Fortune's Son (4 page)

He was distracted. Without warning, some shift had occurred in the precarious scales of his life that he couldn't quite comprehend. While he tried to occupy his mind, all of a sudden his normal diversions simply failed to amuse.
It
had
all
begun
with
that
one
damned
kiss.

The soft click of the door and muffled clatter of metal told her that the chambermaid had arrived with breakfast. When the heavy velvet bed curtains opened to reveal the midmorning sun, Lady Messingham greeted the day with a lazy yawn and a feline stretch.

Setting the breakfast tray on a bedside table, the chambermaid poured a pot of steaming liquid into a delicate hand-painted cup of the finest bone china, which she handed to her mistress with downcast eyes.

Accepting the cup with a puzzled expression, the lady asked, “Nancy, how long have you now been in my employ?”

“Nigh on a twelvemonth, milady.”

“And for the past year, what have you served me for breakfast?”

“Chocolate, milady.”

“Then if you have not suffered a lapse of memory, why on earth would you decide to bring me tea? And Bohea? You know I only drink Hyson.”

“Yes, milady, but Mistress Graham said we have neither chocolate nor green tea, so Cook sent up a pot of her own brew.”

Lady Messingham regarded the contents of her cup with distaste. “No doubt she intends to serve me black bread for my dinner as well? Do we not have at least cream and sugar?”

The maid answered with a flush. “Mistress Graham gave cook strict orders to save the remaining cream and sugar, along with the white bread, in case you have callers, milady. She feared you would be embarrassed…”

With the shocking realization of the dire state of her affairs, the lady hid behind a façade of annoyance. “Botheration! Allendale must be held accountable for sorting this mess out.”

“Aye, madam. The servants all hope so.”

The lady paused with cup to her lips, her brows rising. “Do you say they talk?”

The maid's color deepened. “Some feels it's high time to look for another position, ma'am. But I be not among 'em. You're a right kind mistress. I shan't leave ye jus' because you've fallen on some hard times.”

“Is that what they say? That I've fallen on hard times? Do they speak outside this house, Nan? Pray tell me at once.” Mounting alarm added an edge to her words.

“I think most of 'em's loyal, milady, but wages is wages…” She shrugged.

“Nancy, pray tell them all that I have complete confidence the accounts will be back in perfect order this very week, and all back wages will soon be paid.”

“Indeed, ma'am?” The maid couldn't conceal her skepticism.

“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “You have my pledge. Now go and tell the others before word is all over London that I'm a beggar. Go, Nan. Go! And send Mrs. Graham at once!”

“Yes, milady.” The maid bobbed a hasty curtsey and flitted out the door.

The beleaguered housekeeper shortly appeared, wringing her apron.

“Mrs. Graham,” the lady began calmly. “I've always held utmost confidence in your running of this household, but I cannot countenance how you've allowed us to run out of the most basic staples as cocoa and tea.”

“But, milady, I placed the usual order. 'Tis no fault of mine 'twasn't delivered.”

“Did you not send word to Mr. Twining about his delivery service?”

“Aye, madam, I have.”

“And?” She waited expectantly.

“It would appear our credit with Twinings Tea House is on hold.”

Had
it
already
come
to
this?

“There is obviously some mistake,” her well-modulated tone supported the lie as she digested the news.

The housekeeper expressed her growing trepidation by dropping her apron to wring her hands instead. “But the butcher as well has asked me for payment before he will supply the meat. And the staff, madam, have not got their wages for a full quarter…”

“Well then, Mrs. Graham. I thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.” Lady Messingham spoke with an affected aplomb. “Pray send a dispatch to Allendale that I require an interview with him forthwith.”

“Yes, milady. I will send a footman at once.” The housekeeper repeated the chambermaid's diffident bob and hastily departed.

Lady Messingham left her bed for her sitting room, dumping the offending tea into the chamber pot along the way. She padded barefoot to her escritoire and unlocked the top drawer, knowing full well what she would find. There was no error on the part of Nigel's ever-pedantic factotum. He had been assiduous in his duties, forwarding every past-due account with an earnest appeal to cease all but her most vital expenditures, but like a rebellious child she had ignored the warnings.

She opened the drawer to reveal a large sheaf of papers, all past-due accounts that he had forwarded to her in exasperation: Longacre the cartwright, for refitting the velvet interior of her carriage, one hundred sixty pounds; Madame Guilane, London's most fashionable mantua maker, two hundred forty-four pounds.

Perhaps she should have selected something other than hand-painted Chinese silk for her last three gowns, let alone the imported Mechlin lace for trim and fichus, one yard of which could have bought a simple day dress. Another sixty pounds was owed to the vintner.

Her hands began to tremble as she continued to leaf through the pile. Twinings Tea House, twelve pounds eight shillings. Hodgins the butcher, eight pounds six shillings. The milliner, the glover, the haberdasher, the chandler, and on and on. She mentally tallied her mounting debt, awakening to the undeniable reality that in less than three months' time she'd already spent thirty-six months of her living allowance.

Others would have already been arrested for much less. Due to her mourning, the merchants had been uncommonly forbearing, but in short shrift she would find herself face-to-face with the magistrate at the sponging house.

She had held off her creditors as long as she could, and the servants' wages had to be paid, at least to ensure their loyalty.

A drawer full of debts and no way to pay them. Was this all she had to show after a lover's betrayal, and ten years of her youth sacrificed to a man who could have been her grandfather? Her eyes misted at these lugubrious reflections.

In frustration, she crumpled the papers in her hands. It was past time to put her plan into action. She had hoped that he would have come to her voluntarily by now, but after days of waiting she could delay no longer.

Desperate for any means out of her morass, she resolved to summon all the wiles at her command. She sat at her escritoire and wrote,
My
Dearest
Young
Gallant…

“Child! I am so pleased you have come.” Lady Messingham greeted Philip with a brilliant smile when he entered her small salon. “Have you, perchance, your dice box? I thought we might resume where we left off.” Her expression was innocent, but her voice seductively husky.

He bowed over her extended hand, his eyes never leaving her face. “As
I
recall, where we left off had nothing to do with dice.”

“Indeed? Then perhaps my memory falters.” She artlessly tapped her fan against her lips, tauntingly invoking the memory but altogether ignoring his reference to her kiss.

Philip cleared his throat, speaking stiffly. “I have come at your summons, my lady, and I ask what you mean with me?”

Normally arrogantly self-assured, he puzzled at his sudden gaucherie. No other woman had such an effect on him, but truth be told, he was not accustomed to intimate contact with ladies of her social standing, or used to
ladies
at all, for that matter. The
females
of his close acquaintance were little more than girls, buxom and cheerfully free with their favors. Lady Messingham could not have stood in stronger contrast if she'd tried.

She laid a hand on his arm, and her expression became coy. “Did I not say in my missive? I thought I was especially clear?”

“Mayhap mine is the memory at fault. I fear I was distracted at the time.”

She had the effrontery to laugh at him. “What do I want with you? Why, I want you to teach me the games, Philip. I wish to win at the tables.”

“The skills you desire to learn are not so easily or rapidly acquired as you appear to believe. Besides, gaming of any sort is rarely harmless. You would do better to attend the theater or the opera, if it is diversion you seek.”

“I have attended the theatre, and the opera bores me. I'd much rather attend the masquerade at Belsize House Thursday sennight.”

“I can only presume that you have never been to a public masquerade.”

“Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because Belsize House
by
morning
is a place of genteel company and breathtaking vistas, but by night takes on quite another character altogether. It is the milieu of sharpers, harlots, scoundrels, and rogues.”

“But I was invited to accompany a perfectly respectable party from Leicester House. With the prince and princess in attendance, what harm can befall me? I would like you to meet me there.”

“Why?”

“To play, of course. If we arrive separately, no one will know we are together.”

“You propose for us to play as confederates?” he asked in astonishment.

“Well… yes, I suppose. Did we not do so, in a manner of speaking, at Marylebone? I can provide the capital—”

“Couch stake,” he corrected.

“Pardon?”

“The initial wager is the couch stake, my lady.” He smiled indulgently. “Are you quite certain you wish to pursue this course with so little knowledge of gaming?”

“But that is precisely why I have you. With your extraordinary skills, how can we lose?”

“We? Now it's a partnership?”

“Precisely!” She beamed up into a glowering face.

“No. I don't think so, my lady.”

“Wh-what did you say?”

“I said no.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because you said no!” She scowled in petulance. While most men of her acquaintance were effortlessly led by the nose, Philip, she realized with dismay, would not be as easily manipulated as she had thought.

“I'll be a very apt pupil,” she insisted.

He answered with impatience, as if addressing a simpleton or a child. “The point isn't whether or not you can learn the skills, but your naïveté about those who habit the tables. Only years of experience and particularly keen senses allow one to identify those who would place you at a disadvantage. There are many who prey on the inexperienced, particularly upon members of the frail sex.”

“But are you not one of that same society? The very ones who prey on the inexperienced and the
so-called
frail sex?”

His expression revealed his resentment at the insinuation. “It appears you grossly misapprehend my manner of play, Lady Messingham.”

“I saw you at the hazard table. The punters who endeavored to set you had little chance.” She moved gracefully to the silk damask sofa, where she perched and patted the seat beside her billowing skirts. She turned her face to him, attentive but dubious. “Pray explain yourself.”

Philip moved to take his place beside her, feeling as ungainly as a virgin schoolboy.
What
in
hell
was
wrong
with
him?
Then, there it was again, her scent. His nostrils flared to take it in.

“You were saying…” she prompted expectantly.

He looked blank for an instant and then mentally shook away the descending fog. “Er… I was saying that you misunderstand me.”

“In what way is that? Are you not a professional gamester?”

He looked uncomfortable and then carefully chose his words. “The question is not so easily answered. While I don't deny taking my living from the green tables, I assure you that I endeavor to maintain… certain standards… in my play.”

“Do you indeed?” Her half smile accompanied by a lift of her finely shaped brows bespoke disbelief.

“First of all, I endeavor never to sit down with a lady, or even with a man who has already over-imbibed. I find no allure in taking from those so disadvantaged. These players present ready targets, pigeons for plucking for those less scrupled, but I am not of their ilk.”

“I would like to know in what way you consider women
disadvantaged
?” she bristled.

“I only mean to say that ladies, suffering from an innately heightened sensibility, are predisposed to emotional play.”

“So you deny that you win by cheating?”

He flushed. “'Tis such an unpalatable word,
cheating
, associated with swindlers, cutthroats, and highwaymen. By my troth, my lady, I have never marked a card or rolled weighted dice.
These
are
the
trademarks
of
a
cheat
.

“I would merely say that I play with enhanced skill. I do not seek out victims to dupe, nor do I play intentionally to ruin any man. If, however, one wagers foolishly and has not the sense to know when to leave the tables, he deserves what he gets.”

“Are you not still a sharp, Philip?”

He paused to consider. “No. I do not say so. Not in the truest sense of the word. Besides, the term hardly encompasses the entire world of gamesters.”

“You speak almost as if it were a society in itself.”

“It is precisely that. Simply put, there are many types of players, varying degrees of Athenians, Captain Sharps, Amazons, blacklegs, tricksters, bamboozlers, and outright swindlers, inhabiting both the upper and the lower classes of society.”

“Fascinating. I have heard of the Greeks, but I don't understand why the brethren of our much-venerated Aristotle are so vilified.”

“Ah,” Philip answered, “'tis a story that goes back to the days of Louis XIV, when a certain chevalier named Apoulos, a man of Greek origin, was admitted into the court. He was astonishingly adept at play and won a veritable fortune from the princes of the blood before his true methods were revealed.”

“What happened to him?”

“The king was much displeased and sentenced him to twenty years in the galleys, where he slaved until his eventual death. A true Greek tragedy,” he quipped.

“Thus all players of his stamp are called Greeks?”

“Nay, only the select few. It is the name reserved for only those who play with great mastery. The Greek of the
ton
is by far the subtlest, most adroit, and the cleverest of creatures. He is accustomed to the best of company, and his deportment and manners are all that can be desired. Either he dazzles with his wit and brilliant conversation or he is one with the loftiest reserve, who in truth applies his mind wholly to his game. Even whilst engrossed in his cards, all the while he appreciates what goes on around him with veiled and furtive glances.

“He unites his profound knowledge with the most challenging conjuring feats—the partial shuffle, the false cut, the shift-pass, mucking, palming, pegging, and culling. No one surpasses his skill in drawing the ace, or breaking the cut, concealing cards or placing them. He raises the practice to an art.”

By now, Lady Messingham hung in rapt attention upon his every word.

“He is a master who lives for naught but the game, playing each one with unparalleled skill and equal perfection, concealing himself as the most suave and venerable of courtiers, and playing only for others' ultimate destruction. Attempts to hide emotion from him are in vain. He discerns the least movement or contraction of the features, peering with uncanny ability into his adversary's very soul…” Philip ended with a pregnant pause.

“Lackaday!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. “It sounds as if you describe Beelzebub himself!”

“He is not far removed!” Philip laughed. “True vice, my lady, would frighten us all if it did not wear the mask of virtue.”

“But how to recognize him?”

“As he wears a perfect disguise, one does not, unless one is equal in his own talents.”

“Then it is impossible to evade a fate as his victim?”

“Not at all. One can easily do so by avoiding deep play. He is a master who only delights in high stakes. Steer clear of his table, and you'll never fall victim.”

“Sage advice, indeed. But I must now ask if you count yourself among those who are, as you say ‘equal in his talents'?”

“Not I, madam!” Philip barked. “I'd never make such a boast.” He paused with a thoughtful frown. “Though I learned at the hand of such a one. Nay, I do not endeavor to make my fortune so.”

“But then why do you play as you do?”

“'Tis but a current necessity and only the means to an end. I do not
live
for
the
play
as others do.” His voice grew pensive. “I still have hope of something better.”

“Do you? And what might that be?” she softly prompted.

“I am yet undecided, but suffice to say, my future will be
my
choosing.
”

He met her quizzical look without further elaboration and abruptly shifted back to their prior topic. “You have yet to learn of the wandering Greek—” He flashed a grin, breaking the solemn mood.

“Not to be confused with the wandering Jew?” she quipped.

He laughed. “Indeed not. Although this manner of sharper does travel from place to place. He frequents the taverns, public assemblies, and pleasure gardens, seeking out the young and unwary, but rarely working alone.”

“He has an accomplice?”

“Yes, he employs a decoy, often an Amazon.”

“An Amazon?”

Philip looked for a moment chagrined. “It was my misfortune to fall prey to such a one. Once. Her charm and pulchritude drew many susceptible young men into injudicious play.”

“A woman?” she remarked thoughtfully. “So there
are,
after all you said, women who are successful gamesters?”

“I have never encountered one who does not act in conspiracy with a man, although she may be near as skilled as the one who employs her. Her role is more to play the siren, or, better said, the shepherdess to lure the hapless sheep to the wolf, a sharper who, not nearly as skilled as the Greek, often resorts to marked cards and high-rolling dice.

“This pair does not discriminate in their victims, but will dupe anyone who unwarily veers into their path, whether stranger or even friend,” Philip said ruefully. “I would never have known the gentler sex capable of such deception, but then again, a lesson learned painfully is not soon forgotten.”

“How ruthless!”

“Yes. Yet this is not even the worst type.” Philip's voice now took on a harsh, gritty quality. “The lowest sort of creature is the varlet who frequents the public gaming hells and the low drinking dens. They are naught but evil wretches, wrought out of idleness and debauchery. After plying a victim with strong drink, their ‘games,' involving any manner of trick or treachery, begin.”

“You speak as if you have fallen victim.”

“I was very young… and a fool. I am lucky to have escaped with my life.”

She stared at him, stunned even more by what his words had not said than by what he had revealed. Her heart ached at what a hell this boy-man must have lived.

“Have I now opened your eyes?” he asked softly. “Or are you still bent on this mad gaming scheme?”

“It is only harmless diversion,” she lied. “
It's not as if I intend to make my living at the tables.”