Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) Read Free Page A

blurred. The temperature abruptly spiked, sending a flush of warmth coursing through him. He grabbed the back of his chair to steady himself.
    “You all right, luv?”
    Jonathon drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Yes, fine.” 
    “One too many, eh?” she said with a chuckle.
    Actually, no. He’d only had the one drink. Not bothering to correct her, he reached for his coat, only to realize that Richard, in his hurry to leave, had taken Jonathon’s belongings by mistake. Well, no matter. His valet could collect his things once they returned to London. He slipped on the younger man’s coat and hat and exited the pub.
    A welcome blast of cool air and raucous noise greeted him as he stepped outside. The crowds had swelled, becoming even rowdier. Incredibly, the missionary group had not yet been chased off. They remained firmly stationed on their corner, filling the night with strident hymns. Jonathon took that all in with a glance, along with a far more important detail: no hacks. He hunched low, drew up the collar of Richard’s coat and pulled down the brim of his hat, resigning himself to walking the few blocks necessary to take him to Driver’s Lane, a busier and more aptly named thoroughfare where he would be sure to engage a cab.
    The problem was getting there. As he walked, the ground seemed to shift beneath his feet. His vision swam and he staggered drunkenly. He came to a stop and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. The motion sent a spike of pain shooting through his skull. He grabbed the alley wall for support as disbelief shot through him.
    Bloody hell, had he been drugged? Sal’s. His instinct to stay clear of the place had been correct. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He clenched his teeth and moved doggedly forward.
    “Hey, Red.”
    A shadow disengaged itself from the alleyway. The man put himself in Jonathon’s path, blocking his way. Before Jonathon could react, two more men stepped from the shadows, stationing themselves around him in a loose circle. They were hulking, brutish sorts, the type of men whose very presence radiated menace.
    A shot of adrenaline coursed through Jonathon, slamming into him like a kick from a mule. But even that did little to combat the effects of whatever drug had laced his drink. His vision blurred and his knees seemed to want to fold.
    “I think you got something for us, don’t ye?” the first man said.
    Another night, another place, Jonathon would have gladly taken on the three brutes. But not now. The drug coursing through his veins weakened him to the point where he could barely stand, let alone engage in fisticuffs. Biting back a note of impotent rage, he reached into his vest pocket, withdrew a leather purse, and tossed it over.
    “All yours, gentlemen. Well done. Now if you’ll allow me to pass—”
    “Maybe you didn’t hear me.” The first man, the largest of the group, stepped closer. “I said, ‘Hey, Red.’”
    “What? I’m not—” Jonathon began, then stopped abruptly. Richard’s coat and hat. The red carnation and the crimson ribbon.
    “What’s that?” The man put a grubby hand to his ear. “Go on, then. Tell us you’re not Lucky Red. You’re not the man who owes five hundred pounds to Sweet Harry?”
    One of his men stepped up from behind Jonathon and knocked off his hat. Jonathon swung at him, only to miss and stumble short. The two men caught him by his upper arms, holding him still.  
    “That’s you, all right,” one of the men said. “Fair hair, light eyes, pretty face. Fancy clothes and that red flower tucked in your lapel. A regular dandy. Make the girls swoon, don’t ye?”
    “Forget the damned flower,” their leader said, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction. “He’s the one we want, all right.”
    “You’re making a mistake,” Jonathon grit out. “Arrangements have been made to pay Harry his money.”
    “Is that right?” The man attempted a smile, but the effect was