Chapter Nineteen
White’s, May 1818
The crowd gathered around the card table signalled one of two things—either somebody was about to win a substantial sum or somebody was about to lose the shirt off his back. The spectacle drew Ross Jameson like a moth to a flame. At the card table sat the Earl of Runcorn, eyes wide and sweating profusely, as Viscount Denham idly gathered up the ridiculously large pile of banknotes he had just won from the middle.
Ross wandered to his friend Carstairs, knowing that he would clarify the situation perfectly. ‘What’s afoot?’ he murmured as he took a sip of his drink.
John Carstairs copied the motion, his eyes never leaving the drama at the table. ‘Denham has just cleaned Runcorn out. There is over a thousand pounds on that table.’
Ross was not surprised. Runcorn had been on the path of self-destruction for years and Viscount Denham did enjoy parting a fool from his money.
Denham stood and smiled smugly at his opponent. ‘It has been a pleasure, Runcorn.’
The beaten man blinked rapidly, obviously in a state, and then reached into his jacket pocket with the air of a man about to do something completely stupid. He pulled out a large, official-looking document and practically threw it into the middle of the table.
‘The deeds to Barchester Hall,’ he announced with desperate zeal. ‘It is unentailed and surrounded by excellent parkland and fine pasture—I will wager all I have lost against the house.’
The assembled crowd sucked in a collective breath.
‘What sort of man comes to a card game with the deeds to his house?’ Carstairs hissed under his breath.
‘The sort who is fool enough to lose it,’ Ross answered calmly. Runcorn was not the first man to gamble away the family silver, and doubtless he would not be the last.
The rest of the crowd were anxiously waiting for Denham to respond to the challenge. This was exactly the sort of thing that they lived for—the prospect of seeing one of their own ruined.
Denham had still not sat down again, but he was regarding Runcorn with open curiosity—to Ross it was obvious he was rejoicing in his own good fortune.
True to form, Denham was going to make the fool suffer. ‘I seriously doubt that the property is worth much more than three thousand,’ he said dismissively, ‘but I am a reasonable man. Under the circumstances I will—’
Ross cut him off before he could finish. ‘I will take the wager, Runcorn.’ He tossed an enormous bundle of banknotes onto the table. ‘Five thousand against your house.’
The crowd gasped audibly at this interesting and totally unexpected turn of events. Excited words were exchanged and one or two men pointed out that Ross’s challenge was poor form. This was Denham’s game—he at least should claim first refusal. But such a vulgar upstart as Jameson would not understand the proper way things were done in polite society. Others simply marvelled at his apparent generosity. Five thousand against some old heap of bricks was well over the odds.
Ross ignored them. Instead he watched Runcorn eye the cash greedily and knew exactly what the blithering idiot was thinking—he could cover his losses and pay some debts with such a healthy purse. Gamblers like Runcorn could never see past the pathetic hope that their luck was about to change.
‘Done!’ Runcorn exclaimed excitedly, his gaze never leaving the money.
Ross watched Denham’s pale eyes narrow briefly before he reluctantly stood aside to allow him to sit in the chair he had just vacated. ‘What are we playing?’ Ross asked casually, although he knew already that it was piquet.
Poor Runcorn really did not stand a chance. Many considered piquet less of a risk than hazard, but in truth it was much easier to cheat if one was so inclined. With hazard, chance and luck might scupper even the best player, but piquet was predictable for somebody with Ross’s brain. He motioned for the cards to be dealt and took another sip of his drink before slowly picking up his hand.
The cards he had were good, so he discarded them and picked up five duds. It would not do to trounce the fellow completely from the outset.
Runcorn easily won the first rubber and visibly sagged in relief. The man really was a terrible player; it was no wonder Denham had cleared him out. He wore his emotions on his sleeve. For the second deal Ross purposely played clumsily, and made it appear as if his final winning trick was a fluke. The third hand he played dead straight and won, but he threw the fourth for the sake of entertainment. The crowd and the atmosphere made it fun.
Runcorn was far too careless, and nerves made him sloppy. He was so grateful for each point that he lost track of the cards dealt and obviously had no concept of what was left on the table—a rash and stupid way to play such an easily rigged game. Hell, if he were so inclined as to feed in a few additional face cards, he doubted the man would realise. However, he just wanted to beat Runcorn—not meet him on Hampstead Heath at dawn.
As the penultimate hand was being dealt Ross caught John’s eye. His friend made a show of checking his timepiece—an unsubtle reminder that they were due elsewhere—and Ross stopped toying with his prey. He played every card with calculation and took every trick. By the end of the partie Runcorn had begun to panic. Large beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face and dampened the high, pointed collar of his fashionable shirt.
That detail also spoke volumes about the man, Ross mused. It was well known that the Earl of Runcorn had run up huge debts with every reputable tradesman in London—and some very disreputable. He had long been spending above his means, but instead of curbing this recklessness Runcorn chose to affect a façade of wealth that did not fool anyone—least of all Ross. He made it his business to track fellows like that, so it was difficult to feel sorry for him.
The final hand was dealt in silence as the onlookers tried to conceal their glee. At best, Runcorn needed thirty points to beat him. Such a feat was possible for a skilled player, with a keen awareness of the game. Unfortunately that was not Runcorn. He lacked both skill and awareness. In fact he lacked any prospect of basic common sense as well, but—as with so many of his ilk—he had no concept of his failings.
Ross
