Adam rubbed his hands together again. “Ready to lose all your brother’s money?”
“You may run your family into the ground, but I’m using my own blunt.”
The banker opened a new deck of cards, and the players wagered, tossing or neatly stacking their counters on the table before them.
He hated this—wagering before he even knew what card he would be dealt. He had all night, so he’d bet small first. Placing his counters softly, quickly, he held his breath.
The banker dealt.
Devon took a slow sip of wine, enjoying its burn and considered his cards, considered the dealer’s single visible one. A ten of hearts. Devon’s cards numbered sixteen. He needed a five or less. No more.
“Hit,” he said when it was his turn.
The dealer placed the card. An eight.
A curse rose into his throat, and he swallowed it down. Felt like swallowing a fish bone.
New cards were dealt, play continued, counters wagered, won, and lost.
“Heard you were last seen dallying at the docks, my friend.” Adam took a generous gulp of wine and grinned at his cards. “Ha! A five and a two.” He looked at the dealer. “Hit me!” He continued requesting cards until his had nineteen points. “Hit me.”
The dealer hesitated, a hand floating above the deck.
“Didn’t stutter, did I?” Adam’s words were shadowed with something dark, something from their days at Cambridge he’d never quite let go of.
The dealer dealt another card.
Adam grinned. “Twenty-three. Bust!”
“You’re a horrid gambler,” Devon said. “I can read every card in your hand on your face, and so can every other man at this table. You make horrible decisions.”
Adam took another swig of wine. “No better way to lose it all.”
Devon contemplated his own cards. Nineteen. “Stay,” he told the dealer.
The dealer flipped his cards. “Twenty-one.”
“Damn,” Devon hissed.
Play continued in that rather disheartening vein. When he dared to bet more than usual, buoyed by an excellent hand, he lost it. His legs itched to push away from the table and find his wife because his heart ached. He pressed the heel of his hand against his chest where the damn thing clawed and moaned. Just seeing Lillian would make it feel better. It was done. His dream was done. He should let it go. He had a single week more to get the funds to Freddy, or he’d sell to the unknown buyer. He wouldn’t make it.
“Where ya going, Dev?” Adam was slurring after three glasses of wine in an hour. “One more hand. I won everything back last few times. Gotta lose every penny. Going all in.” He frowned. “Wait. Wrong game. Same concept, though. Betting it all! And losing it all! Then we can escape to that place you like so much. Wuzzitcalled? With the coffee?”
“Frederick’s.” The name felt like a bullet through his throat. “No, Tippy. I’m done.” He rose.
Then he heard her name. Her old name—Miss Clarke.
Across the table, Reginald Fairfield swirled his wine in his glass and winked at Lord Lafferty. “Beddable, she is. Got married, I think. Lucky man.”
Devon sat back down, his eyes and concentration narrowing in on the men across the table. “Fine. One more.” He might as well. What was losing a bit more when he didn’t have enough to buy what he’d been saving it for, anyway?
He grasped a single counter and moved to toss it on the table. He never made extravagant bets. There had always been more time to work, to earn, to win little by little in the safest of ways. Time had run out. Even if he bet nothing or very little, he’d still lost. Not any different from the outcome of betting everything and losing, really.
Why not bet more?
It was his last chance to win Frederick’s. If he lost, he’d give in. He’d talk to Arthur, and he’d start using his inheritance. It would be nice—no, better than nice—to provide Lillian with a home, even if he hadn’t really earned it, worked, and sacrificed for it. She deserved it.
He threw counters representing half of his entire savings on the table.
