In his head, the voice sounded like the Scottish headmaster at St. Andrew’s Preparatory for Boys, the school Henry, King, and Rory had been sent to after they were kicked out of every reputable school for boys in England. The headmaster had been given free rein with his students, and on more than one occasion, Henry had been beaten black and blue. He hated that inner voice as much as he’d hated the headmaster.
“If your luck tonight is any indication, you have nothing to lose,” Shrewsbury said.
And there was the marquess’s glove, tossed right at Henry’s feet. True, Henry’s luck had changed. He’d won almost three hundred pounds tonight. But had his luck changed enough that he might wager the town house? If he lost it…
“Coward!”
Henry turned at the voice. “Who said that?”
The men behind him stared at him, brows furrowed. That wasn’t one of the voices he conjured in his head when he tried to summon his conscience.
“You’re a coward,” came the voice again, a female voice, raspy and with a Scottish accent. “Afraid to risk it all!”
Henry turned back to Shrewsbury, who was looking at him in confusion. Henry’s gaze slid past Shrewsbury and back to the hearth. Oh, God. There was a woman in the hearth, standing in the dancing flames. Her white hair blew about her bony frame, and she smiled at him.
He pointed at the hearth. “Does no one else see her?”
Shrewsbury turned and looked about. “See who?”
“That older woman in the—” Henry almost saidin the fire, but that sounded mad. The last thing he needed tonight was to be dragged to Bedlam.
Henry shook his head and looked away. If no one else saw the woman in the fire, then he would ignore her. “Never mind.”
“Are you ill?” Sir George asked.
“If you don’t like the wager, then decline,” Shrewsbury said. “No need for the dramatics.”
Henry chanced another peek at the hearth.Bad idea!She was still there! He forced his gaze back to Shrewsbury. “To clarify, you want to play one hand of vingt-et-un. If I win, you return Carlisle Hall. If you win, you take possession of the Carlisle town house.”
“Exactly. What do you say? Want to risk it?”
A hush had fallen over the gaming room of White’s. A good number of the gentlemen of thetonwere staring at Henry, waiting to hear what he’d say. Whether he said yes or no, the wager would be all over the papers and scandal rags in the morning. He’d managed to keep the loss of Carlisle Hall relatively quiet. But now everyone would know that he’d lost his ancestral estate. It wouldn’t take the gossip writers long to grease a few palms and realize the Duke of Carlisle was in debt up to his ears. All the men to whom he’d given his vowels would begin to wonder if he would make good on those IOUs. And once they realized he couldn’t, Henry would be disgraced.
It was his own fault. He’d known his gambling would catch up with him one day. He’d told himself to stop. His sisters had implored him. His mother had ordered him. And yet here he was anyway.
A low, menacing sound emanated from the hearth, and though Henry refused to look, he couldn’t ignore the sound of a woman cackling. It sounded eerily familiar.
Want to risk it?Shrewsbury had said. Henry’s heart was pounding both from the woman cackling in the fire—a woman no one else seemed to hear—and the idea of risking it all. He could hardly imagine the thrill when he won it all back. On a single hand. He’d be the stuff of legends.
He’d prove to everyone that they’d been wrong about him. They’d regret all the years they’d ignored him and left him at the mercy of a sadistic headmaster.
Henry stuck out his hand, which was shaking with anticipation. “You have a wager.”
Shrewsbury took his hand and shook it, his own palm moist.
The cackling from the hearth reached a crescendo, and Henry had to stop himself from covering his ears. Already, he was being ushered back to the gaming table. Sir George pulled out a chair, and Shrewsbury took the other. Henry could still hear the cackling. Was he truly going mad? Should he really play when he was hearing sounds that weren’t there?
“I can’t wait to see you win it all,” Sir George murmured, clapping Henry on the back. “Your luck is unbeatable tonight.”
Sir George was right. Henry had won almost every hand. As a born gambler, he firmly believed in luck. The Romans had called her Fortuna. Some days she was on his side, and others she deserted him. Fortuna was with him tonight.
He refused to pay any more attention to the woman in the hearth. Bad brandy—that was why he was seeing and hearing things. He’d have a word with White’s master of the house about that brandy after he won his estate back.
The dealer, that same stone-faced man who had been dealing all night, cleared his throat. “Ready, my lord? Your Grace?”
Henry nodded, as did Shrewsbury. The dealer shuffled the cards and dealt two to Henry and Shrewsbury and two to himself, placing his second card face up. The dealer’s card was an eight. Henry lifted the edges of his own cards, peering at hishand. He had the ace of diamonds and a five of clubs. The ace was worth eleven, so he had sixteen. A good hand, but he’d have to hit and hope he didn’t bust.
“Punters, place your bets,” the dealer said. A shiver ran through Henry. Anything could happen now. This was why he loved playing at games of chance. He never knew what would happen, and there was always the shining promise of winning big.
