All the more reason the earl should have exercised prudence instead of profligacy.
‘Leave me out of it.’
‘We cannot leave you out of it!’ Hugh jumped to his feet and paced the room. ‘We need you. Do you not hear me? You must do this for us!’
‘Hugh, you are not helping.’ Ned also rose.
Rhys stood and faced them both. ‘Words our father once spoke to me, I will repeat to you. I am under no obligation to do anything for you.’ He turned away and walked over to the decanter of brandy, pouring himself another glass. ‘Our conversation is at an end.’
There was no sound of them moving towards the door. Rhys turned and faced them once again. ‘You need to leave me, gentlemen. Go now, or, believe me, I am quite capable of tossing you both out.’
Hugh took a step towards him. ‘I should like to see you try!’
Ned pulled him away. ‘We are leaving. We are leaving. But I do beg you to reconsider. This could bring you a fortune. We have enough to finance the start of it. All we need is—’
Rhys lowered his voice. ‘Go.’
Ned dragged his brother to the door. They gathered their hats and gloves and left the rooms.
Rhys stared at the door long after their footsteps faded in the hallway.
MacEvoy appeared. ‘Do you need anything, sir?’
Rhys shook his head. ‘Nothing, MacEvoy. You do not need to attend me.’
MacEvoy left again and Rhys downed his brandy. He poured himself another glass, breathing as heavy as if he’d run a league.
He almost wished Hugh had swung at him. He’d have relished planting a fist in the man’s face, a face too disturbingly similar to his own.
A knock sounded at the door and Rhys strode over and swung it open. ‘I told you to be gone!’
‘Whoa!’ Xavier raised his hands. ‘They are gone.’
Rhys stepped aside. ‘What were you doing? Lurking in the hallway?’
‘Precisely.’ Xavier entered the room. ‘I could not wait a moment longer to hear what they wanted.’
Rhys poured another glass of brandy and handed it to his friend. ‘Have a seat. You will not believe this, I assure you.’
Sending away the Westleighs ought to have been the end of it. Rhys ought to have concentrated on his cards that night rather than observe the workings of the gaming hell on St James’s Street. He ought to have slept well without his thoughts racing.
Over the next few days, though, he visited as many gambling establishments as he could, still playing cards, but taking in everything from the arrangements of the tables, the quality of the meals, the apparent profitability of the various games.
‘Why this tour of gaming hells?’ Xavier asked him as they walked to yet another establishment off of St James’s. ‘A different one each night? That is not your habit, Rhys. You usually stick to one place long enough for the high-stakes players to ask you to play.’
Rhys lifted his shoulders. ‘No special reason. Call it a whim.’
His friend looked doubtful.
Rhys did not wish to admit to himself that he was considering his half-brothers’ offer, although all the people who had been kind to his mother in the village kept rising to his memory. He could almost envision their suffering eyes if Westleigh Hall was left in ruins. He could almost feel their hunger.
If he pushed the faces away, thoughts of how much money he could make came to the fore. The Westleighs would be taking the risk, not Rhys. For Rhys it was almost a safe bet.
If only it had been anyone but the Westleighs.
Rhys sounded the knocker on the door of an innocuous-appearing town house. A huge bear of a man in colourful livery opened the door. Rhys had not been to this house in perhaps a year, but it appeared unchanged.
‘How do you do, Cummings?’ he said to the liveried servant. ‘I have been gone too long from here.’
‘G’d evening, Mr Rhysdale,’ Cummings responded in his deep monotone. He nodded to Xavier. ‘Mr Campion.’
Cummings might act the doorman, but he’d be better described as the gatekeeper, allowing only certain people in, chucking out any patron who became rowdy or combative.
Cummings took their hats and gloves. ‘Nothing has changed here. Except some of the girls. They come and go. The game room is up the stairs. Same as always.’
Rhys was not interested in the girls, who often sold their favours on the side.
He glanced around the hall. Nothing appeared changed.
Three years ago he’d been a frequent patron of this place. He, like so many gentlemen at that time, had been intrigued by a masked woman who came to play cards and often did quite well. She’d been a mystery and that intensified her appeal. Soon the men were wagering on which of them would bed her first, all properly written down in the betting book. Rhys had not been interested in seducing a woman just to win a bet.
He shook his head. He had not thought of that masked woman in years. Who had won her? he wondered.
He turned back to Cummings. ‘And Madame Bisou. Is she here tonight?’ Madame Bisou owned this establishment.
‘Aye. She should be in the game room.’ Cummings turned away to store their hats.
Rhys and Xavier climbed the stairs and entered the game room, all a-bustle with activity as the time approached midnight. The hazard table was in the centre of the room, encircled by eager players. The familiar sound of dice shaken in a cup and shouts of ‘Seven!’ reached Rhys’s ears, followed by the roll of the dice on the green baize and more shouting. Now and again a patron might win big, but the odds always favoured the bank, as they did in faro and rouge et noir. The two faro tables stood against one wall, nearly obscured by players; the other side held the games of rouge et noir. Rhys avoided all these games, where winning was almost completely dependent on luck. He confined himself to games of skill.
‘I thought you came to play cards.’ Xavier nudged him.
‘I have,’ he responded. ‘But I have not been here in a year. I am taking stock of the room.’
At that moment, a buxom woman with flaming red hair hurried towards them. ‘Monsieur Rhysdale. Monsieur Campion. How good it is to see you. It has been trop longtemps, no?’
Rhys smiled both at the pleasure of seeing her again and at her atrocious French accent. ‘Madame Bisou!’ He leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek and whispered in her ear, ‘How are you, Penny?’
‘Très bien, cher,’ she responded, but her smile looked stressed. She turned to greet Xavier before Rhys could ask more.
In those difficult London days of his youth Madame Bisou had been Penny Jones, a decade older than he and just as determined to free herself from the shackles of poverty. They’d both used what God had provided them: Rhys, his skill at cards—Penny, her body. But she did not spend all the money she earned on gin like so many of the other girls. She’d saved and invested and finally bought this place. She’d been running it for almost ten years.
‘Why has it been so long since you have been here?’ She took Rhys’s hand and squeezed it.
‘I am asking myself that same question.’ Rhys smiled at her, genuinely glad to see an old friend.
Her tone changed to one of business. ‘What is your pleasure today, gentlemen? Do you wish