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keep paying his brother-in-law’s debts. He had not wanted another blot on the family name, though, the scandal of having his sister’s husband hauled off to debtor’s prison.
    Now he would not mind seeing the maggot hauled off to Hades. In fact, he’d drive him there himself, if he could find the shabster.
    Martin had ridden off in the dark after a Valentine’s Day celebration at Harking Hall, the first grand party the Hall had seen in ages, now that Harry was in funds. Olivia had worn the Harkness diamonds.
    Martin had worn out two horses—Harry’s best carriage pair—getting away with the family jewels.
    The Harkness diamonds had been in the family since the day some fool trumpeter had shouted “Hark, the King,” at just the right moment, or so the family legend went, saving the ruler’s life from an assassin’s arrow and thereby earning a title and a reward. The diamonds were meant for Harry’s wife, which he did not have, and Harry’s son, which he did not have, and hopes of perpetuity, which Harry did have.
    No one stole from Harlan Harkness, Lord Harking. Not his money, not his good name, not his heritage. And not his heirlooms.
    The coach and Harry’s horses had been headed to London. Harry followed, sure he could find the rotter before Martin sold the gems and gambled the money away. Now he was not so sure. He’d asked at the gentlemen’s clubs, even visited scores of unsavory gaming dens, without unearthing a clue to Martin’s whereabouts, or his diamonds. He did not want to go to Bow Street, to air his family’s dirty linen in public, but thought he might have to before too much time elapsed. First, he had one more place to try.
    An old schoolmate of his had opened a gambling casino, Harry’d heard, shocking the polite world but making a success of it, titillating the
ton
with the search for his missing sister. Mad Jack Endicott was just the scamp to thumb his nose at social conventions. Besides, he was a war hero and the brother of an earl, to boot. He could get away with much and still be accepted.
    The Red and the Black was supposed to be an elegant gaming parlor, with lush appointments and luscious beauties dealing at the tables. Harry did not suppose Sir John Martin was spending his time—and Harry’s money—in such expensive surroundings. What he was hoping was that Jack Endicott, now that he had dealings with London’s underworld, dabbling in the demi-monde, would know where a man went to sell stolen jewels, where a man hid out from his family.
    Harry pulled his knit muffler up against the cold and walked to The Red and the Black. The city fops would have dragged out their horses and drivers for the brisk jaunt. Of course their cheeks would not have turned rosy, their hair would not be windblown, and their boots would not be dusty. What did Harry care? He was here to find a loose screw, not a lady wife.
    Unsurprisingly for mid-morning, the club’s black door marked
Guests
was locked and no one answered his rap. The red door’s sign said
Interviews
, but the long office was nearly empty except for two women and a clerkish looking younger fellow. Despite Harry’s intentions and his supposed disinterest, he hurriedly straightened his neckcloth and tried to brush back his hair when he entered the door and saw the women. Trust Mad Jack Endicott to attract the most beautiful ladybirds in London.
    The smaller woman was a rounded dumpling of a brunette who flashed him a saucy smile while her friend spoke to the clerk. It was the friend who stole Harry’s breath away. No, that was the fast walk and the cold. No bird of paradise was going to distract him from his mission, attract him to indiscretion. But, Lord, the black-clad female was stunning. The color of her clothes might be somber, but the cut was anything but, delineating her tall, slim figure under a velvet cape. The velvet did not look half as soft