lose too heavily, once he’d worked out how the dice were weighted. He’d dressed carefully, making sure he looked and behaved like a well-heeled squire fresh from the country—a pigeon ready for plucking. He’d also introduced himself as plain Mr Cambourne. In this situation his title would be a hindrance. He’d watched the card play, come to the conclusion that Hensleigh was far from the only Captain Sharp in the room, and planned accordingly.
Sure enough, the first time he’d played whist, he’d been allowed to win. Easily. Afterwards, when Hensleigh had come up to congratulate him, he’d grumbled that his opponent wasn’t skilled enough to make it entertaining. The second time he’d lost a little, but won more, swaggering away two hundred pounds to the good. Tonight Hensleigh had approached him, all “hail, fellow, well met” and “care for a hand or two?” Apparently tonight was plucking time.
James considered. Double or nothing would end the affair and he wanted it over. The dingy, smoky hell, with its complement of the desperate and the dangerous, bored him. Several women, their profession—and assets—very obvious, prowled the room, only too ready to relieve a man of his winnings if the professional card sharps at the tables failed to do it. Occasionally a woman would leave with one or more of the players. It could not be said that they slipped away. Nothing so discreet. A few times James had heard the price agreed on.
He veiled his contempt with a bleary stare. ‘Double or nothing?’ he said. ‘That would make your losses two thousand pounds, Hensleigh.’
The fellow smirked. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, with another broad smile, ‘What’s life without a little risk? Shall we have a new deck for it, eh?’
James raised his brows. ‘Why not?’ He sat back as Hensleigh signalled.
‘A new deck here, my man,’ Hensleigh said to the servant who came over. ‘And a cloth for this mess. Mr Cambourne and I have agreed to double or nothing. Winner take all.’
The servant’s gaze sharpened. ‘Aye, Cap’n.’ He scurried away.
‘Another glass of wine, Cambourne?’ Hensleigh suggested, his hand hovering by the bottle.
‘Why not?’ James plastered a vacuous grin to his face. Hensleigh had been pouring glass after glass of wine for him with a fine appearance of generosity. No doubt he assumed James was at least verging on foxed, if not well beyond it. In fact, most of the wine had been surreptitiously poured on to the carpet.
James lounged back to wait, as another servant wiped the table.
The first servant brought the new deck and glanced at Hensleigh, who held out his hand. ‘Thank you, my man.’ He cut the deck.
James waited until he began to shuffle, straightened and said quietly, with no trace of impairment, ‘It’s my turn to deal, Hensleigh.’
Several cards slipped from the man’s hands, as his gaze flew to James’s face. ‘Is it? I am sure you must be mistaken.’
James raised his brows. ‘No, Hensleigh, I am not.’
Hensleigh’s eyes narrowed, flickered to the glass of wine.
James smiled. And shook his head. He reached out, swept up the fallen cards without taking his eyes from Hensleigh’s face, and waited.
After a moment, expressionless, Hensleigh handed over the rest of the pack.
‘Thank you,’ said James, shuffling with an expertise he hadn’t used earlier. Hensleigh’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. James ignored him, continuing the shuffle with unconcerned ease. Carefully he tilted the cards just so, as they ran through his fingers, catching the light. He didn’t really need to see, but he wanted Hensleigh to sweat.
The man’s eyes widened.
‘Is this what they cashiered you for, Hensleigh?’ James asked.
Hensleigh swallowed. ‘The devil you say?’
‘The army,’ James said. ‘It was the army, wasn’t it? They don’t like Captain Sharps in the army. Or the navy, but you don’t strike me as the seafaring sort.’ He continued to shuffle. ‘Or perhaps I’m insulting the army and you invented your rank. Horse Guards didn’t know anything about you when I enquired.’ He smiled humourlessly as Hensleigh paled. ‘Rather clumsy, the markings on this deck,’ he went on. ‘I can feel the wax lines on the backs quite easily. The other deck was less obvious.’
Hensleigh rallied. ‘You are mistaken, sir. But we can call for another deck.’
James shook his head. ‘No. We settle up. Now.’
‘You agreed to double or nothing—’
‘With an unmarked pack,’ James said. ‘All bets are off now.’ He gathered the cards with a practised flick. ‘Do we leave quietly, or shall I make it public?’
Hensleigh looked around nervously and clenched his fists. ‘Damn you.’
James shrugged. ‘Just sign your vowels, Hensleigh, and we’ll have them countersigned by the management.’ He wouldn’t put it past the swine to disavow them if he thought he could get away with it. ‘And don’t even think about playing here again until you’ve paid me,’ he added.
Hensleigh glared. ‘You were stringing me!’
James bowed. ‘Absolutely.’
Two weeks later
Trying not to breathe any deeper than absolutely necessary to support life, James trod up the narrow, creaking stairs. The aroma of last night’s fish—hell, possibly last year’s fish—and over-boiled cabbage followed him with putrid tenacity. Another flight of stairs and he tried to persuade himself that the smell was losing heart.
A week after their card game, Hensleigh—surprise, surprise—had neither turned up at James’s house to settle his debts, nor returned to the Cockpit. After a further week of hunting, courtesy of a chance sighting on the Strand, James had found his prey’s bolt-hole. The bolt-hole, according to what he’d been told, where Hensleigh kept his woman.
Third landing, the landlady had said.
Haven’t seen ’is nibs, but the girl’s up there.
The landing creaked, sagging ominously under his weight. He could see the announcement in the Morning Gazette... “Lord C met an untimely end collecting on a debt of honour by falling to his death when a landing gave way...”
He glanced around, wrinkling his nose; the rancid fish was just as odoriferous up here as down below. He might not need the money Hensleigh owed him, but by God he was going to break him. By the time he was done, Hensleigh wouldn’t be able to keep himself, let alone any sort of woman. If Hensleigh wasn’t home, then his mistress could deliver the warning that his vowels were about to be sold on.
He rapped sharply, noting with faint surprise that the door was actually clean...
The door opened and a girl enveloped in a grimy apron and clutching a rag stared at him. A few coppery tendrils of hair had escaped from her mob cap and brushed against a creamy-fair, slightly flushed cheek. A familiar odour that had nothing to do with fish drifted from the apartment. He sniffed—furniture polish? Yes, and something else, something
