Ex-soldier Birmingham-gangster bets his life on luck and illegalities, adroit wit and burning passion streaking his blood-stained fingertips as a dire quarrel commence between himself and the disturbed Dane who purloined his lover.
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A COUNT'S ANTICS
IN THE OCCULT NIGHT just outside the Grand Duchess' Coventry Manorstood Count Otto aloof in the company of his funny footman, Curt Bohm. The pair constituted an iconic duo, truly, a friendship which none envied for not a single soul dared affiliated with the two on grounds of their ill-famed shenanigans. They were no good, that was written like an epitaph in the citizens of West Midlands' minds. He was alike Nikolaj Brogaard in several ways truthfully, howbeit both parties would rather find a bullet boring their skull than admit so. Only one cabal was, in fact, sane and contrary to vox populi, this was the nobleman Otto.
"How do you plan on getting in, Otto?" quizzed Curt Bohm dubious, unable to comprehend how the two were to infiltrate the country house that looked equivalent to the heavily armed fortress they once had visited up in the western hinterlands.
Count Otto scuffed. "You affront me, Curt. I don't need a plan," said he proudly and filled his chest with air, waving a small square of paper before Curt Bohm's flummoxed face. "Not when I have an invitation signed the Grand Duchess herself."
"But, Otto, it says Somo—Solomon—"
"Hush, Curt. All that matters is we are going to a ball," interrupted Count Otto ever so rudely, with his head high and a smile revealing just how proud he was with a dead man's invite to the festivities. How he had gotten his hands on such a treasure was something he did not want his friend to worry his head with. Candidly, it was an immense tragedy, the apparent death that had taken place up on a beach somewhere, nonetheless, to Count Otto it was a potentially buoyant gain for it meant he got to have his fun. Clearing his throat, Otto dusted off his coat and held out his arm for Curt to cling to. "Now, dearest friend—let's go have some fun."
And so waltzed on the pair, dandy in their Swiss-inspired attire with evil plans to ruin a life. Closer to the jollity, the lanterns shone brightly, cars pulled up, chauffeurs and valets rushing to beat the guests to open the doors. Even carriages decked with fine detail pulled by up to four white, majestic horses approached Count Otto and Curt Bohm strolled inadequately clad up to the innumerable steps and between the towering pillars, nodding and tipping their hats at the gentlemen greeting them by the door.
"Evening, Sirs—"
"Alfie Solomons," spoke Count Otto, whirling the words with his almost disdainful nobleman accent as he waved the invitation before the man's face. "Oh, this will be my 'plus one'."
The man's incredulous expression eased to another less strained concoction of both haughtiness and modesty and he stepped aside, holding out his hand to gesture the pair to walk on. "Enjoy yourself, Mr. Solomons."
"I will."
. . .
HER GAIT HAD BEEN steady, moderate in comparison to what infuriating words pried her mind. Ines' red lip was bit down and her brows knitted close in a deep crease of brood. Then her hard eyes would dart from their fixation on the spot she had circulated and her hand went from her chin to fall to her side.
