Page 44 of The Scarred Duchess
“Vingt-et-un. House wins, gentlemen,” said the dealer.
“This cannot be!” shouted Beauford. He gritted his teeth.
“Hold your breath, man,” warned his companion.
“I will not. Never have I seen cards fall so poorly as these have.”
“Are you challenging the house, my lord?”
Beauford paused. Fanny Murray’s was not a gambling hell where a man could indiscreetly throw accusations about without facing recourse. “Not immediately,” he said.
“And you?” asked the dealer.
“No,” confessed his companion. “Certainly not.”
Where are your ballocks, man?Beauford expected his sycophants to side with him.
The dealer grimaced, then lifted a hand. A tall, reed-thin man joined him. After a whispered conference, the dealer rose and left the table. His master studied Beauford.
“You, my lord, are on the rocks in our books.”
Beauford snorted. “You do know who my father is, do you not?”
“Yes, the Duke favoured our establishment… in his youth.”
“As does his son,” Beauford replied.
“Yes, my lord.” He tugged at his cravat. “Unfortunately, the house cannot grant you further considerations.”
“I find that unacceptable,” replied Beauford. “I must have my pleasures.”
“You misunderstand me, my lord. We welcome your play, but we can no longer extend credit to you.”
Beauford held his temper, barely so. “What do you propose?”
“We know of a gentleman who caters to your circle.”
Beauford nodded, and within minutes, found himself in a small, private room. Inside stood a hatted man, his back to him. When the door closed, the man turned to face him.
Beauford’s throat tightened.Devil take it!
The man’s mouth lifted on one side; the thick white scar that passed from his eye to his mouth remain fixed. Beauford involuntarily shuddered. “How do we proceed?” He resented the shakiness in his voice.
“Sign this vowel. It covers your house debt and provides additional funds to play.”
Beauford read the document and noted the name inked on it. “This is adequate, Mr Gardiner.”
“Mr Edward Gardiner is my patron.”
Who is Mr Edward Gardiner? How lofty are his connexions?
Beauford signed the vowels and placed the pen in the inkwell. “Then, who are you?”
The man smiled, contorting his face into something fearsome. Beauford tasted bile and looked away.
“The name is Roark.”
The quarterly assembly at Meryton Hall had Longbourn in a frenzy. Bennet hid in his study and locked the door. In his view, every female in the manor had lost their wits—even the ever-reliable Mrs Hill, who had just sharply reprimanded Hill for some perceived infraction. Briefly, Bennet considered offering him refuge from the storm. Repeated footsteps flying up and down the stairs reverberated throughout. He glanced at the broadsheet’s headline on his desk:
