Reggie threw the rest of his wine down his throat as the dealer laid everyone’s cards on the table.
Devon’s eyes only left the other man long enough to glance at his cards—a four and a seven. Not promising. A difficult position. He glanced at the dealer’s cards—the face-up one showed four diamonds.Hm. Difficult, indeed.
More difficult was listening to the other men continue to disparage his wife. Her name floated to him again across the table.
“Married or not,” Lafferty was saying, “I bet she’d open up for me. Heard her husband’s not that attentive.”
Devon’s teeth felt brittle under the pressure of his granite jaw. He was barely aware of what was happening around him or even of the movements of his own body. The world had become a haze of red fog and his body a single muscle of hate. He pushed it to the edges of his awareness and focused on the cards.
“Double down,” he said, adding his remaining counters to his pile on the table.
Adam whistled. “That’s new. You never—”
“I am tonight.”
“Right then.” Adam took another swig of wine.
And the dealer flipped one more card from the deck for Devon. His last card. His last chance. Another 7. Bloody hell. He’d likely lost it all. His grand total was a whopping eighteen points. Since he’d doubled down, he couldn’t get another card, even if he wanted to.
A river rushed through his head, followed by a howling wind that turned his body numb. Numb and heavy, bitterness biting his tongue.
He just had to beat the dealer. There was still a chance, though a slim one.
The dealer flipped his card over. A six to join the four. Ten points. He had to hit. He flipped a card—a two.
Devon almost laughed at those twelve total points.
The dealer flipped again. A three.
Devon did laugh, and through the maniacal guffaws, he managed to choke out, “What fresh hell is this?”
Adam slapped his shoulder several times. “You need sleep, my man. You’re acting a bit dicked in the nob.”
The dealer hit again, flipping over an eight. “Bust.”
Bust? Devon did the math. Six and four and two and three and eight. Twenty-three. Bust.
Devon blinked the fog away. “I won?”
Adam slapped Devon on the back. “Great God, old man! What a play!”
“I won.”
Adam waved for another glass of wine. “This calls for a celebration of the right sort. No coffee allowed.” Adam waggled his eyebrows. “I lost every penny I meant to. Luck is with us both this night.” Adam stood as he took his wine.
Devon stood, too. He had to tell Lillian. He had enough now. Frederick’s was his. No,theirs.
But a name, spoken in the most disrespectful tones, pierced through his victory-fogged brain. “Miss Clarke’s just the sort you want in bed, too.” Reginald again.
Devon whipped around, his hands balling into fists.
The banker shuffled and dealt as the other men chatted.
“Leave something behind?” Adam asked. “Your arse counters? I say just use some of your winnings to buy new ones. Those”—he grinned and bit his bottom lip, nearly vibrating with glee—“stink.” His laugh boomed through the room.
Devon heard only Reginald. “Her sort don’t know how to be lady-like. She’ll likely suck your staff and thank you for it.”
Adam bumped a shoulder into Devon’s shoulder. “Dev, are you growling? Why do you look… enraged? Where’s your joy? Your mirth? Your celebratory shenanigans? Also, might I add, that wallpaper across the room has not done anything worth murdering it over.”
