Wicked, My Love by Ives Susanna

Author:Ives, Susanna [Ives, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc
Published: 2014-12-17T08:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

Randall paused on the platform where twin staircases met. He gazed through the haze of smoke to a huge painting of a golden-eyed tiger resting beside a nude woman who stroked his fur. On the walls, the tiger’s stuffed brethren were affixed beside decorative maps of India and Africa. Randall’s hope faded as he took in the hundreds of men clad in dark clothes, standing about the bars or sitting around tables, cards fanned in their hands, cigars sticking from the sides of their mouths, and lovely ladies in bright silk dangling on their arms.

How was he going to find out anything about Powers here? The man was just another loser, chewed up, spat out, and washed away in the tide of faceless men just like him. Randall was wasting time and energy trying to hold back the inevitable. He wished Isabella were beside him. He closed his eyes and remembered her as he had left her on the street that afternoon, the sunlight shining on her dark hair, reflecting off her thick lenses, and glowing on her soft lips. He couldn’t let her down.

By God, he wouldn’t give up without a fight.

“I’m looking for an ugly cove who lost a vast amount of money here a couple of months ago,” Randall informed a male servant holding a silver cigar box. “He’s shorter than I am, greasy brown hair, vacant brown eyes.” The servant raised a brow, as if to say You’ve just described half the guests.

This is useless, Randall thought, but still he trudged on. “The only thing of distinction about the vile bugger is a strange constellation of moles on his jaw.”

The man’s eyes lit. “Ah, like the Little Dipper, sir?”

“Exactly. Have you seen such a cur this evening?”

A cloud passed over the young man’s features. “No, not tonight.”

Randall drew a crown from his pocket and pressed it into the man’s free hand. “When did you last see him?”

The servant stared at the money, gave it a tiny toss, and then jammed the coin into his pocket. “I would say a few months ago, when he was lushy, losing his shirt at the vingt-et-un table, and making eyes at my best gel, carrying on about some pussycat game. An odd type, that one.”

“Which dealer?”

“Harvey Spinkell.” He nodded to the right. “In the corner. With the long nose and hair over his eyes.” Randall identified such a man; his table was full. That wasn’t a concern; he wanted to wait, appear to be a bit foxed when he ambled over to play.

“For you and your best gel, my good man.” Randall tossed another crown to the helpful servant.

He strode down the stairs toward one of the bars. As he folded into the crowd, men began slapping his back and asking why he wasn’t at his house party. He winked and replied that he needed a quick bit of London sport and then shared in the men’s dark, conspiratorial laughter.

He ordered a brandy, drank it by the edge of the bar, and wondered what Isabella was doing.

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