Page 17

Story: A Lady’s Gambit

Drake, waiting on the opposite side of the street with his collar turned up against the wind, began counting down the quarter hour.

At precisely fifteen minutes, with no sign of Phillips re-emerging, he crossed the street.

His gait was slow, casual. As he approached the door, the footman stationed there stepped forward.

“Good evening, sir. Members only.”

Drake gestured lazily to the window, where a stout gentleman seated at a table near the back was visible in profile. “Ah, there he is—my friend Mr. Richards. I’m expected.” He slipped a coin into the footman’s palm with smooth familiarity. “You’ll not regret the courtesy.”

The coin vanished without acknowledgment. “Mind your manners,” the footman muttered, stepping aside.

Drake entered the club.

The air inside was warm and tinged with tobacco and the faint perfume of aged brandy.

Tables were arranged in intimate circles, some for conversation, others clearly marked by card decks and attentive eyes.

Gentlemen leaned back in their chairs, chuckling over anecdotes or murmuring bets, some nursing their glasses with idle fingers.

Drake drifted slowly past the first set of tables, pausing briefly to feign interest in a game of cribbage before moving on. He kept his hat low and his gaze neutral, offering no greeting and acknowledging no one.

At a far table, under a modest chandelier, Mr. Phillips was seated with three men.

He appeared in good spirits, cards in hand and a modest pile of winnings before him.

One man was lean and fox-faced, with a scar above his left eyebrow, introduced himself with affected modesty as Mr. Vale.

The other, broader and with an easy grin, was Silas Cobb.

Phillips played along, laughing modestly when he won, offering apologetic shrugs when he took a pot. Both Vale and Cobb praised his “beginner’s fortune” with slightly too much eagerness, playing their cards with suspicious inconsistency. It was clear they were ushering him along, drawing him in.

Drake approached the table after a brief circuit, pretending not to recognize Phillips. He offered a nod to the group and asked in a mild tone, “Good evening, gentlemen. Might I presume there is room for one more at your table?”

“Always,” Vale said cheerfully, waving at a footman to bring a new chair. “Do take a seat, Mr…?”

“Drake,” he replied in honest, lowering himself into place. “Only just returned from the coast. Thought to try my hand again before London gets too dear.”

Introductions passed with feigned civility. Mr. Cobb said little, watching Drake with a faint smile.

The hands continued. Drake lost with artful frustration, letting small sums slip from his fingers. He remained quiet, seeming slightly awed by the pace of the table, just enough to appear genuine.

Phillips won again—lightly this time. The two rogues exchanged glances; their agreement almost invisible to the untrained eye.

It was apparent now they knew each other well.

Vale fetched drinks and passed Cobb the brandy without needing to ask.

They laughed at each other’s remarks and played with such alternating skill and clumsiness that only a fool would miss the coordination.

At the close of the hour, Phillips laid down his cards and sighed. “Gentlemen, forgive me. I must take my leave for this evening—though I should count myself a fool if I didn’t return. The odds have been most generous tonight.”

“Indeed!” said Vale with a too-bright smile. “You’ve quite the touch. Luck suits you, sir.”

“You are far too kind,” said Phillips with a wave of his hand. “Though I hope, perhaps, we might reconvene?”

“I know the perfect place,” said Cobb—his smile relaxed, eyes narrowing just slightly. “The Ravenwood Club. Quieter crowd, but very welcoming to men of taste. Same hour tomorrow?”

Phillips bowed. “I shall make it a point to appear.”

As he took his leave, Drake—still playing the perfect stranger—rose as well and drifted off toward another table, murmuring something about brandy and inferior luck.

A few minute later he also left the club. Outside, at the street corner, Phillips exhaled slowly into the London air, allowing himself a faint smile. The bait had taken. If Downey found nothing at The Clarion Society or The Ravenwood Club, they knew exactly where to go.

But if Cobb and Vale followed the bait to Ravenwood—tomorrow night might be the turning point.

***

That night, the three met in the modest parlor of Drake’s house, where Mr. Phillips had been invited to stay for as long as needed. Over a plain supper and a well-stoked fire, they compared what each had learned.

Downey recounted that The Clarion Society had been difficult to approach—membership closely guarded, strangers watched with care.

“I couldn’t gain admittance,” he said, “but I lingered near the entrance long enough to catch one of the coachmen heading out. Asked if his master was still inside—said I had a message. He nodded and named two gentlemen I didn’t recognize, but certainly not Vale or his mate.

So unless they’re using different names there, they were absent. ”

He leaned forward slightly, warming his hands. “But The Ravenwood Club was another matter. The footman on duty was too eager for a tip and too loose with names. Vale was there just two nights ago. Cobb shows up regular. And the footman says tomorrow’s a likely evening for both.”

Phillips listened closely, then turned to Drake.

The butcher nodded. “The Mercury Rooms were quiet when we arrived. But by the time I was inside, I spotted you at the card table. That one—Cobb—he was sitting to your right, yes?”

Phillips nodded.

“He called the fellow across the table ‘Vale’ twice. They pretend not to know each other too well, but the game said otherwise.”

“They let me win,” Phillips said calmly. “The bait is set. If they think me an easy mark, they would want another go. Cobb suggested The Ravenwood Club himself.”

Downey exhaled slowly. “Then they’re as confident as they are careless.”

Mr. Phillips nodded. “We enter separately. I shall arrive first and take the table if I can. Drake follows shortly after, just enough time between. Downey, you wait at the back table and observe. If they play as they did last night, we draw them in—and then we hold them.”

“They won’t come quietly to a court,” Drake said.

“Then we won’t be unprepared,” Downey replied, glancing at the poker propped discreetly behind the hearth.

Mr. Phillips’s voice was firm. “Tomorrow night, gentlemen. Let us see if justice can be made to walk where trickery has so long danced.”