Chapter 2 #2
If the gossips had the right of it, Hart was as wicked as the devil himself. Cold, calculating, and merciless, that was Armitage Hart. A rake, too, if the rumor she’d overheard at the circulating library about him breaking the heart of a young lady named Miss Reynolds was to be believed.
Still, one couldn’t deny Hart was a brilliant businessman. The proof of it was right in front of her, a monument to wealth and excess bathed in the last golden rays of the sun.
The ton that flocked to Brighton every year to take the waters and socialize in the pump room could now lose their fortunes amidst the elegant trappings of Brighton’s newest and most fashionable gaming establishment, Hart’s Ace.
Mr. Hart referred to his place as a gaming hell, but she’d been inside every gaming hell in London, and none of them were anything like Hart’s Ace. Gaming hells were squalid, dirty places tucked into the darkest corners of London, not this glittering prize perched on the edge of the sea.
But neither was it White’s, or Brooks, or even Watier’s.
For all its gilded finery, Hart’s Ace wasn’t a private club.
Any gentleman who wished to wager might go there and take his chances, regardless of his lineage.
Mr. Hart wasn’t an aristocrat himself, but he was a clever businessman, and thus perfectly amenable to emptying the pockets of those who couldn’t afford to lose as well as those who could.
She wouldn’t lose. She never did. That was why she never wagered anymore, now that her father was gone. He’d dragged her from one filthy hell to another, drinking her winnings as fast as she could make them.
But he’d been dead two years now, and good riddance.
She hadn’t set foot in a gaming hell since, and she’d sworn to herself she never would again, but it was different, this time. This time, she had no choice. Percy was getting better. He was. They weren’t leaving Brighton. Not yet. Not until his lungs were as clear as fine crystal.
She couldn’t lose her brother. She wouldn’t.
He and Jenny were all she had left.
And so, Hart’s Ace it was. Tonight, if it could be managed. Jenny and Percy had told her they wished to attend a musical evening at the Old Ship Hotel this evening. She’d agreed to accompany them, but when the time came, she’d plead a headache and send them off without her.
She’d have to borrow some of Percy’s clothes, too, as ladies weren’t permitted inside Hart’s Ace. They’d be too big for her, but she’d find a way to make do.
Tonight, then.
By the time she woke tomorrow morning, it would be over.
To all appearances, Armitage Hart was playing an innocent game of penny Whist.
But nothing unfolding at Hart’s Ace was ever as innocent as it appeared. In truth, he was watching. Whatever might come to pass inside his club this evening, he’d be witness to it.
Nothing happened at Hart’s Ace without him knowing of it.
Take Lord Constable, for example. He arrived at the club this evening with a handsome gold pocket watch and chain dangling from his waistcoat pocket, but he’d been playing rather deep tonight. If he lost this next round at Hazard, he wouldn’t be leaving with it.
The odds were not in his lordship’s favor. By midnight, the watch would no longer belong to him.
Then there was young Mr. Aviemore. The boy had deep pockets, but he was so far into his cups he couldn’t tell a queen from a jack. It would serve him right if he lost every penny of it, but the lad’s father was Lord Aviemore, and a wise businessman didn’t ruin the only son of a powerful earl.
Hart’s Ace hadn’t become such a success by accident. No one had expected much from the son of a tailor from Lambton, but as it turned out he had a keen head for business and had made Hart’s Ace into the most wildly successful club Brighton had ever seen.
And now, well…now he was bored.
It was the same thing, night after night. Gentlemen came, drank to excess, wagered vast sums of money most of them could ill afford to lose, and left in the wee hours of the morning with empty pockets.
That was the trouble with making such a success of it. There was no challenge anymore, no joy to be had in it, just one endless night after the next and the stench of stale cheroot smoke lingering on his clothing.
Perhaps he should open another club. God knew there was plenty of money to be made in London, but what did he need with more money? He already had enough, more than he could spend in a lifetime.
It was all just so wearying—
“Bad luck tonight, boss? The cards finally turned against you?”
He glanced up into the smirking face of his man Duncan, who’d just finished making his rounds through the club. “Bad luck is good luck for us, Duncan, as you well know.”
Duncan snorted. “Mayhap you’re pining for Miss Reynolds, eh? I hear she left Brighton last week. Shame, that. Pretty girl, she was.”
Hart rolled his eyes. “I don’t pine for anyone, Duncan.
” Least of all Miss Reynolds, despite all the good citizens of Brighton panting for a romance between them.
They were keen to marry him off. No doubt they fancied he’d be safer once he was domesticated, but Miss Reynolds wouldn’t be the one to do the job.
Now the redheaded vixen who’d brained him with her parasol was another matter entirely. He wasn’t the sort of man who became besotted at a single glance—or at all, really—but he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her.
Those green eyes! God above, they’d looked right through him, down to his very soul, and that saucy tongue. He did like a lady of spirit.
But damned if he could find her. He’d checked every private lodging house in Kemptown, Regency Square and Waterloo Street, but no one knew her. Perhaps she was a guest in a private home, or—
“’Course you don’t pine, boss.” Duncan winked. “The lassies pine for you, eh?”
Hart glanced up. He’d forgotten Duncan was there. “Good Lord, man, do you ever stop talking? Go and see to young Aviemore at the Hazard table. He’s one toss of the dice away from ruining his father.”
“Right away, boss.” Duncan strode off, and within two minutes young Mr. Aviemore was escorted discreetly from the blue salon and bundled into one of the club’s private carriages, where he would be sent home to his father with Hart’s compliments.
As fond as he was of pocketing the ton’s bank notes, jewels, and gold coins, wealth was nothing without power and influence, and Lord Aviemore had both. The man would be in his debt now, and when the time was right, he’d make certain to turn the debt to account.
“For God’s sake, Hart you’ve won again!” Lord Pomeroy tossed his cards aside in disgust. “Honestly, has there ever been a luckier man in existence? I don’t know why any of us play with you at all.”
“My boundless charm, perhaps?”
Lord Pomeroy snorted. “No, that’s not it. Go on, then. Go and play at Piquet with Lord Munsey. You’re putting me off my game.”
“Your wish is my command, my lord.” He tossed his cards face down on the baize, rose from his seat and offered the half dozen scowling gentlemen surrounding the Whist table a nod. “Gentlemen, I wish you all a pleasant evening.”
It was time for him to make his own rounds, in any case. In the last hour a great crowd of rogues had gathered around the Hazard table, and the play had grown rather frenzied in the last ten minutes.
Someone had either won an impressive sum of money or lost one.
The latter, most likely, just as it should be.
He didn’t make it as far as the Hazard table, however, because as he was passing through the blue salon a gentleman entered the room. He’d never seen the man before, but there was nothing so unusual in that. New people arrived in Brighton every day.
But this man caught his attention at once. There was something…off about him.
He was an unusually small, slender man, and his clothing didn’t fit properly. His coat was too wide in the shoulders, and his breeches were too long, with the extra fabric bunching around his knees.
There was no costly superfine to be found here. No embroidered silk waistcoat or jeweled stick pin. The lad looked as if he’d slept in the alleyway behind the club.
He wasn’t the usual sort of patron, that was certain, but it wasn’t just his clothing that singled him out.
It was also his manner. Hart’s Ace was an elegant, sumptuous place with high ceilings, glittering chandeliers and rich, jewel-toned fabrics, and people invariably stopped to gape with open-mouthed awe at all the finery, particularly if they’d never been inside the club before.
Not this gentleman. He didn’t appear to notice any of it, nor did he spare a glance for the fashionable company crowded around the tables.
He paused in the center of the room for an instant before heading toward the Vingt-et-Un table, but partway there he abruptly changed course and took a seat at the Lottery table, instead.
Strange, that. There was something furtive about him, a stealthiness in the way he moved, as if he wished to avoid attracting attention.
He did a good job of it. No one seemed to notice him.
No one except Hart, but then he hadn’t gotten where he was by ignoring his instincts, and right now his every instinct was urging him to stay back, watch the odd gentleman, and see what transpired. If he was up to something nefarious, he’d find it out before the man turned over his first card.
He wandered toward the crowded Lottery table but veered off before he reached it and took a seat at the far side of the Vingt-et-Un table, where the man couldn’t easily see him. Lewis, who was manning the Vingt-et-Un game tonight looked up as Hart sat down. “Good evening, Mr. Hart.”
“Lewis.” He gave the man a brief nod, then gave the cards Lewis had dealt him a cursory glance before laying them face down on the table.
He didn’t give a damn about the game, but this seat provided an unimpeded view of the newcomer. Fortunately, the man didn’t appear to have any idea he was the object of such intense scrutiny and kept his gaze on his cards.
He was younger than Hart’s usual patrons.
There wasn’t a trace of a beard on those fresh, smooth cheeks.
The boy didn’t look to be more than twenty years old, but it was difficult to tell, as his cravat was so absurdly voluminous it hid his chin and jaw, and he’d pulled his hat so low over his eyes it was a wonder he could even see his cards.
How curious.
He observed the play for a moment before joining the game, but no sooner did he join than he began to win.
He took the first round, then the second.
He lost the third, but he’d soon built his winnings up again, the small pile of silver fish counters in front of him growing taller with every moment that passed.
He never took his eyes off the cards but focused on the game with a fierce intensity Hart had only rarely witnessed before, and never in one so young. It was all rather fascinating to witness, and soon enough Hart forgot his own cards.
The boy’s single-minded focus was impressive, certainly, but it was more than just that. It was the dull gleam of the mother-of-pearl markers, the delicate play of them between the boy’s fingers, flashes of silver as if they were real fish, and the soft slap of the cards against the baize.
The boy’s eyes were everywhere at once, darting from his own cards to the discard pile to the undealt cards in the dealer’s hands. Back and forth, back and forth. He never missed a card. It almost looked as if…
As if he were counting cards.
But no, that was impossible. Martin, who was manning the table was dealing from six separate decks. No one could keep track of over three hundred cards.
Then again, he’d seen stranger things. Nothing surprised him anymore.
The boy would have to be inordinately clever to count so many cards. Cleverer than anyone Hart had ever encountered at a gaming table. It didn’t seem likely he’d stumbled across a prodigy, especially in such an odd, unprepossessing creature as this, with his shabby, ill-fitting cloak.
But something was happening. The boy was so still, his concentration utterly absolute, his eyes darting back and forth, taking in every movement of the dealer’s hands and noting the turn of every card.
And he kept winning. No one won as often as that unless they were cheating. For God’s sake, this…this child was sitting in his club, as cool as you please, and robbing him blind!
But instead of summoning Duncan or snatching up the boy the collar of his coat, dragging him to the door and tossing him out into the mews, Hart remained where he was, watching.
He couldn’t look away.
The boy was good. The best Hart had ever seen. He could have watched him all night, but he didn’t get the chance.
All at once, it was over. Without any warning the boy rose abruptly from his seat, swept his counters into his coat pocket and made his way to the cashier.
What the devil? He wasn’t leaving was he? Leaving, while he was winning?
Now that was something Hart had never seen before. Gamblers were a superstitious lot, and it was a rare gentleman who abandoned the table in the middle of a lucky streak.
What in God’s name was the boy thinking? It wasn’t as if he’d made away with some immense fortune. He hadn’t stayed long enough for that. At most, he was walking out the door with little more than six or seven pounds in winnings.
It was a meagre showing indeed, for such an earnest effort.
Hart was striding across the salon before he realized he’d risen to his feet, but he was already too late. The boy wasn’t in the outer room, and neither was he lingering in the drive outside the club.
He was gone, vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.
He’d return, of course. Sooner or later, they always did.
And next time, Hart would be ready for him.