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Finn stepped into the Monarch Club's marble-floored lobby close to midnight, his posture radiating a cool confidence, carrying a leather briefcase in hand. He wore a tailored midnight-blue suit that gleamed under the subdued overhead lamps, the cut hugging his frame in quiet elegance. Polished black shoes clicked on the shining tiles, and a single gold cuff link glinted at his left wrist—just enough flourish to suggest wealth without screaming it. His fake black mustache looked as real as any other. Hidden in his ear away from prying eyes sat an earpiece connected to Amelia Winters and his investigative support outside. He gave it a gentle press, making sure it was secure. It was his only lifeline, and he hoped he wouldn't have to fall back on it.

The hush inside the lobby underscored the lateness of the hour. Soft shadows draped the decorative potted palms and curved settees, while the large, ornate clock behind the reception desk ticked almost accusingly at the silent corridors. He could sense the sleeping opulence of the place: most members had long departed or retreated into private rooms, leaving only a skeleton staff to roam these grand halls.

A figure emerged from behind a polished column: Theodore Crawford, the Monarch Club’s manager. His brow creased slightly, and his anxious expression lifted only a fraction when he recognized Finn—or rather, “Devlin Foster,” the identity Finn was using. Theodore alone knew the truth of Finn’s background as a consulting detective investigating the murders that haunted this historic establishment.

“Mr. Devlin Foster,” Theodore said in a quiet, urgent voice, bowing slightly. “I wasn’t expecting you so late. It’s nearly midnight.”

Finn offered the man a confident half-smile. “I prefer to arrive when the night’s at its most interesting, Theodore. Lady Pembroke asked me to show up at five to midnight.” He checked his watch and slipped easily into the polished American accent he was using for cover. “I’m running a few minutes behind schedule. I don't like to keep a lady waiting.”

Theodore nodded but couldn’t hide the worry etched on his features. “I see. I hope you haven’t come for… certain activities. With all that’s happened lately—the murders—I’m afraid more secrets might surface tonight. I don’t want the Club shut down, Mr. Foster.”

Finn placed a reassuring hand on Theodore’s shoulder. “Let’s keep those secrets out of view, then. Remember, I’m not the police. I’m a consultant more than anything, and I'm just here to investigate the murders—if nothing else pops up tonight, there’s no need for alarm.”

The manager exhaled, tension in the set of his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to it, then. Please, proceed. And… be cautious.”

“I always am,” Finn answered, dropping his hand. He flicked another glance at his watch: 11:55. “Wish me luck, Theodore.”

Finn headed deeper into the Monarch Club, passing through a side corridor where tapestries of old hunting scenes and pastoral landscapes adorned the walls. The lighting grew softer as he navigated toward the library. Occasionally, he spotted a waiter ghosting silently past, or glimpsed movement behind closed doors, but the place was largely at rest. The faint clink of glassware and distant, muted conversation indicated a small group of night owls still enjoyed the Club’s amenities.

He reached the library, a spacious hall with book-lined walls extending up to a frescoed ceiling. Only a few reading lamps glowed here, rendering the corners thick with shadow. In a pool of gentle light, Lady Pembroke stood by a wide oak table, her back partially turned to the entrance.

She wore a flowing silk nightgown in rich emerald green, the fabric shimmering with each subtle shift of her posture. The contrast between her attire and the scholarly ambiance of the library struck Finn. She radiated confidence, as though the Monarch Club was her personal domain.

At his approach, she turned, and a slow smile graced her lips. “Devlin Foster,” she murmured. “I was beginning to suspect you’d left me waiting… and I hate waiting.”

He dipped his head with a gallant air. "My apologies, my lady. I could never live with myself if I stood up to someone as captivating as you."

A hiss of static crackled in Finn’s earpiece, and Amelia’s voice whispered, “Don’t get too familiar.” He concealed any reaction, raising an eyebrow at Lady Pembroke instead.

She smiled knowingly. “You brought money?” A gesture toward the slim briefcase in his left hand betrayed her anticipation.

Finn patted the case. “A solid stash, enough to keep things interesting.”

“Excellent,” she purred. “Follow me.”

At the far end of the library, the ornate wooden door with delicate carvings stood tightly closed. Finn looked at it, hiding his anticipation. This was it. He was going to finally discover what lay behind it.

Lady Pembroke withdrew a tiny key from an unseen pocket in her nightgown, unlocked the door, then led Finn into a narrow passage. A short flight of steps descended into a hidden room below. The glow of warm lamplight spilled up the staircase, accompanied by the low hum of conversation.

At the bottom of the steps lay a compact chamber, every wall paneled in dark wood, the ceiling lower than in the grand spaces above. A single round poker table dominated the center, illuminated by a hanging lamp that cast a ring of golden light on the green baize surface. The shadows along the edges of the room felt conspicuous, adding to the sense of a clandestine gathering.

Two waiters in black vests stood near one wall, each holding a silver tray adorned with gleaming glasses and bottles of fine liquors. They regarded Finn with polite disinterest. Meanwhile, at the table sat four individuals: three players and a dealer.

Lady Pembroke advanced, skirting the table to take her seat. Finn moved behind her, pulling out the chair with deliberate courtesy. As she gracefully lowered herself, she beckoned him to join the circle.

“Gentlemen,” she declared, “this is Mr. Devlin Foster—he’s new, he’s American, and I hope you won’t go too rough on him.”

The three men looked up, each wearing an expression that ranged from cool welcome to mild suspicion. The dealer, a slight figure with dark hair combed back, gave Finn a perfunctory nod but said nothing, already shuffling a deck of cards with rapid fingers.

Finn set his briefcase down and unclipped the lid. A neat bundle of bills lay inside, glinting faintly under the lamp’s glow—his bankroll for the night. As he arranged his buy-in, Lady Pembroke gestured for each man to introduce himself. Finn flicked his gaze to them in turn.

Jeremy spoke first, lifting a half-filled tumbler of whiskey in a sloppy salute. He was sandy-haired, possibly in his mid-thirties, with a face that might have been friendly if not for the bleary, heavy-lidded look of someone who’d had too much to drink. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of an undershirt; it appeared he’d abandoned his tie hours ago. A flush crept across his cheeks, and the slight tremor in his hand suggested he was already deep into his cups.

“Jeremy Ford,” he slurred, forcing himself upright in his chair. “Welcome, Dev—Devlin, is it? Yes. Don’t let these old wolves scare ya.” He tried to flash a grin, but it came off crooked and uncertain. Still, there was a glimmer of warmth in his eyes—when he wasn’t pressed by sobriety, he probably carried an easy-going demeanor.

Next came the man with a sharp goatee and penetrating dark eyes. Charlie Blackwood looked to be in his forties, wearing a tailored pinstripe suit that spoke of impeccable taste. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and a single gold ring adorned his right hand. He inclined his head in a measured greeting.

“Blackwood,” he said curtly. “Charlie Blackwood. A pleasure to meet an American who appreciates what The Monarch has to offer.”

His voice had a clipped quality, suggesting he preferred directness over small talk. His gaze flicked over Finn’s suit, the briefcase, the watch—assessing everything with a practiced eye. If his expression wasn’t outright hostile, it was at least guarded, as though he wanted to size up Finn’s worthiness for this private table.

The last man sat with a posture so upright it bordered on rigid. He was older than the others—mid-fifties, perhaps—with silvering hair neatly combed to the side. His angular features and slightly hooked nose lent him an aristocratic air. He wore a dark suit with a subtle silk cravat at the neck, evoking a style from an earlier generation.

“Harold Winthorpe,” he announced, his voice calmly assured. “I trust Lady Pembroke has explained our little… midnight gatherings to you?”

As he spoke, he barely spared Finn more than a glance, as if uncertain whether the newcomer deserved his full attention. There was no direct malice in his tone, but an unmistakable sense of superiority clung to him—someone who’d spent a lifetime among Britain’s elite.

Finn greeted them with a polite dip of his head. “Gentlemen, it’s an honor to join you.” He took the empty seat beside Lady Pembroke, feeling the tension that underlay the table’s polite veneer. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the waiters step forward with a tray of glasses. Finn waved him away—he preferred to keep a clear head if possible.

With the introductions done, the dealer dealt a round of cards. Finn eyed the chips as they were given out, and recognized them immediately as the ones found on Sir Richard and Geoffrey Wardlow's bodies. The chips were swapped for Finn’s money, and soon a small pile of the vintage clay tokens sat in front of him. The overhead lamp glimmered on them, each chip worth a staggering sum. An air of polite civility settled over the table, punctuated by the rustle of cards and the occasional clink of glass as Jeremy Ford sipped steadily from his whiskey.

“Newcomer is the big blind,” Jeremy said with a cheeky grin.

“How much?” Finn asked.

“A grand,” Winthorpe said, dryly.

My money won’t last long at this rate , Finn thought.

He placed the bet on the table, and the cards were dealt. He knew he had to stay in the game as best he could. That way, he could find out as much as possible about how the murders were connected to the club. And he had to do that without slipping up and revealing who he was.

It was going to be a long night.

***

After over an hour, Finn had managed to stay relatively sober, unlike the others, and had finally ended a bad run of luck, picking up a promising hand: a pair of queens and a pair of nines after the flop. He had allowed a flicker of confidence to show, increasing his bet just enough to keep the others curious.

“This is quite a setup,” he remarked, glancing meaningfully around the discrete poker room. “I imagine, given the club’s pedigree, there’ve been some pretty big wins here—and some cataclysmic losses.”

Charlie Blackwood sniffed, tapping his chips against the felt. “I don’t like to brag, but I’ve seen my share of high-stakes nights here.”

That was when Jeremy Ford, cheeks tinted with drink, chimed in. “High-stakes? Hah! You should ask Blackwood and Winthorpe… about the Mansfield Game .” He nearly toppled his glass as he gestured theatrically, his eyes bright with mischief or drunkenness—perhaps both.

Harold Winthorpe’s face darkened. He leaned forward, voice low and menacing. “Jeremy, shut up. ”

But Jeremy, emboldened by inebriation, pressed on. “Why not tell Devlin about the biggest hush-hush game in Monarch history? You were there… we were all there that night.” He cackled, though there was an edge of bitterness behind the laughter.

Charlie Blackwood’s jaw tightened, hand gripping his stack of chips. “We agreed not to speak of that. You’re drunk, Jeremy.”

“Maybe,” Jeremy conceded, swaying. “But Sir Richard and Wardlow are worm food now. But—ha! The Mansfield Game—no one wants to—?” He broke off, blinking in confusion as if recalling he was treading on forbidden ground.

At that, a palpable tension coiled around the table. The overhead lamp seemed to dim with the gravity of the moment. Finally, Jeremy slumped back, the fight draining from his posture. “Fine. You’re all spineless.” He shoved himself to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. He grabbed a half-finished bottle of whiskey from a side table, glaring at the other men. “I’ll be in my study… if anyone’s got the backbone to talk about what really happened .”

With that, Jeremy staggered away, the waiters watching impassively. The door at the top of the stairs clicked shut after him.

Lady Pembroke exhaled a soft laugh, though her eyes flickered uneasily. “Forgive Jeremy, Devlin. He sometimes drinks too much and… gets loose with the truth.” She leveled a pointed glance at Winthorpe and Blackwood, as if to say the conversation was closed.

Finn acted as though it were nothing, but he had the sensation of a hound on a trail. And he’d just smelled blood. His undercover plan was working.

The dealer cleared his throat, and the game resumed. Blackwood promptly raised, sliding forward a sizable stack of chips. Winthorpe called, but Lady Pembroke folded, her lips pursed in vague irritation at Jeremy’s theatrics.

Finn studied his hand—he had a brilliant chance to walk away with a hefty pot. But the mention of the Mansfield Game overshadowed everything. Jeremy’s drunken hints could be critical to uncovering the Club’s deadliest secrets. The pot, enticing as it was, came second to his real investigation.

He placed his cards face down on the table. “I fold.”

Lady Pembroke cast him a disappointed smile. “You’re done so soon, Mr. Foster? I had hoped you could keep up with me a bit longer.”

Finn offered a light shrug, slipping back into his half-charming grin. “Quality, not quantity, Lady Pembroke. I think I’ve gambled enough for one night.”

“Pity,” she mused. “But do come back another time.”

Rising from his seat, Finn bowed slightly to the table. “Lady Pembroke, Gentlemen, thanks for letting me join. Perhaps next time I’ll be bolder.” With that, he gathered his remaining chips to cash them out. A waiter quietly moved forward to handle the process.

The dealer, Blackwood, and Winthorpe seemed all too happy to let him leave—anything to restore calm after Jeremy’s slip of the tongue. Finn left them to their tense game, climbing the short staircase back into the library.

Once the ornate door closed behind him, the library’s hush felt almost tranquil in comparison to the fraught atmosphere below. A reading lamp glowed softly on a table, illuminating dusty rows of leather-bound tomes. Finn took a moment to scan the shadows; the space was empty. He pressed a finger to his earpiece.

Amelia’s voice came through, tight with curiosity. “Don't tell me you've run out of money already? That's the public's money, remember.”

Finn stepped away from the door, heading for the corridor. “No. Jeremy Ford mentioned something called the Mansfield Game. Lady Pembroke and the others clearly want to bury it. Jeremy might be drunk enough to spill the truth.”

A pause, then Amelia’s tense reply: “It's difficult for us to hear, that old building must be built like a castle with unusually thick walls... So you think the game... It’s tied to the murders?”

“Feels that way,” Finn said. “Sir Richard Doyle and Geoffrey Wardlow played in that game, too. It’s a good lead. We need to investigate that game. Jeremy’s upset. If I find him now, he might tell me something without realizing its importance.”

“Alright,” Amelia said, her concern laced with encouragement. “Just be careful. If this Mansfield Game is a secret among the Club’s elite, they won’t want it exposed.”

Finn nodded absently, even though she couldn’t see him. “Understood. I’ll proceed with caution. Hopefully, Jeremy hasn’t passed out yet.”

With that, he stepped into the corridor, leaving the library’s muted lamplight behind. Shadows stretched along the hallway, and faint echoes from hidden corners suggested the Monarch Club was never entirely asleep. One hand resting lightly at his side—ready, just in case—Finn set off to locate Jeremy Ford’s study. The hush pressed in around him, amplifying his own footsteps. He moved with measured determination, the name “Mansfield Game” echoing in his mind like a promise of revelation.