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Finn had to remind himself that he wasn’t Finn Wright—at least not tonight. He was Devlin Foster , a tech entrepreneur from America who had recently bought property in Cornwall and London. And as Theodore Crawford, the Monarch Club’s manager, guided him around the elegantly lit corridors, Finn carefully practiced a calm, confident smile—the smile of a worldly American.

They stepped into the main parlor on the club’s first floor. The space radiated old-world grandeur: wainscoted walls, clusters of leather armchairs near a marble fireplace, and discreet servants gliding around with trays of brandy. Several members—men in tailored suits and women in understated evening dresses—formed small groups, conversing softly.

“Mr Devlin Foster,” Theodore announced in a suitably formal tone, “I’d like you to meet a few of our long-standing members.”

Finn dipped his head politely, heart beating just a touch faster. Don’t slip, don’t slip, he thought, recalling Amelia’s caution in his earpiece earlier.

A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a jovial face approached, swirling his cognac in a snifter. “Crawford, who’s this gentleman?”

Theodore made the introductions. “Gerald, meet Devlin Foster. Devlin’s recently moved to England—Cornwall, specifically—but he’ll be doing business in London for a while.”

Gerald nodded, shaking Finn’s hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Foster. You don’t see many new members at the Monarch these days, especially not from beyond our shores.”

Finn smiled wryly. “Yes, I suppose I’m an outlier. But it’s said one shouldn’t join a club that would accept them, right?”

A ripple of laughter passed through the small circle. “Ha! Indeed, you do have a point,” Gerald said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re only too glad to have you, though. The Monarch’s been around for centuries, but fresh blood never hurts, especially from the New World.”

Then, a new voice broke in, smooth and faintly amused. “That was a Groucho Marx line, I believe, Mr Foster,” the newcomer said, eyes narrowing in a friendly challenge.

Finn turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in an impeccably tailored three-piece suit. He had a suave aura, half-smile playing on thin lips. Finn suspected the subtle tension in his posture. This was a man used to evaluating people.

With a practiced shrug, Finn replied, “Great minds think alike.”

The man arched an eyebrow. “And fools seldom differ.”

Finn forced a casual chuckle, noting how the man’s gaze lingered on him just a second too long. Maybe a hint of suspicion. He’s testing me, Finn realized.

Theodore cleared his throat. “James, allow me to introduce Mr. Devlin Foster, our prospective member.” Then he said in a hushed aside to Finn, “Don’t let James’s ribbing bother you—he’s always like this with new members.”

Finn smiled. “I can take it. Good to know the Monarch doesn’t admit total riff raff, though, right?”

James gave a polite laugh, a shadow flickering in his eyes. “Someone has to watch the gates, or so they say. As membership secretary, I see it as my duty.” He shot a glance at Theodore. “We’ve certainly had our share of questionable applicants.”

Finn took a careful breath. “Well, I hope I’ll pass muster. I’ve heard wonderful things—about the prestige, the ambiance, the social circle.”

“Indeed,” James said, quietly studying Finn. “We strive to preserve certain standards.”

Theodore ushered them along. “Why don’t we give you a look around, Devlin? Where should we start?”

“What do you have on offer?” Finn asked.

“Studies, games rooms, the library, a spa…”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the games rooms,” Finn interrupted.

“Follow me, then,” Theodore said.

Finn nodded, and James accompanied them as they moved along a narrow hallway lined with portraits.

“So, are you staying with us for long?” James asked with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “We frown upon interlopers.”

“I’ll be around,” Finn answered. “You must get a lot of business done in a place like this. A lot of negotiations over a glass of wine?”

"Not in the communal areas," came James's reply. "Where did you say you made your money again?"

“Ah, just around here,” Theodore said. Finn had a feeling he was interrupting to stop James from pulling apart Finn’s story.

They arrived at a side corridor off the parlor that opened into a suite of smaller reading rooms and games areas. One room, richly paneled in walnut, had several members enjoying cigars and brandy around a small card table. Another served as a more intimate study with two large windows overlooking a small courtyard. They then entered a larger games room with several men playing dominoes and billiards.

“As you can see, our members enjoy a game or three,” Theodore laughed. “Shall we go to the library next?”

“I don’t know if this is my speed,” Finn said. “I prefer something a little… Richer. You guys do any cards nights?”

James looked at Finn with suspicion in his eyes. “Let’s go to the library.”

Finn was frustrated James didn’t answer him. Theodore nodded and led them through a hallway and into a room with a large grand piano and a small theater of seats.

“This doesn’t look like a library,” Finn joked.

“Theodore likes to take the scenic route,” James added.

“It is this way,” Theodore corrected.

Finally, Theodore guided them into a library , stacked floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes. A wrought-iron spiral staircase led to a mezzanine lined with more shelves. Soft golden light from wall sconces cast the carved wooden surfaces in warm relief.

Finn’s eyes roamed over the meticulously organized shelves, pausing on a particular ornate door set along the library’s far wall. It was half-hidden in a recess, its panel inlaid with swirling patterns. Instinctively, he felt it might lead somewhere discreet.

“What’s behind that door?” Finn asked, letting his voice be just light enough to convey curiosity without pushing.

James’s lips curved into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, that door. Not for the uninitiated, I’m afraid,” he said, tone lightly mocking. “Little parts of the club remain behind closed doors until a new member has… proven themselves. Or been vouched for by a trusted existing member. If you, as you say, enjoy the more exciting side of life, that’s where you’ll find it. But you have to be invited.”

Before Finn could probe further, Theodore slipped in front of him with a laugh that sounded forced. “Indeed, certain rooms remain restricted. Let’s not keep Devlin from the rest of the tour, James.”

Finn mentally noted the door, but had no chance to investigate. The moment dissolved as James and Theodore steered him briskly away, weaving back out into a corridor lit by a row of brass lamps.

Finn glimpsed something else as they rounded a bend: police tape. Yellow and black lines marking off a door. He recognized it instantly from the briefing photos—the private study where Sir Richard Doyle had been killed. But Devlin Foster wouldn’t know that, he reminded himself, schooling his expression into feigned ignorance.

He gestured at the taped doorway. “Is that another door for the uninitiated to avoid, or some renovation going on?”

James stopped, a flicker of discomfort passing over his face. “Not exactly a secret. A tragedy, that. One of our members, Sir Richard Doyle, was found dead in there recently.”

Finn opened his eyes wide, letting genuine shock and a bit of horror show on his face. “My God. I hadn’t heard. I only flew in today. How awful.”

James scrutinized him, as though searching for any slip in that reaction. Then he sighed, stepping away from the taped door. “It’s under investigation. The police are aware, of course, but there’s no reason it should trouble new applicants, I’d hope.”

Finn nodded slowly, heart beating a little quicker at James’s subtle phrasing. “Of course not, though I am sorry for the loss. It must cast a shadow here.”

Theodore cleared his throat. “We’re… working with authorities,” he said carefully, likely wanting to keep the conversation minimal in front of a prospective member. “But everything is in hand.”

With that, James brushed imaginary dust from his immaculate cuff links “Well, Devlin, I do look forward to knowing more about you. I see that Mr. Crawford here is all in for your membership. That’s good enough for now. But I make it a habit to speak to each new arrival personally.”

Finn forced a polite grin, ignoring the small knot of tension in his gut. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Rutherford.”

James gave a slight bow. “Excellent. For now, I must attend to some business. Devlin, enjoy our lounge, meet some friends, and settle in. I shall see you soon.”

He strode off, footsteps echoing on the marble floor, leaving Finn with Theodore. The manager exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Apologies. James is thorough, to put it mildly.”

“Thorough’s an understatement,” Finn murmured. “He’s suspicious already, I can tell. The hidden identity might not last long if he really pushes.”

Theodore offered a tight smile. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Shall we rejoin the main sitting room? You can mingle a bit, then slip away. Make it appear natural that you aren’t lodging your entire life story in one evening.”

Finn nodded, adjusting his mustache out of habit. “Yes, no sense overdoing it. The last thing I want is to appear too eager. You're doing well with this, Teddy.”

Theodore took out a handkerchief and padded his brow, smiling and saying “I'm trying my best, Sir.”

They ambled back down the corridor, past that taped-off private study. Finn resisted the urge to linger, reminding himself of Amelia’s words through the earpiece—he had to blend in, not poke around suspiciously. Eventually, they reached the main lounge again, where a few members were discussing sports in hushed tones, others reading newspapers by the tall windows.

After another ten minutes of polite conversation about the stock market, the London property scene, and minor political news, Finn quietly excused himself. He told Theodore he needed to rest before tomorrow’s “meetings.” Theodore gave a small nod, murmuring that it was wise to pace oneself.

Finn spotted a deserted corridor leading to the exit, lined with portraits of past club presidents. Ensuring nobody was watching, he angled his face away from any staff members he passed—just in case. Once clear of the lounge, he lightly pressed a finger to his earpiece, his voice a faint whisper. “Amelia, you there?”

The only reply was a static hush, then her voice, muted by layers of stone. “I can hear you, Finn. Just about. Everything okay?”

He half-smiled, relieved. “I think so. But this is going to be tougher than we hoped. James Rutherford, the membership secretary, already has an eye on me. He’s sharp.”

Amelia’s voice carried a hint of humor. “You be on your best behavior. We can’t have an international incident because you decided to do your detective work in the most dramatic way possible.”

He bit back a laugh. “You know me too well. But I’ll keep it low-key. My plan is to head home now, show up again tomorrow with renewed mystique. No sense giving them all my presence at once.”

“Agreed,” Amelia said quietly, the faint static swallowing her tone near the end. “There isn't much of it, and you'd run out too quickly.”

“It's not like toothpaste, Amelia.”

Reaching a side exit near the front foyer, Finn peered through the glass doors. Rain slicked the stone steps outside, reflecting the glow of overhead lamps. He took a breath. “Alright, I’m stepping out. Keep an eye out for me.”

“I’ll keep both on you,” Amelia replied, her warmth evident despite the crackle.

Pushing open the door, Finn braced against the damp chill. The drizzle had turned to a gentle shower, pattering on the pavement. He pulled his jacket collar up to shield his neck and descended the wide steps. The grand facade of The Monarch Club rose behind him, lights casting shadows across the tall columns.

A black car, not quite a limo this time but an unmarked vehicle, waited by the curb. Likely courtesy of Rob, or at least someone from the station. Finn didn’t see Amelia or Rob in sight—perhaps they’d decided not to hover too visibly. But he knew they were out there, somewhere, monitoring from a safe distance.

As he stepped into the rain, tension ebbed from his shoulders. He pulled the door of the waiting car open, ducking inside with a relieved sigh. The driver, a stony-faced man with a short nod, said nothing. Perfect . Finn sank into the seat, combing a hand through his dyed black hair. The rain thrummed on the roof, steady as his own heartbeat.

He cast one last look at the Monarch Club’s facade through the window. The centuries-old building stood resolute, cloaked in the hush of wealth and secrets. Two members had died under gruesome circumstances. More might follow if the killer’s pattern continued. If infiltration was their only way to get answers, so be it. He just hoped his cover would hold longer than James Rutherford’s skepticism would allow.

As he began to relax back into himself, Finn had only one thought, one mission on his mind for his next visit.

I’ve got to find out what’s behind that door in the library.