The Last Gamble. Anabelle Bryant

Maxwell Sinclair and Cole Hewitt, his partners at the hell, Reese rarely confided anything of a personal nature.

      Therefore no one knew he skimmed the brick wall at the rear of the three-storey town house owned by Viscount Dursley, intent on gaining entry and perpetuating a theft that would leave the stuffy prig in an apoplectic fit. The mental image urged a grin, but Reese nudged the desire aside. How unfortunate he would not be present during the moment of realization as Dursley’s worst fear actualized. Reese would enjoy few things more than thwarting his half-brother in the twisted game played at his expense.

      In silence, he smoothed a gloved hand down the mullioned paned glass of the garden terrace doors and settled on the brass and strike plate. His fingertip located the keyhole and, with his left hand, he twisted the knob to confirm the lock held. Utilizing the expertise learned through his years on the street, he produced a short metal pick, inserted it into the lock, and gained entry two breaths later.

      Stepping into the ground-floor drawing room, he allowed his stifled smile freedom. The withering embers of the evening’s fire simmered in the hearth and his first inhale brought with it the cloying scent of floral perfume as it lingered in the otherwise breathless interior. Aah, Dursley must have his mistress abovestairs. An intriguing development. His shrew of a wife preferred the countryside and the purposeful separation allowed Dursley inordinate liberties. Although Reese wouldn’t put it past the viscount to make free with a servant girl.

      But no, tonight the servants were safe as the presence of expensive fragrance confirmed his first assumption true. Reese needed to enter the viscount’s bedchamber to retrieve the particular item of interest and having a female abed raised the stakes. A spike of challenge quickened his pulse.

      He waited no longer and crossed the thick Aubusson carpet, his boot heels muted as he aimed for the centre stairs. With little effort, he located the newel post in the blackness and accomplished the steps to view an elongated corridor lit by single candle lanterns, the house ensconced in the pale shimmer of quietude. No matter it was the home of his half-brother, Reese had never stepped inside until now.

      To the right he overlooked the downstairs foyer, but on the wall to the left a series of portraits, each one with a surly churl, led him straight to the master suite like a trail of fabled breadcrumbs. Outside the main rooms the fusty painting of his father, his expression stern and smug, watched in silent surveillance. Reese smirked with glorious mockery and entered the sitting area, which led into the bedchamber.

      No conversation could be heard. His soundless breathing and the confident thud of his heartbeat assured the house slept soundly. Apparently, Dursley suffered little from his malevolent deeds, able to slumber without a troubled conscience, so much so the viscount paid a whore to warm his bed.

      Reese had it on good information the item he sought rested with equivalent reticence in a wall safe secured by a mechanical lock. The rotating disks would need to be aligned in the proper order for the mechanism to open. He’d practised for weeks at home in his apartments until confident in his ability, detecting clicks and the pressured resistance that preceded release. Now success lay within reach. It would require all his skill and perhaps a spot of luck to go with it.

      A feminine murmur, discordant in the stillness, gave him pause. He waited. Nothing short of murder would stop him from accomplishing his goal. Pity if the ladybird proved a complication. Shoulders pinned to the wall, he entered the main chamber, his eyes already adjusted to the dim interior. At the centre of the room, two figures, nothing more than indecipherable shapeless mounds, lay motionless atop the mattress. He at once located Dursley’s dour portrait, behind which the safe was hidden, as if it called to him, dared him and waited for his attention. The painting hung on the wall to the right, parallel to the female’s silhouette beneath the sheets.

      As seamlessly as smoke surrenders its existence, Reese advanced across the room and removed the artwork to set on an overstuffed chair beside the end table. Dursley deserved worse than he would receive. The peerage possessed an extraordinary talent for overlooking scandal when it bent to their purpose. Those entitled protected the vaunted reputations of their own and lived by a code only superseded in strength by the oath of criminals and side-slips or otherwise discarded members of society. Fortunately, Reese belonged to the latter group.

      With a fleeting glance to the imposing four-poster bed at the centre of the room, he removed his left glove and placed his fingertips upon the dial. As practised for endless hours, he rotated the knob until a dissonant click sounded, the featherlight vibration unmistakable.

      A rare set of circumstances had placed him in his half-brother’s bedchamber this evening. A deed that would go punished once Reese located his son, the five-year-old lad stolen by Dursley almost a year prior. Reese refused to contemplate what his half-brother might have told Nathaniel. He knew his son would question the why and where of his father’s absence, but his yearlong search had yielded little aside from dead-end leads and mistaken identity.

      Max Sinclair owned The Underworld with Luke, and Sinclair’s wife had unknowingly met Nate at the Marine Society several months before, but by the time the information came to light the trail had gone dark. All confrontations with his half-brother had ended in violent threats, Reese all too aware of his vulnerability were the courts to deliberate the matter. Meanwhile, each passing day brought further heartache and hopelessness. Drastic times, drastic measures and all that. He would stop at nothing to locate his son, and tonight, after he stole Dursley’s journal, he would at last have the factual information needed to pursue Nathaniel’s recovery.

      With a flick of his fingers he rotated the dial in the opposite direction. Once, twice, and then the slight pressure of resistance. Click.

      Someday these newfangled locks would be perfected to a point where any common thief couldn’t help themselves to the contents of the safe the mechanism intended to protect.

      Another rotation, another click, and Reese eased the metal door open, the greased hinges as noiseless as his satisfaction.

      He didn’t waste a moment collecting stacks of bills or pouches of jewels. He possessed more wealth than he’d ever spend in a lifetime. Instead, he slid the pounds aside and wrapped his fingers around the leather journal buried at the rear of the compartment. There lay the treasure, only recently come to light. His heart pounded, rushing blood thick in his veins, as his pulse thrummed at his temple. The journal promised the information required to find his son. He swallowed emotion at the weight of that realization and slid the book into his breast pocket, before he carefully closed the door and secured the dial with a slant of his wrist.

      Replacing the poorly done painting, Reese was poised to leave when the smaller lump beneath the sheets, the misguided mistress, sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and padded past him without a stitch, most likely in search of the bourdaloue and a bit of privacy. He needed to pass the same screen divider to gain access to the sitting room and hall, down the stairs and out the door. Perhaps she might not notice him. When she’d left the bed, he’d hugged the shadows only five paces away. Still, suspicion suggested she would be more fully awake after completing her personal ablution.

      Taking a chance, how he loved to raise the stakes, he crossed the room with hope to avoid the confrontation if only by a narrow margin, but the drowsy miss re-entered the bedroom at the precise moment he intersected, her confused mien upon coming chest to chest with his person priceless. He allowed her one confused blink before he grasped her around the waist and stole a fast, hard kiss.

      Then he went out like a snuffed candle.

      Georgina Smith gathered Biscuit, her pug named for his similarity to the toasted treat, tight in her arms and settled in the pillow-stuffed window seat of her Coventry cottage. Posing as a governess had proved exhausting. If Lord Tucker hadn’t decided unexpectedly to shuttle his family off to London for a week of personal family business, she wondered when she’d have next experienced a bit of freedom. How foolish to assume all governess employment, and all charges for that matter, were similar. The last assignment had proved enjoyable compared to her current situation, but she was in no position to complain. Whether dowager companion or governess, there were few choices for earning wages as an unprotected female. She would survive until she