Chapter Fourteen
Therefore to the same natural effects we must, as far as possible, assign the same causes.
—Isaac Newton
My first thought was that this was nothing like the gaming hell in Cambridge.
The fact was this crowd was rowdier, rougher, and infinitely more dangerous.
But I was with Tarik, and he would never let any harm come to either of us.
Greedy eyes tracked over me, taking in the fine cut and fabric of my gown, and other details that marked us as possible pigeons, while we threaded our way through to a table with a pair of empty chairs.
The dealer sported a huge mustache that I couldn’t help staring at.
Though his face was weathered and hard, he had kind brown eyes, I thought.
But in places like this, kindness would be construed as weakness.
Perhaps it was just my overactive brain trying to convince me that I was safe and not allowing me to give in to the primal instincts that warned me to flee.
One game…
“Betting limits are twenty pounds, minimum is fifty pence,” the dealer said, and my eyes widened at the maximum number.
Twenty pounds was no small amount, barely less than the annual salary of some working-class people.
But the maximum bet was only set by the house so that they could cover any losses, which meant that they probably did quite well as a copper hell.
“Payout for a natural is two to one, and one to one for a win.”
I took stock of the players. The man at the other end of the table looked like one of reasonable means.
The second player, a woman, was dressed well at first glance, but her hem was slightly frayed, and her embroidered collar worn.
The third man was a gentleman dressed like us who appeared to have deep pockets, based on the pile of money in front of him.
“Place your stakes.”
Before the dealer handed out the cards—two per player and one for himself, the wagers were made. Surreptitiously, I followed Tarik’s lead and bet only the minimum to start.
An hour later, our single game had turned into several.
I won some and I lost some, while Tarik seemed to be consistently losing, though his wagers were small enough not to hurt.
After a while, I grasped that he was doing it on purpose.
When all the cards in the deck were dealt, the dealer shuffled a new set of cards, and play resumed.
Tarik sat back in his seat, a tiny smirk playing about his lips, a glass of cherry brandy in hand.
He looked so utterly relaxed that one might assume—erroneously—he wasn’t a threat, but this was yet another of the masks he wore.
I suddenly recalled the allegation that had been made back at the gaming table in Cambridge by the man who had started the fight—that Tarik had somehow memorized and kept track of the cards.
So that was why he hadn’t been playing or betting seriously before.
He’d been biding his time.
Perking up, I paid careful attention as well.
My first card from the new deck was a queen of spades and my second was a four, which put my total at fourteen.
The dealer showed a nine of clubs. I played the round cautiously.
Tarik got a natural, doubling his initial bet.
The three other players went belly up and I managed to stay alive when the dealer went over twenty-one with a bust.
A new round was dealt and bets placed. I bet a quid, and Tarik wagered five pounds. I held twenty, and Tarik had five or fifteen, with an ace of clubs and a four of spades. I chose to stand on mine.
“Another,” Tarik said.
He received three of diamonds, which put his total at eight or eighteen with the dual value of the ace.
I would have stopped with eighteen, but he asked for a card again, miraculously receiving a two.
My breath hitched as the dealer flipped his card and showed a six.
He drew a five, putting him at eleven. With bated breath, we waited for the next card…
a king of diamonds. Everyone groaned. We’d all lost.
“House has the luck of the devil,” the woman said with a sigh.
I watched as the dealer raked in all the money.
From keeping careful track of the cards that had been played so far, I knew that there were more high-value cards left in the deck, which would give us statistical advantage over the dealer.
Two more rounds passed with me winning both times.
Alcohol flowed freely, and the man at the end grew drunker and more belligerent.
“This game is bloody rigged!” he grumbled. “Highway robbery.”
“Place your wagers, please,” the dealer said, face tight at the man’s behavior.
Tarik speared me with an arch look and pushed most of his winnings into the middle, totaling eighteen pounds. I did the same, though my amount was less, at fifteen. My heart thumped, but our odds were good with the current tally in my head. Better than good.
The man on the end continued to swear, eyes shooting daggers at us as he sneered at the hefty wagers. He was down to barely anything, glowering all the while. “I need a credit line.”
The factotum came over, consulting his ledgers. “Ten pounds to Mr. Smith.”
Credit was usually extended to players in good standing, who would return to settle their accounts the next day. Or at least, that was how I heard it worked in more high-end clubs. Here, in the West End, the settlement might be in flesh and blood. I suppressed a shiver.
When the man received the money, he shoved seven of the ten into the middle.
The woman went with the minimum bet, while the gentleman in the middle played the maximum.
Someone let out a loud gasp, and I looked up to realize that we had drawn an attentive crowd.
Even the factotum remained close, keeping a vigilant eye on the table, players, and spectators.
The dealer distributed the cards. As I’d expected from watching the previous rounds, most of the cards were now face cards.
The foxed player had a total of fifteen, a weak hand, which made him smash his fist onto the surface of the table.
Cheers burst from the crowd as I received the queen of hearts and the ace of diamonds—a natural—and Tarik’s two cards showed a total of twenty.
If the dealer didn’t have twenty-one, I would win forty-five pounds.
His visible card was a ten. The chances that he would have a face card were also excellent.
Tensions were high—and a lot of money was at stake.
The drunk man scowled and hit, receiving a nine, which put him over twenty-one.
His face turned puce with rage, but by some miracle, he held his tongue by dousing it with whiskey.
My neck felt hot when the dealer stared at Tarik. “Sir?”
Long elegant fingers drummed on the tabletop. The odds were good, I thought.
“Stay,” I whispered to him. “He’ll go over.”
Blue eyes met mine. “Sometimes you have to risk it all to win it all,” he said in a low voice. I wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the game or something else entirely. He studied the dealer, head canting slightly. “Another.”
A collective gasp went up as my heart fell. Asking for another card when he stood at twenty was audacious. Foolish, even. But when the dealer flipped the card, it was the last ace in the pack—the ace of hearts. The game was over when the dealer displayed his second card, and it was another ten.
Tarik and I had won a small fortune together.
“I know a sharp when I see one, you cheating bastard!” the drunk at the end slurred, pointing a finger at Tarik and then at the dealer. “He’s in on it, too! The whole house is crooked!”
“Sir, calm down,” the dealer warned, nodding to the factotum, who handed him a new deck.
The drunk man bared his teeth, spittle flying everywhere as he lurched unsteadily to his feet. “Don’t bloody tell me to calm down! Rigged, I tell you!”
Dear God, not again!
But unlike the last time, the factotum nodded at two enormous men, who strode through the crowd to escort the troublemaker out of the room. He sputtered his outrage, but they didn’t care, lifting him up between them and practically dragging his carcass away.
I turned to Tarik with a wry grin. “I’m starting to think that you are the common denominator here, sowing chaos in your wake at gambling dens.”
He stared at me in confusion, and I recognized my mistake much too late. The last time we were together, I hadn’t been Lady Rosalin. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“Oh, Ansel told me about your brawl,” I rushed out quickly, my stomach dropping.
Tarik cocked his head. “Did he now? That’s rather curious.”
The way he said it with the slightest hint of disappointment had me wavering. Why would he be disappointed? I blinked. Botheration, it was supposed to be a secret, wasn’t it? Roz had promised not to tell anyone. I racked my brain to come up with any excuse Tarik might accept for the broken trust.
“Yes, well, his hand was injured,” I explained. “I hounded him until he confessed what had happened but also swore me to secrecy, don’t worry.”
“You play a lot better than he does,” Tarik conceded after a beat, though that look of disquiet remained. “So have you had your fill, or shall we continue?”
“Perhaps one more game,” I said, eager to spend more time with him before we were both forced to go back to reality.
However, play seemed to be paused. The factotum was in quiet conversation with the dealer a few feet away from where we sat, their gazes occasionally flicking in our direction…
specifically to both of us. When he signaled for the two security guards to come to his side, I couldn’t help frowning.
I could feel Tarik’s unease when the factotum approached us, his face giving away nothing though his shoulders were stiff and his stance was distinctly menacing.