“What?” Biggs reacted as if she’d struck him. He stared at her. “Ransom?” His voice rose on the word. He swallowed and waved. “No—it’s not like that! That’s not what this is about at all.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Is that so?” Although she’d glanced at neither her brother nor Child, she was aware both were now alert and focused, intently, on Biggs. Smoothly, she continued, “In that case, perhaps you would like to explain to me and his lordship, and my brother as well, just what this situation is all about.”
Biggs dithered—there was no other word for it. His fingers restlessly trailed across the desktop. He shifted his weight, plainly wanting to sit in his chair, but her presence kept him on his feet.
Therese watched him, her gaze unwavering, and waited.
Biggs dragged in a breath, held it for an instant, then said, “It’s like this.” He glanced at Martin. “This gentleman here, who says he’s Martin Cynster—”
“He is Martin Cynster,” she flatly declared.
Biggs angled his head in a manner suggesting that might or might not be so. “Be that as it may, we”—he gestured toward his men—“me and my boys, we recognize our punters. In this business, you have to, don’t you?”
She eyed him coldly. “I wouldn’t know.”
Biggs blinked, then drew breath and went on, “Well, come the end of play last night, this gentleman—”
“Martin Cynster.” She wasn’t going to let him off that hook.
“He ended up owing the house a ton.”
Therese frowned, and from behind her, Child murmured, “A hundred pounds.”
Biggs nodded. “Like the gent says.” He indicated Martin. “This gentleman here owed the house a hundred, and he couldn’t pay up.”
“I believe,” she said, “that he offered you an IOU. Isn’t that normal practice?”
Biggs dipped his head. “Yes, it is, and yes, he did offer, but you see”—he glanced at Martin, she thought almost in a man-to-man appeal—“none of us here know who he is.”
As if finally feeling on firmer ground, Biggs returned his gaze to Therese. “If there’s no way to be sure he is who he says, then we need to hold him until someone we know can vouch for him, or how do we know we’ll get the money?”
Therese stared at Biggs. “Mr. Biggs. I am Lady Therese Cader, Countess of Alverton, and that man is my brother, Mr. Martin Cynster. What more verification of his identity do you need?”
The steel in her voice was cold enough to make Biggs freeze. He stared at her, then forced a weak, shaky laugh. “But who’s to say you’re who you say you are?” His gaze shifted to Child. “Or him, either.”
In building outrage, Therese stared at Biggs.
Faintly, he winced and held up a placating hand. “I know, I know. But you must see, my lady—”
“What I see, Mr. Biggs, is that this is the most ridiculous situation I have ever encountered!” Therese knew she had at least a hundred pounds in her reticule, but she was not at all inclined to hand it over to Biggs. Aside from all else, such an act might reflect badly on the worth of Martin’s IOUs; if his sister accepted that she needed to stand as guarantor… No. She wasn’t going anywhere near such a potential quagmire.
But more, despite having very little idea of the procedures that pertained in the gambling hells gentlemen of the ton frequented, she was increasingly certain that there was something rather odd going on. She glanced at Martin, then turned her head to look fleetingly at Child. Both men wore unreadable yet intent expressions, which, to her, suggested that they were thinking much the same, namely, that none of this was making sense.
Or more to the point, they were missing some vital information that would make the situation understandable.
She cast about for some way to establish at least one of their identities; she wanted to leave this place and was determined to take Martin with her. She remembered the letter. “Mr. Biggs, Lord Child and I came here in response to the note my brother”—she tipped her head at Martin—“sent from here this morning, requesting assistance from my husband, Lord Alverton. That letter was delivered to Alverton House.” She glanced at Child. “The letter?”
Briefly, Child met her gaze. “I left it for Devlin.”
She managed not to grimace. She returned her gaze to Biggs. “Regardless, quite obviously, that letter reached me. At Alverton House. Pray tell me, Mr. Biggs, were I not Lady Alverton, how would I have had access to that letter and known to come here, to Gentleman Jim’s, in order to find my brother?”
Everyone looked at Biggs, including the three thugs… She glanced around and realized that there were now only two. Apparently, the doorman had retreated to his post.
She returned her gaze to Biggs and saw consternation crawl across his face, then desperation hardened his expression, and he offered, “Perhaps you’re on the staff at Alverton House, along with your brother”—Biggs looked at Child—“and him, too, and you’ve all decided it would be a great game to impersonate your betters and take advantage of a place like Gentleman Jim’s.”
Therese could barely believe her ears. Child and Martin looked equally stunned. Her gaze sharpening and pinning Biggs, she asked, her voice even and controlled, “Are you seriously suggesting that I’m some maid dressed up in my mistress’s clothes?”
Despite her best efforts, by the time she reached the final word, her delivery had more in common with a fishwife’s than the wife of a peer of the realm.
“Well”—Biggs frowned—“you have to admit it’s possible.”
“No,” Therese stated. “It’s not! How dare you suggest such a thing?”
A stir at the door had everyone glancing in that direction.
His greatcoat flapping, Devlin strode in.
Therese almost wilted with relief. He’d come. Thank God. Despite her firm belief that she could manage almost any situation in the ton, this incident was proving beyond her.
Calmly, Devlin walked to her side, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. “My lady.” Then he set her hand on his arm and looked at Child, then at Martin; he didn’t look at Biggs or his men. “What’s this about?”
His lazy, faintly bored, aristocratic drawl effortlessly exerted absolute control over the room and all its occupants.
Unsurprisingly, Therese was the least affected. “Mr. Biggs”—she indicated the manager with a wave—“acts for the owners of this place.” She still felt that point was important, although she’d yet to fathom why. “Mr. Biggs refuses to accept that Martin is who he says he is and, on those grounds, has refused to accept Martin’s IOU. He—Biggs—insists that he will continue to hold Martin prisoner until his identity can be vouched for by someone Biggs or his staff recognize.” She drew breath and went on, “Rather than accept my word or Child’s on the matter, Mr. Biggs instead questioned my identity and Child’s as well on the grounds that neither he nor his men recognize us.”
“I see.” Rather than sounding soothing, the quietly spoken words fell into the silence like a prelude to violence.
Devlin finally looked at the manager—Biggs—and was delighted to see that the man had paled. He possessed some self-protective instincts, then.