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Pulteney Hotel

Piccadilly Street, London

W ill Beckford, alias Horace Greenborough, the wealthy railroad investor, and his spoiled, bejeweled wife, Sybelle, played by Olivia Beckford, were arguing with the sommelier at the Pulteney about the proper way to present, and pour, a vintage bottle of wine worth a hundred pounds.

Their dining partner, who puffed arrogantly on an expensive cigar, was one Abe Bratten, posing as the owner of rich lands in Brazil he claimed he was willing to sacrifice for pennies on the dollar because the Greenboroughs had become such good friends of his.

The Greenboroughs were ready to buy, but they said they had someone they wanted Abe to meet before they finalized the deal. Mister Owens-Kline, their trusted financial adviser, was going to join them and perhaps would also like to invest a few thousand pounds in the overseas venture.

Their adviser, when he arrived, took an inordinate amount of time crossing the hotel dining room after entering through a side door, stopping every few tables to chat or slap a friend on the back.

The dark-haired man did not seem exactly handsome, but he had what Bratten would consider an interesting, compelling face.

However, the financier did seem to have a huge following amongst the wealthy denizens of London.

Bratten’s overall assessment of the man was that he was more of a boxer than a financial wizard. His compact, wiry body gave the impression of a lethal spring capable of loosening the fires of hell on anyone crazy enough to oppose his will.

He went out of his way to visit the musicians who’d been playing softly in the background ever since Bratten had arrived. Did he just slip them a huge stack of blunt? That was a surprise. Most men of his acquaintance who were wealthy weren’t prone to sharing it so publicly.

When he finally reached their table, he shook hands vigorously with Greenborough before they moved on to introductions. Bratten rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Mister Owens-Kline, I hear you’re looking for a few high-return investments.” Bratten believed in throwing his cards into the mix as soon as possible to get things moving.

“I never do business before pleasure, and with the Greenboroughs, I love to see them dance. Are you married, Mister Bratten?”

He was mildly flummoxed at the sudden, odd turn in conversation. “Well, I never…I…”

“You’re either married or you’re not. Which is it, Mr. Bratten?”

“Um, no, actually…”

“That’s too bad. I’m not either, but I love watching the Greenboroughs dance.” With that, the musicians struck up the chords of a popular waltz, and the formerly lethargic Mister Greenborough took his wife’s hand and led her to the small dance floor near their table at the front of the restaurant.

The music started at a slow, swaying rhythm, but within seconds, the waltz had segued into a fast tempo.

On the dance floor just steps away from them, Bratten witnessed one of the most erotic dance performances he’d ever seen.

It was mesmerizing, and he couldn’t look away.

Their version of the waltz was a dreamy twining of arms and legs that eventually led to a crescendo of sound and movement just before the abrupt end of the music.

He’d been totally pulled into their performance but reluctantly turned back to his other table partner. Owens-Kline was staring directly into his eyes. “Do you have some figures and deeds to show me?”

“Of course. When Bratten reached into his portfolio at his feet to retrieve the false deeds and numbers, his hand grasped at nothing but empty space. He immediately leaned across the table with a closed fist, in an attempt to threaten the man on the other side.

Owens-Kline took his fist as if it were a child’s toy and deftly snapped it backward, breaking Bratten’s wrist. When he roared in pain and leapt to his feet, several men who had been sitting in the restaurant came to his side and forcefully escorted him toward the exit.

As they began to lead him away and he was leveling murderous stares at his former dinner partners, Owens-Kline warned in a low, barely audible tone. “The next time you run a confidence game in London, try not to use your, um, skills on individuals who are friends of the queen.”

“Dickie—.” Missus Greenborough raced over and embraced her brother. “We did it, didn’t we?”

“We always do. And where are my nieces and nephews tonight?”

“They’re ‘helping’ Uncle CB at the dispensary,” Will filled in.

“God help him,” Olivia added.

“We might as well drink that shamefully expensive bottle of wine, don’t you think?” her brother suggested.

“If you insist.” Will beat them back to the table and began filling their glass wine balusters.