And it wasn’t just for herself. It was for Maman and Old Peter. They deserved justice.
2
“Pistols at Chalk Farm? Hardly worth the trouble, I’d think.” Robert George Colter Hampton—Lord Northington—regarded Harvey with a cynical smile that didn’t quite reach his cold blue eyes.
“So I thought.” Sir John Harvey gave his companion a glance of hopeful appeal. “Unfortunately I’m not the marksman you are. ‘Pistols for two, breakfast for one’ will be my likely fate. Sir Skeffington’s liable to call me out about this little tart. Any chance you’ll be my second?”
“And take your place when you suddenly fall ill?” Leaning back in his chair, he stretched lazily. “You’ve played that game before. I have no desire to meet anyone at dawn unless it’s a buxom wench with light skirts and a willing smile.”
Harvey sighed. “I feared you’d say that.”
“No, you knew I’d refuse. I don’t interfere in other men’s quarrels.” Northington downed the last of his brandy to indicate his desire to leave the club.
Raggett, the proprietor of White’s, came to sweep ashes and crumbs from the top of the green baize table, obliging and efficient in the art of catering to his patrons—and always on the watch for a stray coin.
Northington stifled a yawn. It was late. Or early, depending upon the point of view. His interest had begun to wane several hours before, but it was bad form to bankrupt a man at cards and not give him at least a small chance to recoup.
The night had been profitable. Not only Harvey, but the young Wharton had lost several thousand pounds on the turn of the cards. Harvey was an inveterate gambler, and no doubt would one day ruin himself.
Wharton was another matter. He was young, with only a pale downy stubble on his jaw, a green youth at both cards and life. Christ. They seemed to get younger every year. Had he ever been this young? Yes, but not this foolish.
More brandy appeared at his elbow, amber fire in cut crystal. He regarded Wharton over the rim of the snifter.
“Are you done, sir?”
Wharton gave a start, pale cheeks flushed with an emotion Northington recognized as extreme distress.
“Done up is more like it, my lord.” He attempted a smile that wobbled on his mouth. “I’m under the hatches, I fear. Will you accept my vowels?”
Northington leaned forward, raked the counters toward him with a lazy swipe of one hand. “A man should never bet what he cannot pay, Wharton.”
Harvey, who had leaned his chair back on the two rear legs, sat forward with a loud thump.
“Sermons? From you? Good God, we must both be foxed!”
Northington spared him a glance. “I assume you speak for yourself. I always pay my debts.”
“Yes, and much more quickly since your grandfather’s death and your father’s newly acquired title—and since you became Viscount Northington,” Harvey replied with a wry twist of his mouth. “Now, if only my family would be so cooperative as to die off and leave me with a substantial fortune and a bloody title, I’d not worry about a few thousand pounds here and there, either.”
“No doubt.” Colter’s eyes flicked to young Wharton, studied his flushed face, the dissipation that had already begun to distort youthful features.
“I’m done up,” Wharton said again, and reached for the cards. He riffled them almost desperately. “You seem to have the devil’s own luck, my lord.”
“Yes. I do, don’t I?” Colter’s lazy smile altered to a sharper expression. Impatient now, he raked his fingers through his dark hair, then put out a hand for the deck of cards, sweat-stained from the long night’s play.
“One more round, Wharton. You cut.”
Wharton stared at him in disbelief. “I doubt I can pay all I owe you now! If I lose…if I lose, my life won’t be worth a shilling.”
“It’s hardly worth that now if you judge yourself by what you owe instead of how you pay.” It was said with a mocking twist of his mouth, but he saw that Wharton took his point.
After the barest hesitation, the young man placed the deck of cards in Colter’s palm. Shuffling in expert, easy movements, Colter let the soft whisper of paste-board flow fluidly from hand to hand as Wharton’s obvious uncertainty increased.
After a long moment of silence, Wharton made a hoarse sound. “Damn, but it hardly matters if I’m hung for a sheep or a lamb…deal another hand.”
“No. The high card takes all.” Colter’s long fingers arranged the deck in the middle of the green baize table. He tapped it lightly with one finger. “But if I win, your debt to me is satisfied once you give me your oath you’ll not play cards here again.”
“Not play—you jest!”
“I’ve never been more serious. Don’t look so stricken at my offer. I could always insist upon prompt payment.”
Wharton flushed. His jaw set, his mouth a slash that made him look suddenly older.
“Don’t gammon me, Northington.”
“Cut the cards or make arrangements with the bank to pay me what you owe, Wharton. It’s as simple as that.”
Indecision clouded his face briefly, but he gave a jerk of his head. “Very well. I’ll cut. High card takes all.”
A trembling hand reached out, separated the deck and turned it over. A four of spades gleamed in the pale light. Despair quivered on Wharton’s mouth, but he looked up to meet Colter’s gaze with a steady enough stare.
“It seems you have an excellent chance to win, my lord.”
“So it does. I’m used to winning. It’s a damn sight better than losing.”
Wharton paled even more, but his face was resolute as Colter deftly cut the remaining cards.
“Seven of hearts,” someone behind them breathed softly, and Colter was aware they had gathered a crowd. “Northington won, by God!”
“So I did.” Colter stood up, pushed his chair back and lifted a brow. “Your debt is satisfied, but you must heed your oath, Wharton. If I ever see or hear of you being here again I shall assume that means you have the means to repay your debt to me, and I shall take steps to collect it.”
The youth looked shocked, shaken, but managed to lurch to his feet. “I say! I…I say!”
“Yes, I’m sure you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am through playing for the evening.”
Harvey rose as well and shot Colter a jaundiced glance as he accompanied him to the front of the establishment. “Well, Northington, I’ve never known you to cheat at cards before.”
Colter shrugged into his coat, flicked lint from the sleeve and looked up at his companion. “Men have been called out for less inflammatory words, Harvey.”
“Yes, and I’m well aware you’re a dead shot. But I am also a fair hand at cards, and not drunk enough to miss you palm that seven. Why?”
“Why let him cry off? Or why cheat?”
“Both. Either. Wharton’s old enough to learn better. He doesn’t need a wet nurse.”
“No, he doesn’t, but a bit of guidance won’t hurt him. One chance is more