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 flickering light and inhaled. Mould and rot hung heavy in the damp air, burning his nose more than the stink of stale wine and old cologne from inside.
Perhaps my luck is changing for the better.
‘Did ya ’ave a good night in there, Lord Densmore?’ A familiar voice slid out from the shadows across the street.
Or perhaps not.
Mr Smith, the moneylender, took shape in the twin circles of the lamps. Two henchmen perched on either side of him, one burly with wide shoulders, the other lean and lanky like his employer.
‘My luck was tolerable.’ Rafe shifted his foot to feel the weight of the knife hidden in his boot.
Mr Smith stopped a few feet from Rafe and flipped opened a slim toothpick case. ‘I was beginning to think ya didn’t want to see me.’
Rafe dropped his hands to his side, ready to reach for the knife. ‘How could a gentleman not want to see a man of your esteem?’
Mr Smith pointed his toothpick at Rafe and the two thugs rushed forward. Rafe snatched the knife from his boot, held it up and the two men jerked to a halt.
‘Rough handling isn’t necessary. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?’ Rafe waved the men back with the knife and they dutifully moved closer to Mr Smith.
He ran his thumb down the length of the ivory handle, painfully aware of the thin bit of metal standing between him and real trouble.
‘Please excuse our lack of manners.’ The hammer clicked back before Rafe noticed the gun in Mr Smith’s hand. ‘But I want to impress upon ya the importance of repaying the money ya owe me.’
Damn.
Mr Smith stepped closer, the stench of his garlic breath rising above the manure in the street. The moneylender slipped the toothpick between his teeth, letting it dangle on his chapped bottom lip as he reached into Rafe’s pocket and pulled out the folded notes. Rafe didn’t lower the knife, but kept it raised between them, the blade shining orange in the lamplight. If Mr Smith pulled the trigger, the bullet might tear through Rafe, but not before he got a swipe at the cockroach.
