Page 1 of The Devil Himself (The Devil You Know #1)
One
“ G ood sir, I think perhaps you’ve had enough tonight,” Emrys Grey, proprietor of the Devil’s Playground gentleman’s club, eased the bottle of rye out of the grasp of one of his longtime patrons, a baron of advancing age who still believed himself a young buck when it came to wine, women, and song.
Right then, it was “song” the baron had been indulging in, warbling like a demented seagull, causing other members to pause their gaming and carousing and glare askance at him. That, Emrys well knew, was bad for business.
The wheel of the club needed to keep spinning all night long in perfect rhythm in order for him to make as much money as smoothly and easily as possible.
“Ah, Grey! In me cups, I am.”
“I see that,” he said gently. Rys really did like the old fellow, truth be told.
The fellow had been born a third son to a country squire and had worked his way up from foot soldier to toiling for the home office with an awarded title.
He was a bluff, genial sort. “May I suggest you go with Vanessa here and let her play you a song on her pianoforte for you to sing along with?” In private , he added silently.
“Capital idea!” The old man’s rheumy eyes fastened on Vanessa’s low-cut bodice and well-displayed assets.
“It is, isn’t it? I’m brilliant.” He eased the old man to his feet, and the fellow reeled, slinging an arm around Vanessa’s sturdy shoulders. She was one of his stronger ladies and would do well with the baron.
“Come along, sir. I love to sing, and I’m an accomplished player.” They wended their way off toward the private rooms, and Rys nodded at one of his attendants to follow and make sure no one ended up in a heap on the floor.
He chuckled, heading to the mostly hidden spiral staircase that led to his observation area. It was just a library walkway, but from that vantage point he could see everything that happened on the gaming floor.
Rys liked to make the rounds himself every few hours.
“Ah, Grey. It’s packed tonight.”
Unsurprisingly, his second-in-command, Harris Manford, was already in place high above. “It is. That’s good for us, hmm? Any issues besides the Warbling Baron?”
Harris chuckled. “No. Not really. I’m watching Sir Stephan Leybourne. He’s deep in his pockets and losing fast. But he has the frantic mien of a man who needs money and thinks he’ll hit big.”
“Does he indeed?” He searched the crowd, finding Leybourne at a table with several other men, betting heavily on the hand he held in cards. “Have you asked about to see what his trouble might be?”
“Not yet, no.” Harris shrugged easily, his shoulders moving under his well-cut evening kit.
Grey did admire the man’s shoulders, and Harris was far too circumspect to mention it. That suited him to the ground.
“I shall, then. I need to know what scandal he’s brewed up.” Rys kept a weather eye on all social and political scandals in the city, just to make sure none of the dung that got thrown landed on him.
“Help yourself. I have a Very Important Guest arriving in twenty minutes for dinner and a private room with Lena.” He could hear the capital letters as Harris pronounced the words.
“Indeed?” That designation always meant someone who ranked as a duke or higher. Perhaps a royal. “I won’t keep you then.”
“A brandy at closing?” Harris smiled, his eyelines crinkling up with it. It amused Harris, always, to cater to someone royal or very high in the instep, who would no doubt deny they even knew of the club’s existence.
“Absolutely.”
They made a point of not drinking until all the business was done. But they did indulge with a brandy or whisky once the receipts were counted.
“See you then.”
Rys grinned, then leaned on the railing to survey the crowd. Contrary to what ladies often believed, men gossiped. All he needed to do was find one of his best sources in residence this evening and gently prod Leybourne’s story out of him.
The sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man striding through the crowd, splitting it like the prow of a ship divided water, made him frown. There was something very familiar about the man, but not because Rys recognized him as a patron.
He squinted, trying to place the fellow, and when he did, he stood straight abruptly, his hands gripping the railing he’d just been leaning on.
That particular man was definitely not a member of Rys’s club.
He strode to the stairs, practically leaping down to the gaming floor, and he had to orient himself, looking for that shining head of golden hair.
When he found his quarry, he saw one of his attendants had already stopped the man, politely blocking his way.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jack was saying as Rys moved close enough to hear the exchange. “This is a members-only club. I’ll have to ask ye to leave.”
“I need to speak to Emrys Grey immediately.”
“Mr. Grey is a very busy man.” Jack no doubt thought this was just another brother or friend of some dissolute wastrel coming to plead for someone’s vowels, or IOUs, or for Rys to stop allowing their supplicant to gamble in his club any longer.
He knew better.
“I insist.”
“You can’t?—”
“Here I am, Jack,” he said, keeping his voice low and well-modulated. He would not let his surprise, or the anger that raged in his gut, show. “I shall take over here.”
“Sir?” Jack’s eyebrows rose sharply.
“Go on, then.”
Jack nodded, leaving him and the man to stare at one another.
“Grey.” Those blue eyes blazed at him, full of a fire he had no name for yet. He was certain he would hear all about it, whatever it was. Whatever his damn family had sent this man here for.
His upper lip curled, and he kept his tone low, if curt as hell. “Lucian Fitzwilliam. What the hell are you doing in my club?”