Chapter 44
As Darcy followed a servant to a private dining room within Boodle’s, his attention was drawn to the wagering corner. The crowd appeared larger and more boisterous than usual. He slowed and asked the servant, “Would you have information regarding that distasteful display at the book’s table?”
“Sir, a most cryptic entry has appeared. The wagers are extraordinary.”
Darcy was no gambler, but his interest was engaged. “Ask the book’s captain to explain the stakes to me. Quietly.”
“Yes, sir.”
While Darcy sat in the small private room, sipping coffee and waiting for information, his father joined him. “What has put that curious expression upon your face?”
“I shall soon know, as shall you.”
A light knock on the closed door interrupted their exchange. A man entered and bowed. “Sirs, I have the information you requested.” He produced a pencilled note. “The betting line is strange. I wrote it down so as not to be in error.”
“Very well.” Darcy read it silently and cursed. “Reeves will not take this well,” he said as he handed it to his father.
The older man raised a hand. “It is paramount that I notify Bennet before all others.” He looked at the book’s captain.
“Begging your pardon, sirs.”
“Yes?”
“Name is Hawkins, sirs. Archibald Hawkins.”
Darcy glanced at his father, then back to the thin young man hovering nervously. “You were saying, Mr Hawkins?”
“Would you be referring to Mr Matthew Reeves, sirs?”
“We would, yes,” confirmed George Darcy.
“May I surmise that the Hammer, as we know him, may have an interest in the target of this betting line?”
“You may.”
“With your permission, sirs, I shall reach out to a colleague of his.”
“Who is?”
“Mr Roark, the infamous ‘Anvil’, sirs.”
“Send him to Gardiner.” George Darcy then mused, “Hammer and Anvil. How à propos.”
Mr Hawkins looked grim. “For those men on this list, that allegory is surely an epitaph.”
A dirty street urchin approached the man with a milk-white scar running through his eye.
“I has one from the book man, Mr Roark.”
Roark read the note. “You done good, Billy.” He tossed the lad a coin. “Keep on with your ears on everything.”
Billy nodded and ran off. Roark hailed a hackney to fetch the page and names from the betting book. Hawkins has done well.
Two hours later, he and Reeves stood by Gardiner’s side, staring down at the list.
“Heinous,” hissed Gardiner.
“You going to tell the Colonel?” asked Reeves.
Gardiner replied, “You believe Darcy has not?”
Roark shook his head. “There be quite a blood-letting on the horizon, far as I see.”
“Indeed,” agreed Gardiner.
Bennet arrived at Gracechurch Street the next morning. Sickened and furious, he stared at the paper in his shaking hand.
Betting Line: To Pluck the Scarred Lily ...
Eight men had wagered large sums of money that one of them would deprive his eldest daughter of her innocence. Wagered on my Jane for money! Cursing under his breath, Bennet surveyed the three men in the room. Reeves snapped to attention. Roark’s face was stone; Gardiner leant over his desk, his hands fisted.
“Gardiner, who on this list do you own?”
His brother-in-law looked up, fury in his eyes. “The three viscounts. Two of the three barons. Gillett is not a client. We have not the same options with him as we do the others.”
“I hear your baron likes the odd fight,” Reeves put in. “He finds reasons to duel.”
Bennet thought for a moment. “Who of Gillett’s close associates is on your list?”
Gardiner consulted a journal. “A knight. Sir Montgomery Price. He was introduced to Roark by Gillet. We had planned to cull him at month’s end.”
“Will forgiving his debt impact you?” Bennet asked.
“Do not concern yourself.”
Bennet kept his eyes fixed on Gardiner. “Do you require additional time?”
Gardiner shook his head. “You should know that Marquess Beauford is deep in our books.”
“I see you wants the marquess, Colonel,” Reeves said. “But that won’t take.”
“Why is that?” Bennet asked, his curiosity engaged. Reeves’s instincts were not to be ignored.
“The baron is a swordsman. Not of your calibre, but he won’t know that.”
“And?” Bennet asked.
“The marquess will be in town sleeping off his drink,” Roark said. “You can choose ambush or duel.”
Bennet nodded. “Then it is settled,” he said. He had no reservations killing a man in a fair fight; he drew the line at outright murder. Reeves did not. The thought did not disturb him a jot.
“What’re the boundaries, Colonel?” asked Reeves.
Bennet looked from man to man. None displayed reservations.
“Dismantle them all.”
That evening, at Fanny Murray’s Bawd House, the dealer was kept busy.
“Vingt-et-un. House wins,” he announced.
Sir Montgomery Price groaned as he tossed his head backwards. He looked back to the baize to see a gloved hand over his cards.
“Settle him,” ordered Roark.
“Wait, I have yet to finish!” demanded Price.
Grimacing, the dealer lifted a hand. A man dressed in black approached and after a whispered conference, the dealer rose and left the table. The man slid into the vacant seat, folded his hands on the table, and leant forward. “Your client owes the house, Mr Roark.”
Roark leant over the table. “He’ll return after our business is completed.”
“We shall require the consent of a guarantor. I am sure you understand.”
“I can send for the Hammer.”
The manager’s eyes opened wide. “There is no need to resort to unpleasantness.” He tugged at his cravat. “I believe we have an agreement.”
Roark’s office was deep inside a Seven Dials gaming hell. The dimly lit room smelled of stale cigars and whiskey. The faint sound of a ticking clock created an atmosphere of tension. The walls were faded, with peeling wallpapers that may have been fashionable decades ago. The floor was covered in a threadbare rug, stained with years of spilled drinks and what looked like dried blood.
Sir Montgomery Price was wide-eyed as he stood in front of the desk and fidgeted. Gardiner sat in the chair behind the desk; Roark held Price’s elbow in his grip.
“Price.”
“Mr Gardiner.”
“Are you able to meet your obligation? Today?”
“Wha... what are you saying?”
Gardiner held up a signed promissory note. “Do you have one thousand sixty-two pounds on your person?”
Price whispered. “No.”
“Roark, admit the bailiff.”
“Wait! What can I do?” he pleaded. “This will ruin me. Please.”
“I’ve an idea,” said Roark.
“Yes. Yes! Anything!”
Roark outlined Price’s task to convince Lord Gillett to accept a challenge. He would ensure the baron did not delope or surrender.
“Do not fail us,” warned Gardiner.
“I understand.”
“Do ye, Monty? Do ye?” replied Roark. It was more growl than speech.
“I vow to meet this obligation,” Price whispered.
Gardiner nodded. “Very well. We have nothing to lose.”
Roark opened the door. “Tomorrow, boys. Go have one on me. One!”
Late afternoon the next day, four burly men filed into Gardiner’s office, stopping in front of his desk. They fidgeted and shuffled their feet, eager to start. Their wait was short. Roark entered and stood to their flank.
“I have six debtors who cannot pay their vowels.”
Gardiner smiled at the buzzing, which would increase loudly when he revealed their victims’ identities. He handed the senior bailiff the list; the man’s eyes gleamed with greed. “Boys, we soon be rolling in it,” he announced.
Roark calmed the air. “Bang up to the mark, boys. Mind the times. Follow the list.” He paused. “Do not disappoint me.”
The bailiffs shook their heads. “Never you worry, Roark. We be working for you and no one else,” assured the lead man.
The bailiffs mounted their hackneys, followed by a large cage cart. A half-dozen ruffians—the chain gang—secured their footing, grasped the bars, and whooped as the transport jerked forward.