Shrewsbury lowered the edges of his cards. “I think we know the wager.” He looked about at the ring of men watching the game. “If I win, Carlisle gives me his town house. If he wins, I give him back Carlisle Hall.”
“What if the dealer wins?” a man asked.
“Then everything stays as it is,” Shrewsbury answered.
Henry didn’t like that. He had to win Carlisle Hall back, which meant he had to beat not only the dealer but Shrewsbury. And he had to do it with that woman in the fire watching him. She wasn’t cackling any longer. She was muttering to herself—something about seizing a dragon’s nail. Was it a curse?Thecurse?
“I don’t believe in curses,” he muttered.
“Pardon, Your Grace?”
Henry started and dragged his gaze to the dealer. “Yes?”
“Did you say something?”
“No.”
The dealer cleared his throat. “It’s your play.”
Henry glanced at Shrewsbury, who watched him eagerly. “I’ll hit,” Henry said, and the dealer gave him another card. Henry didn’t look at it. Not yet. Shrewsbury took another card too, peered at it, and smiled.
“I’ll stand,” the dealer said.
Henry looked at his new card. A three, which meant he had nineteen. He couldn’t hit again, or he’d almost certainly bust. “I’ll stand.”
“My lord?”
“I’ll stand.”
“Very good.” The dealer turned over his card, showing the ten of hearts. “Eighteen,” he announced.
Henry had beaten him. Thank God. Things wouldn’t stand as they were. Now he just had to beat Shrewsbury, and the estate was his again. He could feel the blood thrumming in his veins, feel his heart pounding, feel the exhilaration of the game. Every single fiber of his being felt alive. This was what he craved. No other vice came close—not drink, not women. He’d give them all up for this moment and the next—when he won.
He turned his cards over. “Nineteen,” he said. The sound of his own blood in his ears was so loud now he didn’t even hear the imaginary woman in the fire.
Shrewsbury nodded, his face grave. “Very good.” He reached for his cards, and his movements were so slow that Henry wanted to snatch the cards away and turn them over himself. He gripped the edge of the green baize table and forced his breath to slow.
Shrewsbury turned over his first card. The ace of spades. Only three cards could beat Henry—a nine, a ten, or another ace, which, though it totaled twenty-two, was vingt-et-un.
Henry could feel the perspiration slide down his back. His breath came in short, quiet gasps. He didn’t dare look at the fire; he couldn’t look away from Shrewsbury’s hand. Slowly, the marquess turned the second card over. Henry saw the club first. Just one club.
The room spun, and his face was on fire.
“Vingt-et-un!” cried the dealer. “We have a winner.”
Two aces. Fortuna had changed sides. She’d left Henry, left him with nothing but the few hundred quid in his pocket.
Shrewsbury held out a hand. “Good game, Your Grace.”
Henry stumbled to his feet and shook Shrewsbury’s hand. “I’ll have the title sent to you,” he said, the words sounding as though someone else spoke them.
“No rush. Take your time moving out. Or, if you like, I can lease it back to you for the Season.” Shrewsbury smiled. He knew—everyone would soon know—that Carlisle didn’t have the funds to pay for a lease.
Henry reached for the table, missed, and sat down hard on the floor. “Your Grace?” someone said.
“I’m fine.” Henry waved a hand. “Just a bit too much brandy.”
But at this angle, he could see the hearth through the men’s legs. The old woman was still there, her white hair streaming behind her. She gave Henry a smile. Her teeth were yellow. Henry cocked his head. Something about her was terribly familiar. He hadn’t placed her before, but now, as scenes from his life flickered before his eyes, he remembered the first time he’d seen her.
