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They turned into Fournier Street. Silk tutted. "I've dealt with that. Our old friend at the Athenaeum Club will oblige you."

"You're quite sure? We've never cut it so fine before."

"Well, you might need to prod him a little."

"Just a little?"

"The very littlest bit, Quinn."

Unnecessary violence was not part of their method. But persuasion—well, that was essential. Let's call a spade a spade: the Château was a fraud house, a cunning firm, a swindler's palace ruled by a queen. It made its business by cheating great men out of their fortunes. In the bureau stood the Rulebook, its marbled endpapers inscribed with each queen's initials, setting the conditions

of their games.

And this week the Queen of Fives would execute the most dangerous game of her reign.

Quinn paused outside the Ten Bells. "Very well. We can't afford any slips. I'll go to the Athenaeum now. Anything else?"

Silk shook his head. "Rien ne va plus." No more bets.

They gripped hands. He gave her his usual look: a fond gaze, then a frown. "Play on, Le Blanc."

She grinned at him in return. "Same to you, old friend." They parted ways.

And the game began.

* * *

Quinn hailed a hansom cab at the junction of Aldgate East and Commercial Street.

"Which way, love?" said the driver. His eyes fixed on her fluttering ribbons, bright lincoln green, whipping in the breeze.

"Piccadilly," she said. "The Athenaeum Club. Fast as you can."

She worked in the back of the cab, chewing her pencil, marking up fashion sketches sent by her seamstresses on Hanbury Street. Quinn paid better wages than the sweating system, and her people worked quickly. Plus, the Château had a good string of haberdashers on their books to supply lace and trimmings at knockdown prices. Even so, this job required a significant wardrobe—fresh garments by the hour, on a need-to-wear basis, for all occasions. She willed herself not to think about the costs. Dwelling on her debts would only distract her at a time when she most needed to hold her nerve. The first day of a job was a delicate one. It needed to be handled with care.

The cab slowed, heading downhill, avoiding the broughams rolling out from St. James's Square. Quinn glanced through the window, watching the buildings expand, become grander. As she arrived at her destination, she fished out her purse, handed the driver his fare. "Keep the change." She leaped from the cab, avoiding the muck in the road, adjusting her veil.

The Athenaeum Club stood at the foot of Pall Mall, its stained plasterwork braced against a cloudless sky. A carriage drew up on the opposite side of Waterloo Square. A clergyman, evidenced by his dog collar, descended rather blearily to the pavement, also arriving on schedule for his luncheon. Quinn aimed straight for him, letting out a friendly cry. "Archdeacon!"

Quinn always liked to keep a churchman onside. One never knew when one might need someone to vouch for one's character, particularly on a job like this one, where she would have to penetrate the upper circle of society. The Château had clocked the archdeacon long ago, noting his more lascivious tastes, guarding his secrets. But they never blackmailed him. As long as people remembered what they owed to the Château, there was no need to tighten any screws. So Mr. Silk said, at any rate, listing obligations in the ledger.

The archdeacon swung around as Quinn approached. "Surely not," he said, looking round fast, trying to see whether they'd been observed. "This is my club. My own personal domain! Whatever are you doing here?" Then his face paled. "I suppose you've come about that dreadful woman. Well, I won't have it. She simply hurled herself upon me, absolutely without provocation, against my wishes. I would have every right to press charges against her..."

Quinn laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. "I'm not calling about your indiscretions, Archdeacon. I need your assistance."

"Absolutely not. I've signed more than enough credentials for one year. You're pressing me too hard."

Quinn dug her fingers into the crook of his elbow. "I'm not pressing at all, Archdeacon. I'm simply asking for your help."

He shook her off. "Regarding?"