While he blathered on about the poet, guilt blackened the edges of her triumph. Blackmail wasn’t her preferred game, but she had no choice. Another letter from Fanny had arrived today, demanding the tuition for Andrew’s school fees at once or she’d write to her brother in Barbados about sending Andrew there in the autumn. There wasn’t time to trust Andrew’s safety to the fickle chance of cards. If all went as planned, she’d soon have enough to keep him at school and away from the West Indies for good. She knew she shouldn’t take advantage of the Earl, but he was one of the few people with a relative in the register who could pay her demand without jeopardising his estate or his legacy. Besides, she would do anything to save Andrew. He was the only person who mattered to her now.
* * *
Rafe tapped the table and Lord Brixton laid another card on top of the first. After the disaster of the Dowager’s salon, he’d hoped to find more success in this hell.
So far, both events had proved disappointing.
‘Twenty-three. Tough luck Densmore.’ Lord Brixton scraped up Rafe’s cards, then moved on to deal an equally poor card to Lord Sewell.
Rafe narrowed his eyes at the young buck, noting the large diamond glittering in his cravat pin. The thought of losing at ving-et-un in front of this fop made his mouth burn more than the cheap wine the proprietress served.
A woman moving along the periphery of his vision caught his eye and he turned, thinking for a moment it was Cornelia. Expectation filled him before he realised it was only a molly searching for a new client among the players. She seemed young, though every soiled dove in this gaming den did, and with her blonde hair and small chest, she looked nothing like Cornelia. Only the way she stopped along the edge of the tables, observing everything and revealing nothing, reminded him of his former partner. He shifted in his chair, the weight of Cornelia’s absence from his side heavier than he wanted it to be.
Lord Brixton dealt himself another card. ‘Twenty-one. Looks like I win again.’
He collected the stacks of money from in front of each player, adding them to the large pile of notes and coins already piled in front of him.
Rafe took another swig of the hell’s sour wine, blanching at the swill. The only game he’d won in the past three months was the game of life when he’d escaped from a Parisian moneylender who’d threatened to kill him over a sizeable debt and sell his corpse to an anatomist. The rogues were not as civilised in Paris as they were in London. He smiled wryly as he remembered giving the greasy Frenchman the slip in Madame DuMonde’s. He’d even managed to collect his paltry winnings before sliding out through the ground-floor window of an obliging putain. His brief spate of luck ended when he’d returned to their lodgings to see Cornelia driving away in the Comte de Vane’s carriage.
He downed the rest of the bitter wine, then tossed the empty goblet to a passing server.
‘What do you say, Densmore? Up for another round?’ Brixton asked with a smile Rafe wanted to punch from his round face.
‘Come on, Brixton, give poor Densmore a break,’ Lord Sewell chided, removing notes from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I’ll play again.’
Rafe fingered the few remaining notes from the sale of the silver spoons and his lips curled up in a wicked smile. It wasn’t for nothing he’d followed his father through the card rooms of London, learning how to play. It was the only education his father had seen fit to provide him.
‘Deal,’ Rafe demanded, laying the notes on the table.
The two men exchanged stunned glances before Brixton took up the deck, shuffled twice, then dealt the first round of cards.
He laid a five of clubs in front of Lord Sewell.
The young man frowned. ‘Not a good way to open.’
Brixton turned the next card over and laid it in front of Rafe.
The king of hearts.
Rafe didn’t say anything as Brixton laid a ten of diamonds in front of himself.
A loud cheer went up from the table across from theirs. Rafe looked over as Lord Edgemont collected a pile of bills from the centre of the green baize, a smug grin on his chiselled face. He folded two notes and held them out to the harlots flanking his chair, his dark eyes raking their ample assets like a dog eyeing a bone. Across from Edgemont sat Monsieur Fournier, a refugee who’d once served as a geologist under Louis XVI and enjoyed the king’s generosity. Rafe had hired the man three years ago to search Wealthstone for the lead vein his grandfather went to his grave believing existed. As they’d wandered the fields, the aged Frenchman had told Rafe stories of women and parties from before the Revolution, each marvellous enough to make a man long for Louis XVI’s court. He’d also told Rafe of horrors to chill a man, but neither Robespierre nor Bonaparte had succeeded in knocking the life from Monsieur Fournier.
The laughing old man was gone now, his face long, his eyes sunken. He rose, broken defeat weighing down his steps as he left, unnoticed by the others.
Cold passed over the back of Rafe’s neck as if the spectre of his own future had just slid by.
He rubbed away the chill and focused on his game.
Lord Brixton laid a card face up on top of Rafe’s. The queen of hearts.
Rafe kept his face impassive, eyeing Lord Sewell and Lord Brixton’s cards, none of which were face cards. Rafe could stand and hope neither of them reached twenty-one, or he could separate his cards and double his wager.
Brixton dealt two more cards to Sewell, pushing him over twenty-one.
‘Rats, out again,’ Lord Sewell complained, propping his elbows on the table.
‘What about you, Densmore? Another card or are you happy with what you’ve got?’
‘Split.’ He moved the queen next to her king.
‘Haven’t lost enough tonight, eh, Densmore?’ Brixton taunted.
‘Then let’s make this even more fun.’ Rafe narrowed his eyes at the fop. ‘Two twenty-ones say I take the entire pile of winnings sitting in front of you.’
‘You’re mad,’ Brixton scoffed.
‘No, just man enough to take a risk. Are you?’
‘He has you now,’ Lord Sewell heckled, goading his friend.
Rafe knew it would force Brixton into the wager. He was counting on it.
A faint flicker of fear rolled through Brixton’s eyes before he regained his courage. ‘All right. I’ll take your wager, but you’re going to lose what’s left of your blunt.’
Rafe didn’t answer. He didn’t smile, flinch or move. ‘Deal.’
Brixton’s bravado dimmed as he dealt the first card.
‘Oh, ohh!’ Lord Sewell clapping. ‘The ace of diamonds. He has you now, Brixton.’
‘Shut up,’ Brixton spat.
‘Deal,’ Rafe demanded.
Brixton’s lips screwed tight in frustration as he slid the top card off the deck and laid it over the queen.
The ace of clubs.
‘Well played, Densmore.’ Lord Sewell applauded.
Brixton collapsed back in his chair, one hand over his eyes.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Rafe rose and scraped up Brixton’s substantial pile of notes and coins. ‘It was a pleasure playing you.’
He tucked the money in his waistcoat pocket and stepped outside.
Two sad lamps flanked the front door, their dancing flames casting a faint glow across the pavement, but doing little to pierce the darkness of the street. Rafe stood in the