them himself.
No, in reality it was rather tame, at least on the surface. Mortimer was just the sort of poseur to enjoy the blunted badness of the Liar's Club.
His decision made, Simon pulled his top hat low over his eyes and strode across the cobbles, exuding all the snobbery of a gentleman slumming in a moderately shabby area for his own amusement. The doorman gave him a bored glance.
"It's a private club, sir. I can't admit ye without a sponsor."
Simon tipped his hat higher with one finger to show his face. "Open the door, Stubbs, or I'll dock your pay."
The doorman's eyes widened, and he truly looked at Simon for the first time.
"Sir! Yessir, Mr. Rain, sir! I didn't recognize ye all toffed up, sir!"
Simon grinned. "That's all right, Stubbs. I never use the front door anyway."
"Yessir. I mean, nossir!" Stubbs jumped to open the door for Simon.
"Is Jackham about, Stubbs?"
"Yessir. Mr. Jackham's in the office, sir, last I saw 'im, sir."
Simon only nodded, passing into the club. It was a relief to get away from the poor fellow's groveling.
It was even more of a relief to step into the manly, smoky world of his club. Even simply to be in the outer rooms, which were used solely by the young gentlemen and lordlings who frequented the tables and drink provided there. The deep green walls and dark woods were severe and simple. It was a world of men, free of floral scents, tea service, and nagging.
Not to mention free of temptation.
Jackham was grumbling about that very thing when Simon entered the office behind the billiards room. The older man was seated at the giant banker's desk. He had likely been there a while, for his reddish fringe of hair was already mussed from frustrated finger-running.
"We'd be twice the richer if we had some doves in here," Jackham grumbled rudely as he pored over the bookkeeping. "And where the hell have you been?"
Simon only smiled as he lounged on the threadbare sofa that Jackham was too miserly to replace. After days of having the social niceties stuffed down his gullet, Jackham's lack of polish was refreshing.
"You know the rules, Jackham. No opium, no whoring. We stay clean and we stay in business."
"Whores aren't illegal. They're practically subsidized by the ladies of London who want their husbands gone from their beds."
"Jackham, we've had this discussion before. You may bring in the floor shows when the blokes get restless, but
absolutely no whoring."
Jackham didn't dare do more than mutter when Simon glared him down. There was no possibility that Simon would ever budge on this issue. He had a few sins on his conscience—very well then, more than a few—but he refused to take part in the business of selling souls.
"So why haven't you shown your face around here for days, leaving me to run this place by myself? I don't own it, you know. You do."
"Business."
"Well, I figured that," groused Jackham. "It wouldn't have anything to do with that job got pulled over in Mayfair two nights back, would it?"
Simon grunted noncommittally.
Jackham's black eyes gleamed. "A fine piece of work, that. Worthy of the Magician himself, eh?" He winked at Simon. "Reminds me of my younger days on the rooftops. Hear tell the swag was full of diamonds. You know anything about that job, Mr. Rain?"
"Now, Jackham, you know I never tell tales out of school." Simon decided to throw a few diamonds into Jackham's cut this quarter, just to fiddle with his mind.
"I miss those days, I really do," sighed Jackham.
For a moment, the lines of pain in his face eased and Simon knew he was remembering his own days dancing with the devil on the rooftops of London, a mere shadow man who could lighten the wealth of the most secure establishments.
It was a thrilling life, the career of a master thief. It was also a short life, bound to end badly. For some, it ended in gaol or the gibbet.
For Jackham, one small misstep on a slippery and misted ledge had landed him on the cobbles from four stories up. He'd
No, in reality it was rather tame, at least on the surface. Mortimer was just the sort of poseur to enjoy the blunted badness of the Liar's Club.
His decision made, Simon pulled his top hat low over his eyes and strode across the cobbles, exuding all the snobbery of a gentleman slumming in a moderately shabby area for his own amusement. The doorman gave him a bored glance.
"It's a private club, sir. I can't admit ye without a sponsor."
Simon tipped his hat higher with one finger to show his face. "Open the door, Stubbs, or I'll dock your pay."
The doorman's eyes widened, and he truly looked at Simon for the first time.
"Sir! Yessir, Mr. Rain, sir! I didn't recognize ye all toffed up, sir!"
Simon grinned. "That's all right, Stubbs. I never use the front door anyway."
"Yessir. I mean, nossir!" Stubbs jumped to open the door for Simon.
"Is Jackham about, Stubbs?"
"Yessir. Mr. Jackham's in the office, sir, last I saw 'im, sir."
Simon only nodded, passing into the club. It was a relief to get away from the poor fellow's groveling.
It was even more of a relief to step into the manly, smoky world of his club. Even simply to be in the outer rooms, which were used solely by the young gentlemen and lordlings who frequented the tables and drink provided there. The deep green walls and dark woods were severe and simple. It was a world of men, free of floral scents, tea service, and nagging.
Not to mention free of temptation.
Jackham was grumbling about that very thing when Simon entered the office behind the billiards room. The older man was seated at the giant banker's desk. He had likely been there a while, for his reddish fringe of hair was already mussed from frustrated finger-running.
"We'd be twice the richer if we had some doves in here," Jackham grumbled rudely as he pored over the bookkeeping. "And where the hell have you been?"
Simon only smiled as he lounged on the threadbare sofa that Jackham was too miserly to replace. After days of having the social niceties stuffed down his gullet, Jackham's lack of polish was refreshing.
"You know the rules, Jackham. No opium, no whoring. We stay clean and we stay in business."
"Whores aren't illegal. They're practically subsidized by the ladies of London who want their husbands gone from their beds."
"Jackham, we've had this discussion before. You may bring in the floor shows when the blokes get restless, but
absolutely no whoring."
Jackham didn't dare do more than mutter when Simon glared him down. There was no possibility that Simon would ever budge on this issue. He had a few sins on his conscience—very well then, more than a few—but he refused to take part in the business of selling souls.
"So why haven't you shown your face around here for days, leaving me to run this place by myself? I don't own it, you know. You do."
"Business."
"Well, I figured that," groused Jackham. "It wouldn't have anything to do with that job got pulled over in Mayfair two nights back, would it?"
Simon grunted noncommittally.
Jackham's black eyes gleamed. "A fine piece of work, that. Worthy of the Magician himself, eh?" He winked at Simon. "Reminds me of my younger days on the rooftops. Hear tell the swag was full of diamonds. You know anything about that job, Mr. Rain?"
"Now, Jackham, you know I never tell tales out of school." Simon decided to throw a few diamonds into Jackham's cut this quarter, just to fiddle with his mind.
"I miss those days, I really do," sighed Jackham.
For a moment, the lines of pain in his face eased and Simon knew he was remembering his own days dancing with the devil on the rooftops of London, a mere shadow man who could lighten the wealth of the most secure establishments.
It was a thrilling life, the career of a master thief. It was also a short life, bound to end badly. For some, it ended in gaol or the gibbet.
For Jackham, one small misstep on a slippery and misted ledge had landed him on the cobbles from four stories up. He'd
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