every time he stepped into the
ring to fight, knowing that pain was inevitable—and irrelevant.
“There’s a buy-in.” The Proprietor cut to the chase. “To take control of the Mercy, you must first purchase your stake. Ten million pounds should suffice.”
Automatically, Rohan’s mind began charting paths to the crown. The fact that he could see options set off his sixth sense. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch, my boy, is what it ever was—for me, for all who came before us, all the way back to the first Proprietor’s heir. You cannot make your fortune within the walls of the Mercy, nor use any leverage obtained while in her employ. You cannot so much as enter these halls, use the Mercy’s name, or approach or accept favor from any member.”
Outside of the Mercy, Rohan had nothing—not even a last name.
“You will leave London within twenty-four hours, and you will not return unless and until you have the buy-in.”
Ten million pounds. This wasn’t just a challenge. This was exile.
“In your absence,” the Proprietor continued, “the duchess will act as Factotum in your stead. If you fail to obtain the buy-in, she will be my heir.”
There it was: the game, the stakes, the threat.
“Go,” the Proprietor said, blocking the way back to Rohan’s rooms.
“Now.”
 |
Rohan knew London. He could move through any part of the city, high society or low, like a ghost. But for the first time since he was five years old, he didn’t have the Mercy to go back to.
Look for an opening. Look for a loophole. Look for a weakness. His mind churning, Rohan looked for a pint.
Outside his pub of choice, two dogs fought. The smaller of the two had the look of a wolf about her. She was losing the fight. Stepping into the middle of it probably wasn’t the wisest course of action, but Rohan was a little beyond wisdom at the moment.
When the larger dog had been sent on its way, Rohan wiped the blood off his forearm and knelt in front of the smaller one. She snarled. He smiled.
The pub door opened. Inside, a television blared—an anchor’s voice. “We’re hearing reports that the first annual Grandest Game, the sprawling, mind-twisting competition designed and funded by Hawthorne heiress Avery Grambs, has reportedly reached its conclusion. A winner of the seventeen-million-dollar prize is expected to be announced via livestream any—”
The door slammed shut.
Rohan met the dog’s wolfish gaze. “Annual,” he murmured. Meaning that next year, there would be another. He would have a year to plan. A year to arrange things just so. Fortunately, Avery Grambs had never been a member of the Devil’s Mercy.
Hello, loophole. Rohan stood. He reached for the pub door and glanced down. “Coming?” he asked the dog.
Inside, the owner of the pub recognized Rohan immediately. “What’ll it be?”
Even without the backing of the Mercy, a man of Rohan’s skills and reputation still had a card or two to play. “A pint for me,” he said. “A steak for her.” Rohan’s lips curved, more on one side than the other. “And transportation out of London. Tonight.”
