Chapter 27 #3
Chuckles and a shout of outrage had him spinning to watch a table across the room.
A group of men sat relaxed as a game of faro was underway.
He wandered closer, the need to be part of the revelry overtaking him.
A man in a shockingly bright mustard-yellow coat shuffled a deck of cards with ease, keeping up a steady stream of conversation with the players gathered around the table.
If Cartwright and Garrett were not waiting on him to dine, Eli would be tempted to take a seat at the table and test his luck at a hand.
He’d never thought of himself as a particularly providential man—especially after his grandfather’s death and his mother’s disinterest in reuniting with her only son—but since meeting Samantha, things had improved.
Not things.
He had improved.
Elijah’s views on life and his future had altered in an uncanny and unexpected way.
For a brief moment, he actually desired to belong here among the wealthiest members of society—Sam’s world, not his.
“Let us have it, Calhoun!” The round, balding man who shuffled the cards called. “Record the bloody wager and allow me to deal another round. Some of us have other entertainments this evening.”
“Then be off with you,” a man mumbled—obviously Calhoun—hunched over a large tome with a quill fresh with ink. “I need make certain the wording is correct, or Applegate will likely try to wiggle his way out of making good on his debts…again.”
A lanky, freckled faced man sat up straight with indignation. “I have always paid my debts. I have an enraged father to show for it.”
The table erupted in another round of laughter.
Elijah wondered if he’d been raised closer to London if he’d know why Calhoun was fretting over the verbiage of a written wager or why Applegate’s enraged father gained such a jovial response from the men around the table.
With a flourish of his hand, Calhoun sat back and smiled. “Very good. I look forward to seeing you attempt to extricate yourself from this one, Applegate.”
Before the man dealt the cards, a servant bustled forward to remove the large book from the table—obviously, the famed White’s betting book.
The servant made to whisk the leather-bound book away, but noticed Eli’s interest and halted. “Would you care to place a wager, my lord?”
“Have him bring the blasted book over here,” Garrett shouted, waving Eli back to their table, their heated discussion about the phaeton blessedly at an end. “You can peruse the thing at your leisure once you have a drink.”
Garrett was obviously not in favor of Eli joining them.
A fact that would normally concern him, but at the moment, the man’s brash attitude mattered little.
He followed the servant back to their table and took one of the two open seats, his back directly to the flames from the fire.
It gave Eli ample opportunity to survey the room—the crowd growing with each moment as men flooded into the club in groups, pairs, and a few singles.
As he searched the sea of unfamiliar faces, the black-and-blue-garbed manservant set the betting book on the table before him.
Elijah ran his hand slowly over the worn leather cover to caress the cracked binding as the smell of aged paper and history settled about him.
How many men had filled this club, entered their name and wager in this very book?
This would have been a very unique treasure to collect.
Elijah closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as Cartwright and Garrett spoke.
He lost track of their words when he opened the tome to a wager recorded in January of 1797.
A chuckle escaped him when he read the stakes of the bet—a rather mundane wager—but the victor was entitled to submit a full-page advertisement in The Post regarding the minuscule size of the loser’s manhood.
Had Lord Argyll followed through after he’d won their wager?
Oh, to locate a copy of the newspaper from late January 1797.
“Something comical?” Cartwright asked.
Elijah turned to more recently recorded wagers. “A Mr. Marcus Bosworth wagered his father could not be tricked into purchasing a lame horse. Unfortunately, the elder Bosworth was duped into buying the horse, and therefore, Lord Argyll was announced the victor.”
“How much did Argyll win?” Garrett took a long pull on his drink. “A few shillings, a pound?”
“No.” Elijah chuckled again, shaking his head. “He won the right to place an advertisement in The Post, denouncing the…ummm…grandness of Bosworth’s manhood.”
“Who would speak ill of an old man’s part?” Cartwright’s brow scrunched in confusion.
“Not the elder Bosworth’s part,” Elijah retorted. “But that of Mr. Marcus Bosworth. Wonder if the fool ever found himself a bride lucky enough to not read The Post.”
“I have never understood the logic in placing a wager on an undetermined and unpredictable outcome.” Cartwright sat back in his seat, his interest in the betting book gone. “Makes absolutely no sense.”
“There is much you do that makes no sense to me, Cart,” Garrett laughed. “I do enjoy a good shaming now and again.”
Elijah read page after page of wagers on horse races, winter hunting expeditions, and even the occasional bet over who would claim the hand of a certain lady, or more shockingly, which gentlemen would be caught in a lady’s marriage noose.
The work at the museum, and his pursuit of Miss Samantha, would extend his stay in London into the foreseeable future. Elijah flipped to the most recently recorded wagers. Maybe he would wager a spot of coin on an open bet. Something with moderate stakes and a high likelihood of a payout.
He was almost nearing the final recorded wager when a familiar name stood out to him, written in the bold, sharp handwriting of a man.
Who shall take Miss Samantha P—as mistress?
The page was divided into five columns; Lord Gunther, Lord Proctor, Mr. Tobias Shillings, Lord Meyton and…
Lord Ridgefeld?!
“What in the bloody hell?” Under each name, men had been placing wagers—large wagers—on who would take the woman to bed as their mistress first. Even more startling, his name only had one man betting he would take the prize: Mr. Harold Jakeston? “That…well…”
Before Eli could slam the betting book shut, run from the room, and burn all evidence of the scandalous wager before either of his companions saw, Garrett pulled the book from his grasp.
Samantha’s brother’s face went from a leisurely smile to a tight line of disbelief to utter outrage as his nostrils flared and he pushed his chair back to stand. Garrett’s hard stare lifted to meet Elijah’s.
“I would never,” Elijah protested. “Have never so much as thought—“
Garrett planted his palms on the table and leaned toward Elijah.
“You’d bloody damn well better not be caught with my sister in a compromising position of any sort,” Garrett seethed.
“I am not so forgiving as to accept your proposal of marriage after you ruin her. Oh, no, you will see the blade of my sword or the end of my pistol before I agree to any such thing.”
Garrett immediately pivoted and walked out the front door.
“And the man says I am the odd one,” Cartwright mumbled, withdrawing his journal from his pocket.
“Lord Garrett has a tendency for dramatics, do not let him convince you otherwise. He is much like his sisters in that regard.” Cartwright nodded as if agreeing with his own words.
“No matter, there will be more food for us.”
Elijah ripped the page from the betting book and slipped it into his pocket without Cartwright glancing up from his scribbling.
“My lord, you cannot—“ The servant who’d delivered the book to their table hurried back over. “That book is a piece of history. It is not to be tampered with in any way. I must demand you return what you took.”
Cartwright glanced up at the stammering man, confusion etched on his face. “I brought this journal, my good man. Now, off with you before our meal grows cold.”
Eli risked a glance at the servant, his face red and flustered, and he did what any marquis would, he nodded in dismissal to the man. Reluctantly, the servant bowed, took hold of the book, and moved across the room, keeping a close watch on Elijah as he did.
No one would ever place a wager regarding Miss Samantha again—or they would answer to him.