Page 16 of To Heist and to Hold

Failure, however, seemed imminent as, not ten minutes later, Heloise was practically booted out of Mr. Sinclaire’s office. What a blasted mess.

Face flaming, she fought the overwhelming urge to duck her head and hurry back to the ground floor.

Instead, she forced herself to slow her pace, eyes furtively scanning every nook and cranny of the bright and surprisingly welcoming hall.

She could not pass up this opportunity to take stock of this portion of the private area of the club.

Goodness knew when she would get an opportunity like this again—if ever.

But even as she made a mental list of all she saw, from the number of doors to the placement of the windows to the light sources, she could not put from her mind the look of disdain on Mr. Sinclaire’s face when, after the disaster of a meal was over, the man had summarily dismissed her.

No, not just dismissed; he had appeared as if he would gladly pack her bags and send her off to hell.

Her feet faltered and then stopped on the runner as she dropped her face into her hands, letting out a muffled groan.

And things had been going so well, too. Or, at least, she had thought they had been going well.

During that short interlude when she had let her mask drop, in a misguided attempt to comfort him, he had seemed to respond to her.

For the first time since meeting him, she felt she had seen through the rough, unwelcoming veneer to the man beneath.

And she had begun to respond to him as well.

She blanched as she recalled the effect he’d begun to have on her, her skin tingling and her heart about to gallop out of her chest. But no, she would not think of that.

She needed to focus on the change that had come over him when she had returned to using the skills Euphemia had taught her to assist in seducing the man.

She dropped her hands, turning to frown at a bucolic painting of brilliant green pastures bookended by towering trees on the wall beside her.

His attitude toward her had most definitely changed the moment she had begun to use those feminine wiles again.

But could that possibly mean that he preferred her when she was being herself, and not the femme fatale she had thought she needed to be?

She snorted a laugh. Of course the man would not prefer her natural personality.

That was preposterous. Shaking her head, she made it the rest of the way down the hall, slipping through the door that led to the staircase and the lower floor—only to freeze before her foot had descended even one tread.

Just as she closed the door, submerging herself back in the rich, opulent extravagance that marked the rest of the gaming club, the light from the hall caught ever so briefly on a bit of metal on the far wall of the landing.

There were burnished gilt sconces here, of course, gas lamps turned low, as well as all manner of richly appointed frippery and opulence. Yet there was something about that small flash of metal that snagged her attention. It appeared like nothing so much as the handle to a door.

Frowning, she paused and bent down. Yes, it did indeed appear to be a handle, right in the middle of the wood paneling. A quick perusal of the wall, her fingers running lightly over the polished wood, revealed the definite delineation of what appeared to be a door.

Blinking, she straightened. A hidden door. Which could mean only one thing: This area of the club was not a place most people were typically invited.

Heart pounding, Heloise cast a glance down the dark stairs to make certain there was no one about before, taking a steadying breath, she reached for the handle and gave it a careful turn.

It made not a sound save for the slightest click of the latch releasing, the hinges no doubt carefully oiled.

The door swung inward, revealing yet another hall, this one darker and more richly appointed than anywhere in the club she had seen thus far.

It was adorned with a plush runner as red as blood, velvet-topped benches, and all manner of gilt-framed paintings depicting Greek gods in various states of undress and merriment.

Legs shaking beneath her, feeling as if she were walking into Hades itself, she stepped into the hall, letting it swallow her up, carefully closing the door behind her.

For a long moment she stood frozen, hardly daring to breathe, listening.

But even the work of the carpenters one floor down was a mere echo here.

Unnerved by the quiet, she peered down the hall, making out not only more doors but also a dark opening on the far right wall, perhaps a continuation of the corridor.

She swallowed hard, wondering just how vast this place might be, wishing that she had a ball of thread to lead her out to safety, like Theseus in King Minos’s labyrinth.

Unconsciously reaching for the collar of her pelisse, she found a bit of strength when her fingers came into contact with the blade hidden there.

Then, jaw set and senses on high alert, she moved down the hall.

With utmost care she tried the handles of the two doors closest to her.

Each, however, was locked tight, refusing to give even a bit.

She exhaled in frustration, biting back a curse.

If only Iris were with her. Her talent for picking locks was unmatched; she would be able to access the rooms without a problem.

But though Heloise had learned a thing or two about lock-picking, and in a pinch could use the specially made pins in her hair to gain entry to just about any room, her skills were nowhere near on par with Iris’s.

Such a thing would take time, and that she did not have; while there was no one about now, she did not know how long that might remain true.

She had to hurry if she was to take stock of this place.

Giving the doors a furious glare, she continued on, pausing at the turn in the hall, peeking around the corner before slipping around it.

She had not taken two steps, however, before she heard deep male voices rumbling in conversation. And they were coming from the stairwell behind her.

Breath stalling in her chest, Heloise pressed her back against the wall, head tilted and ears straining.

Mayhap it was yet another vendor here to meet with Mr. Sinclaire.

But her small half-hearted prayer was dashed as the voices suddenly grew clearer, louder, and she realized that wonderfully silent door that had assisted her just moments ago had been opened and the men were, in fact, coming her way.

She hastily clamped a hand to her lips to hold her squeak of alarm at bay.

Looking wildly about, she made for the first door she could see, one heavier and more ornate than the others.

Please , she begged silently as her hand gripped the handle, please let this door be unlocked.

She fully expected her plea to be ignored.

Hadn’t every other door she’d tried been locked?

To her complete and utter surprise, however, the handle turned easily in her hand.

Without a second thought she slipped through…

… And was dealt a shock—or, rather, another shock—as she entered a large, opulent room with a wall made entirely of glass. Glass that looked over the casino floor.

But she did not have time to fully take stock of this jarring fact before, to her horror, the men’s voices came closer, stopping right outside the door.

Acting on instinct alone, Heloise leaped forward, toward the first item that could be used to hide her.

Which happened to be a very large, very plush, very sensual-looking sofa.

She had no sooner rearranged her skirts behind the thing than the door swung open and two sets of heavy footsteps entered.

“I don’t give a good damn what Teagan wants,” a gruff voice—one Heloise recognized as belonging to Mr. Parsons—said.

“The private women’s games should be opened to a larger pool of patrons.

Do we really want only noblewomen in the upper echelons of society to be able to partake of Dionysus without the benefit of the masquerades?

The rest of us agree; why does he have to be the one stubborn arse? ”

Heloise frowned. Private women’s games? She had been under the assumption that women were allowed into Dionysus only during the quarterly masquerades. She set her teeth tight. Those same masquerades that Julia had been forced to attend.

But Mr. Parsons was referring to something quite different, something separate from those nights of bacchanalian pleasure when the sexes mingled under a cloak of anonymity.

“You know Teagan,” a second man grumbled.

From his peculiar raspy voice, she immediately recognized him as Mr. Copper, the floor manager who had admitted them that first day.

A nearby chair creaked as he sank down into it.

“Though he grew up in the gutters alongside the likes of us, he wants to distance himself from it. And that means mingling with the nobility as much as he can.”

Parsons grunted. Heloise, peering under the sofa, watched as his large black boots crossed the room to the wall of glass.

Even though she could not see above his knees, she could sense the tension in him as he stared down into the casino.

“The damn fool. As if the nobility is good to us for anything but parting them from their fortunes at our tables.”

Mr. Copper gave a rough laugh. “Something you’re extremely talented at.”

“This ugly face is good for something. But I don’t give a damn what Teagan says. Gather the requests for admittance to the private games and bring them to me later today.”

“Aye.” The man rose, heaving a sigh as he did so. “But Teagan ain’t going to like it.”