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And there it was: Vale leaning ever so slightly forward, Cobb glancing up, just once, toward his partner. Neither looked at Phillips. Their attention was fixed on Holcombe, the prey.

Downey had folded moments before with a careless mutter. “Crumbs,” he had said. It was meaningless to most, but Phillips heard the signal: no value here, not from me.

Across the table, Drake had drawn a long face, exaggerated and theatrical, before passing. A clear cue to his allies and a decoy to the men now believing their moment had come.

Phillips sat in apparent calm, watching. He did not know that Vale held two Kings and an Ace. And Cobb, who had drawn a weak hand—ten and two Jacks—was waiting. He had three Aces secreted in his sleeve, ready to swap if Holcombe revealed three Queens.

But the solicitor could observe that Cobb was tense. The crook held his cards in his left hand, while the right one rested on the table with a slight tremble. He seemed right-handed, so the right hand was probably holding the mechanism to deliver winning cards.

From the vantage point of the table, Phillips could see Vale’s subtle gesture of brushing the side of his glass with his ring finger but ignored its meaning. Cobb, seated opposite, read it clearly: the signal to prepare.

Drake was seated just beside Vale, Downey beside Cobb. They were perfectly placed—intentionally placed—since they sat at the table.

Phillips leaned slightly back, still expressionless. The moment was seconds away. And he would not move until he saw what he needed to see. Phillips said nothing.

At last, Mr. Holcombe laid his hand upon the table: three Queens, arranged with quiet satisfaction.

Vale gave a low whistle and leaned back slightly in his chair. “Well now, three ladies at once. A bold move, sir.”

Mr. Holcombe smiled faintly, clearly pleased. “They rarely arrive together, but when they do, they tend to make an impression.”

“Only if they’re not accompanied by higher company,” Drake remarked, chuckling.

“True enough,” Downey replied. “Though I imagine even three dames must grow uneasy with too many eyes upon them.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Phillips added mildly, glancing down as if studying his own cards. “But I dare say they enjoy the attention nonetheless.”

The exchange bought just enough time. Cobb’s fingers twitched, his wrist shifting slightly toward his sleeve. The motion was small—too small for most to notice. But it was enough for the one that discretely didn’t cease watching him for the last few minutes.

“Grab them!” Phillips raised his voice sharply.

Downey’s hand shot forward like a spring-loaded trap, seizing Cobb’s right wrist with crushing force and twisting his arm behind his back before the man could react. A cry of pain escaped him, loud and involuntary.

Simultaneously, Drake surged up from his chair.

His palm struck Vale square in the chest, knocking him and his chair backwards with a loud scrape.

The butcher then raised Vale slowly by his lapels and sent him back, tumbling to the floor.

Vale shouted, half in protest, half in outrage, struggling as Drake pinned him in place.

Gasps rippled around the room. Chairs scraped, cards scattered, men from other tables clamoring.

Holcombe remained frozen, his hand still resting beside the three Queens. Of all present, he looked the most astonished. A moment ago, he had expected to win.

But the play had ended.

“This is outrageous! You’ve no cause to lay hands on me! Who are you, men?” Vale shouted, breathless and indignant.

Phillips stepped forward calmly. “My name is Jonathan Phillips, and I am an attorney at law. And these two gentlemen are my witnesses. You, sir, and your companion have violated multiple provisions under English common law—chiefly, conspiracy to defraud and use false instruments in the pursuit of unlawful gain. You attempted to extract payment by deceit, using altered cards and coordinated deception to cheat an innocent man at play. That constitutes a criminal fraud, punishable under the statutes and precedents well established before any magistrate or court in the realm.”

“You have no proof, you fool!” Vale snapped, struggling beneath Mr. Drake’s hold.

The commotion drew a crowd. Gentlemen from nearby tables stood or leaned in. Curiosity mingled with indignation as they gathered in a close ring around the confrontation.

“You should not interfere,” Mr. Holcombe protested. “I was winning!”

“Quite the contrary, my good sir,” Phillips replied, turning to Holcombe. “They were conspiring to cheat you. Mr. Downey—if you please.”

Mr. Downey, still gripping Cobb’s wrist, twisted it further with a practiced motion. Three hidden Aces sprang out from the sleeve, exposed by a clever internal mechanism.

There was a ripple of shocked murmurs—gasps, exclamations. All eyes turned to the cards.

“Now, Mr. Downey—the jacket pocket,” Mr. Phillips suggested.

Downey reached into Cobb’s interior coat and withdrew a bundle of cards: four Kings and more Aces—each marked identically on the back with the cards on the table.

“You are mistaken!” Vale shouted. “I have no connection with him!”

“Mr. Drake,” said Phillips without raising his voice, “please check his person.”

“You’ve no right to search me!” Vale cried.

“I have every right to reveal a man attempting to win dishonestly,” Phillips replied evenly.

Mr. Drake, firm and efficient, searched Vale’s coat with one hand while keeping him pinned with the other. From various pockets emerged Queens, Kings, and Aces—all matching the prepared cards taken from Cobb.

“Now, gentlemen,” Phillips said, rising fully, “we are to take you where you belong.”

“You have no right to arrest us!” Cobb snarled through clenched teeth. “Only a magistrate can do that!”

Mr. Downey gave a dry chuckle, forcing Cobb’s arm higher until he winced again.

“Very well,” Mr. Phillips said. “Then we shall take you to a magistrate.”

“You cannot drag us off by force!” Vale snapped. “This is abuse!”

“You left me no other option.”

A calm voice rose behind them. “There is no need to take them to a magistrate, Mr. Phillips,” said Holcombe.

Phillips turned, brow furrowed. “Sir, you would need to file a formal complaint. I traced them here because they defrauded my brother-in-law of one thousand pounds. These witnesses are sufficient to solve his problem, but it would be proper—and honorable—for you to come forward. You were their tonight’s prey. ”

“Indeed, Mr. Phillips. What you have done tonight is honorable. But there is no need to drag them before a magistrate.” Holcombe stepped forward and drew a small seal from his coat. “I am one.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“We have not had the pleasure of meeting before now,” the magistrate said, his tone still calm, “but believe me when I say I am honored to meet you—even under these circumstances. Now, if your witnesses would be so kind, we shall escort these men to a place of proper confinement. They are not to be left free until I may judge the matter by emergency hearing—tomorrow morning.”

Then, turning to the gathering of gentlemen who had witnessed the entire affair, he offered a measured bow.

“Gentlemen, forgive us if we have spoiled your evening’s amusement. But justice is often obliged to appear in the strangest of circumstances.”

Cobb blustered. “This is an outrage—”

“This is justice,” Holcombe said flatly. “You may test it tomorrow, in daylight. For now, you will be held under watch.”

To the stunned gentlemen at the table, Phillips inclined his head. “I regret the disturbance, sirs. But I believe you will find your pockets intact—and your conscience clearer.”

The room held its breath as Vale and Cobb were led away.

Mr. Holcombe turned to Phillips as the murmurs began to rise. “Well played.”

Phillips allowed himself a dry smile. “Sometimes the only way to catch a trick is to sit at the table.”

Outside the club, two rough-looking men—clearly hired to watch Vale and Cobb’s backs—had been lingering in the shadows. But when they saw their employers bound and being marched off by the broad-shouldered Mr. Downey and the towering Mr. Drake, they drew their knives without hesitation.

From the doorway behind them emerged Mr. Holcombe and Mr. Phillips, having followed the group into the street.

“How dare you, you scoundrels!” Mr. Holcombe shouted, his voice ringing with sudden fury.

Downey threw Cobb to the pavement without ceremony and took a step forward, ready to meet steel with fists.

“There’s no need for that,” Phillips said coolly, stepping past the magistrate. “One of these gentlemen seems eager for a bullet.”

He drew a pistol from the inside of his coat and raised it level.

“Whoever moves first will earn the honor.”

The two men froze, eyes flicking to the weapon, then to each other.

“Go on,” Phillips added. “One gets the shot, the other gets the gallows. Choose.”

Without a word, the knifemen dropped their blades and bolted—one to the left, the other down an alley and into the dark.

Gasps rose from the gathering crowd that had spilled from the Ravenwood Club, drawn by the commotion.

A few gentlemen exchanged stunned glances, while others muttered behind gloved hands or craned their necks to catch a better view.

One whispered, “Did they cheat at cards?” Someone laughed—short and disbelieving.

It was no longer just a quiet arrest. It had become a spectacle, and the night would carry the tale across the city by breakfast.

Mr. Holcombe turned to Phillips with a questioning glance.

“You needn’t worry, sir,” Phillips said, tucking the pistol away. “The thing hasn’t fired in twenty years. But I shall remind you to have those two pursued in the morning. I daresay the prisoners we have taken will be eager to share their names.”

Mr. Holcombe gave a short laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well played, Mr. Phillips. Very well played.”