Page 4 of Deception and Desire
Spinster.
These hell-born babes of thebeau mondehad played their last trick on Fenella Franklin. With a shuddering breath, she smoothed back her hair, straightened her clothes, and went to plead with her mother for an early escape.
*
Sir Horace Franklinentered the gaming hell in Picadilly. A tall man, almost the same height as Franklin and in a neat but nondescript livery, escorted him along a narrow hall to a room in the bowels of the building. Removing his hat, he squinted while his steely eyes adjusted to the dim, hazy room. At first look, the décor seemed almost elegant, certainly of good quality and comfortable. A large chandelier hung in the center of the room, casting light from at least two dozen candles. Above, the panels of the high ceiling bore smoke and grime from countless nights of men crowded into a windowless room.
A shout or groan occasionally pierced the constant but muffled noise of the gamblers and spectators. A den of inequity where spoiled heirs of the nobility rubbed shoulders with wealthy merchant sons, gamblers, and tricksters. Men lost fortunes, estates, and worse at these tables. A cheer went up in a far corner, and Sir Horace spotted his prey.
“G’evenin’, Franklin. It’s a luvly night ta ruin a scoundrel,” said a deep voice, obviously from the East End. “The pigeon’s rollin’ dice now. ’Appy ta lure him inta a private game when ye’re ready.”
Sir Horace turned to the squat, unprepossessing man also known as Crockford the Shark. “He’s in Dun territory?”
“Aye, sir. Don’t think there’s a rope long enough ta pull ’im out, and the buggah shows no sign o’ slowin’ down. I s’pose ’e expects his father’ll pay off ’is vowels.” Crockford gave a laugh that sounded more like a grunt. He lowered his voice, placing a stubby finger alongside his large, crooked nose. “Shall we see if we can make ’im sweat?”
“By all means, my friend, by all means.” Sir Horace watched as Lord Shelton shot a fist into the air. “He seems to have won. Now would be a good time, Crocky. It appears he did well at the hazard table.”
“Oh-ho, I’ve seen that set to yer jaw, and it’s ne’er a good sign.” He peered up at the baronet. “Let’s ’ave a bit o’ fun, shall we?”
Crockford was an enigma that terrified theton. A formidable and successful chap of humble birth who had made a fortune off dandies with money to burn and arrogance in abundance. Franklin had met the fishmonger on the docks and had appreciated the man’s implacable determination. A business genius, Crockford now owned one of the most popular and infamous gaming hells in Picadilly. He had an amazing ability to calculate the odds in a race or game with uncanny speed yet appear the lackwit to the unsuspecting upper-class. Never cheating the aristocracy out of their money, he instead offered games of chance that maintained the illusion one had control over the results, though the outcome was always heavily weighted. His ambition of gaining an establishment in St. James would rattle thebeau mondeif they knew.
“Remember, I want the estate. His father will pay off any cash debts, but he won’t be able to buy back the property.” Sir Horace took in the smug features of the viscount’s young face, the haughty demeanor that said he was entitled to whatever he wanted. That would soon change.
“You’ve already paid out more’n the price o’ the estate to maneuver such a clever scheme. I don’t think I’d ’ave come up with a better’n meself. ‘Appy to oblige and g’luck.”
Two hours later, Sir Horace sat in a small room, a small pile of markers next to him. He wiped his forehead again, feigning a worrisome expression. Only two players remained at the table.
Shelton moved his last peg on the cribbage board and gave his opponent a smug, sloppy smile, eyes glazed with too much smoke and blue ruin. “Well, itssseemsI’ve beat you again,sssir.” He stood. “I believe you’rebrrroughtto point, nonplllus!” His chums sniggered and slapped him on the back, causing him to weave and grab the chair for support.
“Crockford! Please, could you extend my credit?” Franklin gave the proprietor a pleading look and once again wiped his forehead. “I’ll be dished if I don’t recuperate some of my losses. Especially after…”
“It’s agin’ my better judgment, but I’ve been in low wa’er meself. We do ’ave a ’istory, you and me.” He nodded to a doorman, who came forward with a notebook.
Sir Horace scratched his name in the book. “My lord, will you give me the chance to recoup a portion of my losses? I beg you, show some mercy on an old man.”
Shelton gave a crooked smile and waved off his friends’ warnings. “There’s ahhhorseI’ve been eyeing atNnnewmarket.” He fell heavily back into the chair, his eyes squinting at his challenger. “Do I knowyyyou?”
“I’m sure we’ve met about town. We travel in some of the same circles,” Franklin answered smoothly. He set the pegs to rights again and looked up with a smile. “Shall we?”
Both players pulled a card from the deck, a king in Sir Horace’s hand and a five in Shelton’s. The older man dealt the cards, each chose two, and set them on the dealer’s side of the table. Shelton cut the remaining deck, and Sir Horace turned over the first card. A jack.
“Two for nibs,” said a spectator.
An hour later, the viscount wiped at his own brow. His slurred words had disappeared as his losses mounted and sobriety returned along with self-righteous anger. “Good sir, could you extend my credit, please?”
“I’m ’fraid that’s no’ possible, m’lord. Yer in the River Tick already, an’ I can’t go agin’ me own rules.” Crockford spread out his hands, his tone placating and apologetic. “D’ye ’ave any property, per’aps?”
“I won’t be bested, by God, by a bloody merchant.” He ran a hand over his dark hair, black eyes glittering with fury. “Will you take a vowel for a small estate I own in the South?”
A slow smile turned up Sir Horace’s face. “Well, I suppose if I must.” Satisfaction eased the loathing in his chest as the worthless pup dealt the cards. Nothing more than an egotistical peep-o-day boy, taking what he wanted and the hell with anyone else. Retribution would be in this next game.
As the pegs moved around the board and the deal passed back and forth, Shelton’s white knuckles showed his frustration as he gripped his remaining cards. His jaw clenched, and Sir Horace watched the tick in his eye as the viscount swallowed.
“I need a drink! Can I get a bloody drink? I spend enough blasted money in this hell-hole!” His fist went down as Franklin laid down another card.
“That’s thirty-one, I believe,” said Franklin with only a hint of the gloat that washed over him. “Let’s see what the crib has for me.” As the extra cards were tallied and added to Sir Horace’s score, the peg moved past the 121 hole.
“By Christ,” said one of the viscount’s party, “he’s triple-skunked you. Rotten luck.”
