Page 130 of The Brothers Hawthorne

Rohan hadn’t said that the winner would be the one who brought him the object in the box. He’d said that it would be the person whotold himwhat was in the box—and whatever that thing was, it had to be more valuable than even the most dangerous secrets.

“Fine, then,” Katharine said briskly. “A ballerina. A figurine. A piece of silver. That’s what was in the box.”

“Wrong answer,” Rohan told her. Slowly, he turned toward Jameson. The last time they’d faced each other this directly, Rohan had just told him tostay down.

Jameson thought the Factotum knew him a little better now.

“Have a different answer for me, Hawthorne?” Rohan asked.

“As a matter of fact,” Jameson replied. “I do.” He held Rohan’s gaze, his own blazing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.“Silence.”

Jameson let the answer hang in the air, just for a moment.

“More valuable than secrets,” he continued.The ability to say nothing, to keep those secrets. Silence.“And this”—Jameson nodded toward the silver chest—“isn’t just a box. It’s amusicbox. The music plays, the ballerina turns. Except this time, no music.Silence.”

Rohan’s lips slowly curled into a closed-mouthed smile. “It looks like we have a winner.”

Euphoria exploded in Jameson like a speeding train crashing through wall after wall after wall. The world grew brighter, his hearing more acute, and he felteverything—every bruise, every wound, the rush of adrenaline, the taste of the seaside air, the breath in his lungs, the blood in his veins—all of it.

This wasmore.

“And so,” the Factotum continued, “this year’s Game is concluded.” With a flourish, Rohan produced the stone mark: half black, half white, entirely smooth. He held it out to Jameson, who took it. The stone felt cool in his palm, like a disk made entirely of ice.

I did it.

“You may have a day,” Rohan told him, “to decide what you wish to trade that in for.”

All Jameson could think was thatthiswas what he was—without the Hawthorne name, without the old man, without Avery, even. Jameson had played thishisway, and he’d won.

He could feel Katharine’s eyes on his face, assessing him, determining her next move.You don’t have be to a player to win the game. All one really has to do to win is control the players.She was going to offer him something—or threaten him. Maybe both. She’d already tried to use Ian against him, and who knew where Ian was—or what he was doing—now.

Jameson wasn’t about to give Katharine another twenty-four hours to determine her—and his mysterious uncle Bowen’s—next move. “I don’t need a day,” he told Rohan.

The Proprietor of the Devil’s Mercy kept control of its membership through use of a ledger that held their secrets. Powerful secrets of powerful men—and some women, though not many.

Jameson looked to Zella. Her lips ticked very slightly upward on the ends. Whatever she’d wanted from Katharine—or Bowen Johnstone-Jameson—she’d presumably secured it. She’d fulfilled her end of whatever deal she’d struck with them by handing over the last key. And now, the duchess owed Jameson a debt, one she seemed to think she’d soon be in excellent position to repay.

Jameson looked to Branford next: uncle, head of a family that wasn’t Jameson’s in any way but blood. And yet… Jameson had to put real effort into looking away from the man, and when he did, it was to look up at Vantage. He thought of the portrait of his paternal grandmother. This was her ancestral home, and through her blood, his.

Jameson held the mark back out to Rohan. “I like this place,” he told him. “Though I might get rid of that damn bell.”

CHAPTER 88

JAMESON

Walking through the front door of Vantage felt different this time. It feltright. Jameson moved slowly to the bottom of the grand staircase. He looked up.Mine.He’d grown up being handed every opportunity, every luxury, in a mansion easily larger than this place, but Jameson’s entire life, nothing had ever been just his.

“It suits you,” Zella called from somewhere behind him.

Jameson didn’t turn. He barely heard her.

“You would think so.” That was Rohan, also behind him. Katharine had made her exit.

Branford strode past the others, making his way to Jameson and fixing him with a stare so pointed that it drew to mind a threat:If I’d had any hand in raising you, I would be doing a hell of a lot more than yelling.

“We need to talk.” Branford didn’t wait for Jameson to reply before nodding sharply toward the stairs. As Jameson took the first step, the viscount turned to shoot a warning look at anyone who might be tempted to follow. “I need a moment with my nephew.Alone.”

At the top of the grand staircase, Jameson found a window, one that faced out over the stone garden, the view stretching all the way past the cliffs to the ocean and the hint of a storm brewing on the horizon.