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 decided to lull the hapless earl into a false sense of security. Runcorn won the first two tricks because Ross let him, and lost the third badly because of his own stupidity. In desperation he played his one good card too soon. As a result he won the fourth trick, but had nothing higher than a jack left in his arsenal for the rest of the game.
As Ross held two kings and a queen Runcorn’s defeat was not only inevitable but decisive. His face took on a white, then an increasingly green tinge as Ross’s points rose past the number where he stood even the slightest chance of recouping his losses. When his final card was trumped by the King of Hearts, Runcorn buried his head in his hands as applause broke out around them.
Ross quietly picked up his five thousand, and the folded deeds, and put them safely into his inside pocket. Now would definitely be a prudent time to make a hasty exit.
Quietly, Viscount Denham came up behind him and whispered in barely audible tones, ‘I see your luck continues to hold, Jameson.’
Ross nodded curtly. He had just ruined a man; he did not need to gloat. Nor did he need to spend one more second in Denham’s company that he did not have to. The man made his flesh crawl.
At that moment the Earl of Runcorn lurched to his feet, unaware of the fact that he had knocked his chair over in the process. ‘Well...well played, sir,’ he stammered—out of ingrained politeness rather than respect, Ross assumed—and then he turned to the assembled crowd and inclined his head. ‘If you gentlemen will all excuse me for a minute?’
Ross watched him stumble towards the door and his eyes flicked back towards his friend in unspoken communication. John nodded in understanding and slipped out of the crowd to follow Runcorn. He would know what to do.
‘I wonder, Jameson,’ Denham said silkily, ‘is it the thrill of the game that draws you or is it merely the pleasure of thwarting me that you continually seek?’
The sound of a single shot ringing out prevented Ross from having to answer.
Everybody rushed towards the door that led out to the marbled hallway of the gentlemen’s club. Before he even reached the hallway Ross had a premonition of what he would see, but he followed regardless. John, of course, was already there, and his shocked expression told the onlookers everything they needed to know.
An eerie silence settled over them as they took in the gruesome scene. The alabaster walls of White’s were decorated with violent splatters of Runcorn’s blood, which had already started to trickle in their journey downwards. A growing pool of crimson oozed slowly across the black and white marble floor around the body while the pistol he had used to blow his own brains out was still smoking in the earl’s twitching hand.
Denham turned to Ross with a malicious gleam in his eye. ‘Well, that should certainly give the newspapers something to print tomorrow.’
Just over one year later...
Lady Hannah Steers read the letter again with mounting excitement. If Cook was to be believed then this was finally her chance to set things to rights.
‘What is that dear?’ her Aunt Violet asked, curious to see any sort of letter, such were their rarity.
‘It is a letter from Cook with news from Barchester Hall. That blackguard now intends to move in. Can you believe that?’
‘Oh, dearest, I do wish that you would try to forget about that place,’ said Aunt Beatrice with concern. ‘It is time that you moved on with your life.’
Both her aged aunts were wearing twin expressions of pity, and Hannah felt her irritation rise at their continued lack of understanding. How did they expect her to move on with her life when the single most important part of it had been stolen away? Barchester Hall was all she had left.
‘Aunt Beatrice,’ she stated, with as much patience as she could muster, ‘I cannot move on until I see Ross Jameson swing from a gibbet. In the meantime, somebody has to expose his true character to the world.’
‘Nonsense!’ her aunt replied. ‘He will get his comeuppance—but you are not the person to see that he does. You have five thousand pounds from your father sitting in the bank and you are still young enough to find a husband.’
Ha! As if that was ever going to happen now. After the scandal, no man worth his salt would touch her—regardless of her aunts’ continued optimism. Nor did she want to put all her faith in one man again—any man for that matter. The last few years had taught her that she could function perfectly well on her own.
‘You need to enjoy your life now. All this bitterness towards Mr Jameson is not healthy. In fact we know nothing certain about him at all. Are you even sure that he is as guilty as you believe? No charges were ever brought, after all.’
Hannah felt her blood begin to boil at that suggestion. ‘Do not give that despicable rogue the benefit of the doubt. I can assure you that he does not deserve such kindness. All my enquiries and all the evidence I have gathered leads me to exactly the same conclusion. He is a villain and a swindler—make no bones about it. But he has covered his tracks well. Any man who can wheedle his way into society with such low-born connections has a particular talent for deceit. Of course he is charming, and his fortune has bought him entry into some of London’s finer homes, but there are still a goodly number of the ton who continue to turn their backs on him. They know what he truly is. The gossip columns are full of his salubrious exploits.’
‘Need I remind you that your brother’s exploits also made regular appearances in the scandal sheets?’ her Aunt Violet pointed out. ‘And we all know that George was not an angel. And most of society would still turn their back on you—not that you deserve it, of course—so I am inclined to ignore that particular point.’
Her two aunts shared a pointed look and Hannah sighed in frustration. She had featured briefly in the gossip columns too. Quite spectacularly, in fact—and none of that had been true either—but she would not let that distract her. The stories might have been false, but they had not been founded in fairytales. Everybody—her own fiancé included—had been convinced of her guilt before the cruel words had even made it to the papers. They had only printed the news.
‘I
