Silence welled up in the interior of the carriage.

“Tobias sat back in the seat and studied the front door of his house. Absently, he massaged his left thigh. As astonishing as it is, I cannot deny that the hairdresser is a link between the suspects and the death of at least one of the victims. Tomorrow I will see if I can discover some connections between him and the other two murders.”

Lavinia felt both relieved and vindicated. “I knew you would see reason eventually, sir. It was just a matter of time.”

“Your faith in my powers of logic is deeply gratifying,” he said grimly.

“What happens next?” Joan asked with great interest.

Tobias glanced at Lavinia. “Do you still have Pierce’s card? The one he gave you that night at the castle?”

“Yes. His lodgings are in Piper Street.”

“I am not entirely convinced that the hairdresser is the Memento

“Mori Man,” Tobias said. “But until we can sort through the chaos of this affair, I think it would be wise to keep an eye on him.”

Twenty-Four

The gaming room of the club was thick with the invisible miasma of frenzied excitement that radiated from the players. For the most part, the fierce passions that accompanied each roll of the dice or new wager at the card tables were concealed behind the requisite masks of ennui and jaded amusement. Good form demanded that each of the elegantly dressed gentlemen vie to outdo his companions in expressing a supreme lack of concern for the outcome of the play.

But nothing could conceal the smell of sweat and anxiety that mingled with the smoky haze, Anthony thought. It was a stench that permeated the entire room.

This was the hellish atmosphere of feverish desperation that his father had chosen to breathe. In the end it had lured Edward Sinclair to his death.

He stood in the doorway for a time, listening to the click of the dice and the clink of bottles and glasses on the card tables. It likely made no difference how much one drank while playing hazard. The result of a toss of the dice was in the hands of the fates, unless the management had secretly weighted the small cubes. But it made no sense at all to drink oneself into a stupor while attempting to employ some logic to a hand of whist, he thought. Yet drinking deeply was precisely what almost all of the players chose to do.

With the exception of Dominic Hood.

Dominic played whist in the same style as the others, with a bottle of claret at hand. But Anthony noticed that he did not sip from his half-filled glass. There was a small pile of papers on the table. Vouchers from those who had lost to him.

Anthony studied him closely, searching for the evidence of their shared blood. There were, indeed, some similarities between them, he concluded. Their father had left his stamp on the shape of their noses and the angle of their shoulders. And on the color of our eyes, he thought. Why had he not noticed until now that Dominic’s eyes were the same shade of golden brown as those he saw in his shaving mirror every morning?

The hand of whist came to an end at Dominic’s table. In spite of his caution with the claret, this time he was the one who was obliged to scrawl his promise to make good on his wager on a small slip of paper. Sobriety might increase one’s odds of winning at cards, Anthony thought, but it certainly did not guarantee the outcome of the game. No amount of astute and logical play could make up for a bad hand.

With an easy smile and a bored nod to his companions, Dominic left the table and turned to walk toward the door. When he saw Anthony, he hesitated ever so slightly. Then his jaw clenched. He continued forward.

“I’m surprised to see you here this evening,” he said as he made to move past Anthony. “I got the impression that you avoided the gaming tables.” He smiled with faint derision. “Something to do with a fear of losing, no doubt.”

The insult sliced to the bone, but Anthony was proud that he was able to manage a thin, cold smile in return. “Something to do with a strong desire to avoid ending up dead because of a foolish dispute over a hand of cards.” He paused deliberately. “As our father did.”

A flicker of dark emotion came and went in Dominic’s eyes. He swiftly veiled the expression. “So you finally reasoned it out, did you?

“It certainly took you long enough. Perhaps you would do well to reconsider your choice of profession. One would expect a private inquiry agent to be somewhat more astute, don’t you agree?”

“I believe that I shall stick with my career. Unlike you, I do not have the option of amusing myself with science experiments all day and card-playing all night. That sort of pleasant idleness is only for those who were so fortunate as to inherit property and an income.”

Dominic nodded. “I retract what I said about you not being observant, Sinclair. You are quite right. I never knew my father, but I do, indeed, have an inheritance. Which means that I have a good deal more to offer to a lady such as Miss Emeline than you do.”

He turned on his heel and walked off without waiting for a response.

Anger flashed through Anthony. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.

He pursued Dominic across the coffee room and out into the front hall, where an uneasy porter quickly handed both of them their hats and hastened to open the door.

“Stay away from Emeline,” Anthony said fiercely from the top of the steps.

Dominic came to a halt and spun around. In the harsh glare of the gas lamps, his face was a mask of barely contained rage. “Now, why should I deprive myself of the pleasure of her company, brother!”

“You do not love her.” Anthony went slowly down the steps, hat clenched in his fist. “You seek to use her in order to exact your revenge against me. Admit it, Hood.”

“I do not intend to discuss my interest in Miss Emeline with you.”

“Hell’s teeth, man, this has nothing to do with Emeline. I am the one you want to destroy. Would you hide behind a woman’s skirts to gain your vengeance?”

“Damn you, I could call you out for that insult.”

“Be my guest,” Anthony said. “But at least have the courage to admit why you are challenging me. I ask you again, sir, why do you hate me? Is it because your mother allowed herself to be seduced by our father? You cannot blame me for that. You cannot blame her either. The only one you can fault is Edward Sinclair, and he’s been dead and buried for some fourteen years.”

“Damn you to hell, Sinclair.” Dominic hurled his hat aside and launched himself forward. “Do not dare to mention my mother. Your father ruined her.”

Anthony employed the sliding maneuver that Tobias had taught him and managed to duck his brother’s wildly swinging fist.

Although Dominic’s blow did not strike its target, Anthony was unable to avoid him altogether. The impact of the collision spun him around and carried both of them to the pavement. They rolled together across the hard stones. He found himself struggling to ward off a series of erratically aimed punches while he tried to fight back.

In the heat of the first real fight in which he had ever participated, his brain ceased to function logically. Tobias had warned him that it would be like this. It was impossible to think clearly, impossible to recall the nuances of the art and science of the various pugilistic techniques they had practiced together. Anthony fell back on what seemed blind instinct, not even feeling the pain of Dominic’s blows.

But the lessons Tobias had taught him must have taken root somewhere deep inside, because he succeeded in landing a number of solid-sounding punches to Dominic’s ribs and one to his jaw. Each time he felt a shudder go through his opponent’s body, a fierce satisfaction roared through his veins.

“He never heard the rattle of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves.

The first indication he had that he and Dominic were no longer alone on the street was when he felt himself seized by the collar and hauled forcibly off his brother. He was then dropped rather carelessly onto the pavement beside Dominic.

He opened his eyes, blinked away the blood that blurred his vision, and found himself looking up at Tobias.

A familiar maroon carriage stood a short distance away. Mrs. Lake and Joan Dove peered anxiously from the windows. His first rational thought was that he was in luck. Emeline was not with them.

He sat up cautiously, raising his sleeve to mop the blood he could feel trickling down his face.

“Tobias? What the devil are you doing here?” he muttered.

Beside him, Dominic got to his knees, one hand on his ribs. He watched Tobias warily.

“I apologize for interrupting your entertainment this evening, gentlemen.” Tobias contemplated both of them with cold eyes. “But I happen to be in great need of some able-bodied assistants. There may well be a life hanging in the balance. I would take it as a great favor if you would both agree to continue this wholesome exercise at some other time.”

“What is going on?” Anthony staggered to his feet, grabbing the iron step railing to steady himself. Then the reason for Mrs. Lake’s and Mrs. Dove’s presence in front of a gentleman’s club at this hour finally registered. Excitement flashed through him, temporarily overriding his anger. “Have you found the killer?”

“Mrs. Lake believes we may have identified him,” Tobias said. “But I am not so certain. Nevertheless, we cannot afford to take chances.”

Tobias switched his attention to Dominic. “I propose to mount a clandestine watch on our suspect. I think it would be best to use two men rather than one, in case action is required. Are you interested?”