The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(11)
“I look down, and I’m holding the winning hand of cards,” Brice said, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “Granted, it was originally Turnwell’s to play, but he should have thought of that before he stood to get another drink and told me to keep an eye out for him. Anyway, some things happened, and now I owe Lord and Lady Winslow a new table. Quite a win, though, so it balances out in the end.” He shook his head and took a sip of the whiskey in his glass. “You really should have been there.”
“Things outside the card room were equally interesting last night,” Fallon mused before he could catch himself. Clearly this issue with Grapling had him at odds if he was offering unsolicited information. He truly needed to leave now.
“You spotted Grapling in the garden after all? I thought you were still looking for him. Didn’t give the all-powerful St. James the slip, did he?”
He had indeed, only not in the garden. Fallon had looked back at Lady Isabelle Fairlyn for but a second. She had been standing there in the ballroom, bathed in soft candlelight, and Grapling had vanished from the front doors. “I saw him from a distance but no more,” he muttered.
“You need to put down the work and get out more, St. James. Seeing someone from a distance isn’t the definition of excitement.”
“Perhaps.” His encounter with Lady Isabelle Fairlyn had been invading his thoughts more than he would ever admit. He hid the amusement that tugged at his lips over the memory of her laughter. Would he see her at the next grand society event? He should make it a point not to see the lady again…
“I meant no insult, St. James.”
“Insult?” He looked up from the steaming cup of tea in his hand.
“About you having a bit of fun from time to time,” Brice explained. “You look like your favorite pudding was stolen from you without a bite.”
“You know I don’t eat sweets. They—”
“Extend the dinner hour beyond what is necessary and don’t provide enough nourishment to justify the time wasted in their consumption. You’ve mentioned it on occasion. But I know the look of stolen sugary treats in a man’s eye. I’m the youngest of four. I had to fight for my share of such things. It’s why I’m so mean today.” Brice flexed his arm with a grin.
“Yes, you’re terribly angry. If you’ll excuse me, I need to see to some things before I leave for the Swan and Pony. Perhaps Grapling likes sweets and will be enjoying an extended meal there.”
“Go on, then. If you find him, send for me. I want a piece of that one for the trouble he’s put us through.”
“If I find him, I’ll serve him up…like pudding,” Fallon promised.
*
The Swan and Pony was the sort of establishment that held many secrets—what was actually in the stew for one. But Fallon was in search of only one secret today: Had Reginald Grapling been seen here since his escape?
Fallon gave a nod to his driver to circle the area as they’d discussed, opened the door, and walked into the dimly lit tavern. The pungent scent of countless glasses of whiskey burned his nose, and he blinked in the low light of the open room. There was a layer of grit on the floor that had been scrubbed to a lighter shade of dirty by countless boots scraping across the entrance. The walls were yellowed from a century’s worth of pipe smoke. The same smoke still seemed to hang low over the tables as if trapped there. Fallon scanned the room, focusing on every shadowed corner before he turned to the barkeeper.
“Pint?”
“Not today,” Fallon said, moving closer to the well-worn edge of the countertop. “I’m looking for someone.”
“A friend?”
Fallon didn’t reply, only slid a few coins across the wooden surface toward the older man.
“A good friend of yers, I can see,” the barkeeper muttered as he pocketed the coins.
Fallon watched him, gauging whether the man would tell him the truth or fill him with lies, even with money involved. “Have you seen Mr. Grapling since his return?”
The barkeeper’s eyes grew wide for a second, then he looked down to get an empty glass, taking his time to pull it from a shelf below the counter. His hands shook, rattling the glass against the wooden surface of the bar top. Then the man’s gaze cut to a closed door on the far wall. It was a tiny movement, but Fallon saw it.
“I don’t know a Mr. Grapling. Sorry to disappoint ya,” the barkeeper finally stated.
“I have all that I require. Thank you.” Fallon slid two more coins across the counter. “For your troubles.”
“I don’t want any trouble ’ere.”
Fallon gave the man a nod and moved toward the closed door. He didn’t want this trouble either. Talk inside the tavern continued on around him, but all Fallon heard were his own footfalls as he neared the door.
Then in one swift motion, he flung the door open and stepped inside. He barely registered the single table, empty chairs, and still-steaming plate of food in the center of the room. His gaze went straight to the open window. Grapling had been here when he arrived. Pushing chairs from his path, Fallon rounded the table and climbed through the window.
The walls of an alley surrounded him with only one means of escape, back toward the street where he’d left his driver circling.
Setting off at a run, Fallon dodged abandoned crates and debris that littered the ground. He reached the corner and slid to a stop with his hand on the cool stone wall. Which direction?