Bad enough the situations he’d imagined on the short journey there, but on approaching the room and hearing Therese’s tones of outrage, his hold over his instinctive impulses had grown even more frayed. Exceedingly aware of how close to the edge of some regrettable action he stood, Devlin captured Biggs’s gaze and silkily inquired, “Do you—or your men—recognize me?”
Biggs swallowed and bobbed his head. “Yes, my lord.”
“Excellent. In that case, allow me to tell you that the gentleman to your left is, indeed, Mr. Martin Cynster, of the Walkhurst branch of that family.” Devlin arched a brow at Biggs. “I assume that you therefore perceive no further impediment to accepting Mr. Cynster’s IOU?”
Biggs bobbed again and managed a sickly smile. “Naturally not, my lord.” He cut a sidelong glance at Martin and cautiously nodded. “Always happy to extend credit to a Cynster.”
Devlin resisted the urge to shake his head. There was something—many things—distinctly strange about the entire situation. A question he’d asked himself on the way from Alverton House rose in his mind. “Incidentally, how much was the debt?”
Biggs paled to a pasty hue. He glanced at Martin as if preserving Martin’s privacy was suddenly high in his mind.
His expression stony, Martin supplied, “One hundred pounds.”
One hundred pounds? Devlin swallowed his surprise, but clearly, his instincts hadn’t lied. There was something far beyond the obvious going on.
“One last point before we leave,” Devlin said, allowing veiled menace to color his voice, “just in case the question should ever arise, allow me to confirm that this gentleman”—with a languid wave, he indicated Child—“is, indeed, Lord Grayson Child, son of the Duke of Ancaster. And this lady”—he allowed his features to soften as he smiled at Therese—“is most definitely Lady Alverton, my wife.”
Devlin shifted his gaze to Biggs, who now looked positively ill.
The man had the sense to bow deeply. “My apologies, my lady. My lords.” He straightened and bit his lip, no doubt wisely holding back a false protestation that he couldn’t have known.
For Devlin’s money, the man should have known and not just about Therese and Child. But his immediate goal was to remove Therese—and Martin and Child—from the building. “Now that your lack of knowledge has been rectified, Biggs, we’ll take our leave. Martin?” Devlin caught the younger man’s eye.
Martin took a moment to resettle his coat, a subtly contemptuous gesture that made Devlin inwardly smile, then without a single glance at Biggs or his hulking henchmen, crossed to a side table, picked up the hat and cane that had lain there, and unhurriedly joined Devlin and Therese.
With her free hand, Therese reached out and gripped her brother’s sleeve.
Smoothly, Devlin slid his arm from hers and turned, putting his back to Biggs, and waved Therese and Martin toward the door.
Therese immediately started questioning Martin on his treatment at Biggs’s hands. Child fell in beside Devlin, and they followed brother and sister from the room.
In the dim corridor, Child caught Devlin’s eye and arched a skeptical brow.
Devlin shook his head and murmured, “Wait until we’re outside.”
Chapter 9
Therese and Martin led the way to the front door. They stepped outside, then halted on the narrow pavement.
Devlin and Child joined them, and Devlin put a hand to Therese’s back. “Let’s go to the carriage.”
With Child and Martin following, he ushered her across the lane and around to the other side of the carriage, where the carriage’s body shielded them from anyone watching from the hell’s front rooms.
Therese halted and put her back to the carriage. Devlin halted beside her, and Child and Martin ranged in front of them.
“What the devil was that all about?” Child asked.
“Indeed.” Devlin looked at Martin. “None of that should have happened. Certainly not over a mere one hundred pounds. Your coat is worth more than that, and that’s something Biggs and his men would definitely have known.”
Therese frowned. “Would they?”
Devlin glanced at her; now she was standing beside him, he could almost smile. “You don’t get hired to be the manager of a hell in this neighborhood, one that specifically caters to the aristocracy, without learning to judge men—and women—by the cut of their clothes and the clarity of their speech. To Biggs and his men, all three of you should have been instantly recognizable as who you are.” He looked again at Martin. “That was never the issue.”
Frowning, Martin nodded. “I did wonder. I was seventeen when I left England. I’d never visited such a place—not in England—before, so I wasn’t sure what was normal, not enough to be certain of my ground.”
“But…why?” Child waved across the street. “Why go to the bother of staging all that? What did Biggs get out of it?”
“That,” Devlin agreed, “is the critical question.” He looked at Therese. “You made a point of telling me that Biggs was the manager and not the owner. Why?”
She promptly replied, “Because earlier on, when I asked for the names of the owners, I got the distinct impression that the last thing Biggs wanted was for any hint of him holding Martin to get back to the owners.” She paused, then said, “He tried to make it sound as if he was acting to protect the owners’ interests, but it seemed to me that he was up to something on his own.”
“I agree,” Child said. “I read that exchange in the same way.”
“I did, too,” Martin put in.
Devlin thought for a moment, then looked at Martin. “Tell me exactly what happened after you walked into the hell yesterday evening. Who took you there? I assume someone did.”
Martin slid his hands into his pockets. “My cousins, Henry and Jason Cynster, and some of their friends. As you know, I ran into Henry and Jason last week, and we met again for dinner yesterday, then the company rolled on to”—Martin tipped his head across the lane—“Gentleman Jim’s.” He paused, then plainly thinking back, went on, “After being shown around the tables, I settled in playing poker, then Henry and the others had to go on to some ball, and I decided to stay on.” Martin shrugged. “I was winning, too. Until the last hand.”
His face hardened, and he met Devlin’s eyes. “I’ve been playing poker for the past eight years, but on that last hand, I’m as sure as I can be that the dealer dealt from the bottom of the pack.”
“He cheated?” Therese was horrified. “And you didn’t say anything?”
Martin glanced resignedly at her. “I only just caught it and couldn’t be absolutely sure, so there was no point trying to make anything of it. It was late by then, and there was no one else at the table—well, no one who could or would back me up, anyway. Besides, even with the loss, I was only a ton down, and I assumed they would accept an IOU.” He glanced at Devlin. “I’d been warned not to carry too much cash in my pockets, so I didn’t have that much on me.”
Devlin nodded understandingly. “Not carrying much cash is wise. And if your cousins took you to the place, presumably no one else could have known you would spend the latter part of the evening there. Therefore…” His gaze sharpened, and he refocused on Martin. “When you were in the rooms, did you see anyone—anyone at all—whom you recognized? Other than your cousins and their friends.”