At the mention of Inspector Cranshaw, Cecily cringed. It was no secret to anyone that the dour police inspector would dearly love to shut down the country club.

The Pennyfoot had started out as a hotel, owned and run by Cecily, and much of its success had been due to the secret card rooms situated beneath the wine cellar.

Those rooms had entertained some of the most influential aristocrats in the country, including royalty. Patrons had enjoyed not only gambling to their hearts’ content, but also dallying with damsels in the boudoirs, secure in the knowledge that their indiscretions would be kept strictly within the walls of the Pennyfoot Hotel.

Inspector Cranshaw was aware that all was not aboveboard under Cecily’s reign, but without the proof he needed he was helpless to act upon it. He had vowed many times to close her down, and Cecily had no doubt that he waited with an eagle’s eye for an opportunity to do so.

Now that the Pennyfoot was a country club, and licensed for card games, the inspector had lost his trump card. Cecily knew, however, that he still harbored resentment for the times she had outwitted him, and would stop at nothing to extract his revenge, should the chance arise.

“You have nothing to fear in that respect,” she assured the anxious-looking constable. “I avoid contact with Inspector Cranshaw as much as possible. So, tell me, what is the favor?”

Northcott took out his handkerchief again and trumpeted into it before jamming it back in his pocket. He opened his mouth to speak, coughed, wiped his forehead as if he were now overly warm, and then cleared his throat.

Cecily watched all this with growing uneasiness. Whatever it was Sam Northcott wanted from her, it was apparently costing him a great deal to request it. What was more, she had a nasty feeling that it was about to cost her a great deal to accommodate him.