Page 9 of The Brothers Hawthorne

It was such an inane question—trivial, could be answered in a single word.

“No.” For an instant, Ian Johnstone-Jameson looked a little less above it all.

“I did,” Jameson said quietly. “When I was a kid.” He gave a little shrug, as careless as anything Ian could manage. “Three questions, three answers. Your turn.”

“As I said, I find myself in need of a favor, and you…” There was something knowing in the way that Ian said that word. “Well, I think you’ll find my offer enticing.”

“Hawthornes aren’t easily enticed,” Jameson replied.

“What I need from you has very little to do with the fact that you’re a Hawthorne and a great deal to do with the fact that you’re my son.”

It was the first time he’d said it, the first time Jameson had ever heard any man say those words to him.You’re my son.

Point, Ian.

“I find myself in need of a player,” the man said. “Someone smart and cunning, merciless but never dull. Someone who can calculate odds, defy them, work people, sell a bluff, and—no matter what—come out on top.”

“And yet…” Jameson summoned up a smirk. “You’re not playing the game in question yourself.”

And there it was again—Ian’s tell. Point, Jameson.

“I have been asked not to tread on certain hallowed ground.” Ian made that confession sound like yet another amusement. “My presence istemporarilyunwelcome.”

Jameson translated. “You were banned.”From where?“Start at the beginning and tell me everything. If I catch you holding anything back—and I will catch you—then my response to your request will be no. Clear?”

“As glass.” Ian braced his elbows against the glittering black countertop. “There’s an establishment in London whose name is never spoken. Speak it and you may find yourself on the end of some very bad luck courtesy of this country’s most powerful men. Aristocrats, politicians, the extraordinarily wealthy…”

Ian studied Jameson just long enough to make sure hereallyhad an audience, and then he turned, opened a black cabinet, and removed two lowball glasses made of cut crystal. He set them on the island but didn’t retrieve a bottle.

“The club in question,” Ian said, “is called the Devil’s Mercy.”

The name stuck to Jameson, emblazoned on his brain, beckoning him like a sign declaring that no one was allowed past.

“The Mercy was founded in the Regency period, but while the other elite gambling houses of the day aimed for renown, the Mercy was a different sort of enterprise, as much secret society as gaming hell.” Ian ran a finger lightly over the rim of one of the crystal glasses, his gaze still on Jameson’s. “You won’t find the Devil’s Mercy mentioned in history books. It didn’t rise and fall alongside the likes of Crockfords or compete with famous gentlemen’s clubs like White’s. From the beginning, the Mercy operated in secrecy, founded by someone so high in society that a mere whisper of its existence was enough to guarantee that anyone offered a chance at membership would give nearly anything to obtain it.

“The location of the club moved frequently in those early days, but the luxury on offer, the proximity to power, the challenge… there was nothing like the Mercy.” Ian’s eyes were alight. “Thereisnothing like it.”

Jameson didn’t know anything about Crockfords or White’s or the Regency period, but he recognized the story beneath the story.Power. Exclusivity. Secrets. Games.

“There’s nothing like it,” Jameson said, his mind churning. “And you were banned. The name must never be spoken, but here you are, telling me its entire secret history.”

“I lost something on the tables at the Mercy.” Ian’s eyes went flat. “Vantage—my mother’s ancestral home. She left it to me over my brothers, and I need to win it back. Or rather, I needyouto win it back for me.”

“And why would I help you?” Jameson asked, his voice low and silky. This man was a stranger. They were nothing to each other.

“Why indeed?” Ian walked over to a different set of cabinets and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He poured an inch of it in each glass, then slid one across the black granite to Jameson.

Father of the year.

“There are only a handful of people on this planet whocoulddo what I’m asking of you,” Ian said, his tone electric. “In two hundred years, only one person that I know of has ever set out to gain entrance to the Mercy and succeeded. And getting in is just the beginning of what it will take to win Vantage back. So why would I hold out any hope your answer would be yes?”

Ian picked up his glass and raised it in toast.

“Because you love a challenge. You love to play. You love to win. And no matter what you win”—Ian Johnstone-Jameson lifted the glass to his lips, the unholy intensity in his eyes all too familiar—“you always need more.”

CHAPTER 8

JAMESON