Chapter Twenty-Two
Tristan did not dress in fine clothing. His boots were worn but polished, his jacket a sturdy black wool, and his shirts crisply ironed white linen.
His waistcoat was plain black brocade with black enamel buttons.
In the Den, even the footmen were dressed finer than him.
But clothing did not make a man. When he entered the floor, many of these men, fine lords, entitled noblemen, some with wealth to rival the crown, would not meet his gaze.
He knew their secrets, their weaknesses, their fears.
It was his job to make enemies, not friends.
His existence as the widow’s spy—her dog, some often said, because of his ability to fetch her information at her beckoning—was a lonely affair.
He slept, he woke, he worked. That had been his life for the last year as he slaved for every penny to pay back his brother’s debt.
She paid him a fair wage for his expertise, but Tristan had learned that others were willing to pay handsomely for secrets, too.
So, he’d been able to subsidize his pay and whittle down his brother’s debt faster, but still, if he continued this path, he’d be working the Den for the next five years.
and he knew now the widow wouldn’t hold his deed for that long.
He’d been desperate when he’d made this bargain.
He hadn’t pictured what the rest of his life would look like.
His brother and sister were safe. He spared as much as he could in coin for his cousin to help alleviate the burden of extra mouths to feed, but looking back, he’d made many mistakes.
He could see that now. Regret was not useful, but he let it fire the kiln of his determination because tonight, everything would change.
He’d seen the amounts of wealth that could cross these felt-covered tables.
Just the taste of the possibility of returning home with Flick at his side was enough temptation now to test his luck.
He might come away with much more than he needed or could dream.
He could change all of their lives, buy newer equipment, improve the plumbing, and make repairs that had fallen to the wayside under Colin’s care.
Lark Hall could once again be the gem it was.
All on the turn of a card.
The temptation to crave more, to risk it all, was strong.
Instead, he turned away from the rattling of dice and the gentlemen below.
He’d bathed and shaved, but under his shirt, the sweat of his repressed worries dampened his skin.
He stopped by the bar for a dram of whisky to settle his nerves.
Alston had spent the afternoon with him, hammering every tip and card face into his mind.
He’d lost every game, but Alston said he was finally making progress.
Tonight, Alston would be watching, not that Tristan needed the extra pressure, but he liked to think that they’d formed a friendship of sorts.
Mutual respect at the very least. Tristan would be forever grateful to the lord for helping him when he had no reason to.
Alston could have turned him away at the door, but he hadn’t.
Lord Hugstead arrived, acknowledging him with a brief nod before heading straight to the private dining room.
Did he know the stakes of this game? What he’d lose to Tristan?
His jealousy roared to life. Hugstead had met Flick one time, and yet he’d offered marriage.
Did he want her? Was he willing to fight for her?
The whisky settled in his stomach, lighting a fire inside him to drown out the doubts that had been circling like vultures. He would not lose her. He would not lose Lark Hall. He would not lose this bloody game.
Titan, the leader of the wolf pack, approached with his ever-stoic mask.
“I’m warning you to behave yourself,” Titan said.
“Me? When have I ever misbehaved?”
“As if I don’t know you almost broke Trent’s arm the other night.”
“He deserved it.”
“Obviously. But you’ve been warned. One of the guests for your game is here, and I’m certain you’d like to run him through at the first opportunity.”
Tristan went cold. “She wouldn’t.”
“Yes, she would.”
Tristan cursed. “He can’t be good at cards. What’s the point? To rattle me?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Rattled? No. Murderous? Absolutely.”
Titan’s lips twitched with a smile. “I’d help.”
“I know. That’s why you’re my favorite wolf pup.”
Tristan patted his shoulder as he passed, and Titan growled at him. Tristan wasn’t in the mood to play nice tonight. He was going to win, by any means necessary. His blood pumped with the fervor of a man who was capable of anything.
If Mrs. Dove-Lyon thought inviting Chadwick Revere to the game would be entertaining, she was going to be disappointed. That was three players thus far. Who would be the fourth, he wondered.
Tristan headed in the direction of the main gaming floor.
The thick padded carpet kept his steps silent as he approached, none turning his way.
The dealer, Peter, was already there at the table.
Lord Hugstead sat in the middle chair, with Mr. Revere on his left.
Revere was an affluent merchant who had purchased a small estate near Winter’s Well.
He was a bastard of Sir Wallace Eastman and an unlikable leech whom no one would miss if he happened to disappear, according to the information his contacts had gathered.
His business was floundering at best, and the purchase of his estate came from his investors who did not yet know they wouldn’t be seeing a return.
The chair beside Hugstead was empty, presumably for him. So, it would be a three-person game? All the players vying for Flick’s hand. That bloody woman was diabolical.
Hugstead spared him a glance, and Revere paid him little mind.
He must not remember Tristan from the day before last, which gave Tristan an advantage.
Tristan glanced around the room. Chairs lined the wall, Lord Alston and Blakewood occupying two of them.
This would be an exhibition game, the players set, but anyone could watch the spectacle, as if there weren’t enough pressure on him already.
Thankfully, Flick wouldn’t be here. He couldn’t bear for her to be watching.
Not that he was going to lose. He wouldn’t.
But she’d be distracting. The more money he won, the more he had to offer her.
He knew she would agree to marry him. She said she loved him, and she was not a woman to say that lightly, just as he had never said such powerful words to any other woman.
But it was his own pride that demanded he give her the life she deserved, or he wasn’t worthy of her.
He took his seat. Peter acknowledged him and began to shuffle the deck of cards.
His stomach knotted as he watched. Lord Alston was to his left, just out of his periphery.
More people shuffled out from the smoking room, their quiet murmurs growing as they took note of him and Hugstead.
Tristan kept his focus on the felt before him, ignoring the sounds of the club around him, the steady ticking of his heartbeat in his ears alerting him to the fact that he was nowhere near the calm state Alston said he needed to be in to better thwart his opponents.
But had Alston ever gambled with this much to lose?
Peter reiterated the rules of Commerce, Revere making some rude comment that Peter ignored.
It would take a cannon blast to shake Peter’s focus.
Hugstead nodded appreciatively as he got his cards and Tristan did the same.
The time had come to put his stake in the pot.
He reached into his pocket for the marked tokens Alston had loaned him, on top of the meager savings he’d been hiding in a loose floorboard for emergencies.
He was putting it all on the line for Flick. For their future.
Hugstead raised a brow as Tristan added his bet and Tristan winked at him. “I’ve been offering myself as a stallion at night.”
Hugstead flushed and shook his head. Peter snorted.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction to you, sir.” Revere spoke over Hugstead.
“That’s true,” Tristan replied coolly.
Revere sneered. “Your name, sir?”
Tristan squinted. “Tristan Chase Cameron, Clan Cameron.”
“I’m—”
“I don’t care who you are,” Tristan cut him off.
Revere blustered, leaning forward in his chair to glare at Tristan.
Hugstead sighed. “You just had to insult him.”
“If you knew what he was, you would too.”
“And what is that?” Hugstead asked.
“The fiancé.”
Hugstead stilled. His cool demeanor did not warm. In fact, it got icier.
Tristan reviewed his cards. His first hand was not promising. A two of spades, a four of diamonds, and a six of hearts.
“Trade?” Hugstead asked.
Tristan nodded and slid his card face down toward Hugstead.
Lady Amelia and Felicity arrived at the ladies’ entrance of the Den. The tiger opened the carriage door and Lady Amelia stepped out with the assistance of the groom. Helena waited for them.
Amelia smiled. “We meet again.”
“Good evening, Lady Amelia, Miss Brandon. Welcome.”
“You two know each other?” Felicity asked Lady Amelia.
“Helena gave me a tour the first time I visited,” Lady Amelia said.
They entered, the familiar wallpaper and smells of the Den comforting to Felicity after she’d spent so much time here. It had become her home of sorts. Helena paused before them and presented a box to Felicity.
“A gift from Mrs. Dove-Lyon. You are to wear it for tonight’s exhibition game. You will be viewing from the ladies’ gallery.” Helena opened the box and there was her gold mask.
“I don’t have to go to the main floor, do I?”
“No.”
“Good.” She didn’t want to become part of the exhibition. She hoped Tristan would be here, somewhere.