a stranger at a masquerade? Even if you knew your opponent, it’s impossible to read faces properly through masks, which makes it easier to lose.”
The visible part of the boy’s face reddened. “It started out as a friendly game.”
Mac pulled the crumpled vowels from his pocket and leafed through, whistling softly as he totaled up the numbers. “It didn’t stay friendly for long.”
He studied what he could see of the boy’s face. “Are you Alfred Beaton’s son?” When the boy nodded, Mac said, “I heard that he died recently. My condolences.”
After young Beaton muttered thanks, Mac held up the collection of IOUs. “Would he be proud of you for this?”
The face that had been red now turned white. Mac continued relentlessly. “I’m guessing these couldn’t be paid without mortgaging the family estate. You have younger sisters, don’t you? And a newly widowed mother? Will they enjoy living in a hovel if you gamble away their home? I hope your sisters will enjoy being governesses since they might never be able to marry if your gaming deprives them of their portions.”
“I didn’t mean any harm!”
Mac sighed. “Gamesters never do. And somehow, it’s never their fault when they devastate their families. It was the cards, or the dice, or Lady Luck.”
“I was foolish, I admit it.” Beaton stared at the IOUs Mac held. “I will not be such a fool again. Will you return my vowels to me?”
Mac decided the lesson needed reinforcement. “I’m going to keep them for—hmm, three years. If you gamble so recklessly again, I will hear sooner or later, and then I will produce these IOUs for the world to see. You will stand revealed as a dishonorable fool trying to gamble with money you’ve already lost.”
“That will ruin my reputation!”
“As opposed to ruining everyone you love?” Mac said dryly. “Has it occurred to you that it might be wiser to stop gambling?”
“Everyone gambles,” Beaton said defensively. “My father visited Damian’s whenever he was in London.”
“And he never lost more than he could afford.” Mac guessed that tonight’s escapade had something to do with the boy’s loss of his father and wanting to prove himself a man. “If you feel gambling is necessary for your social life, I will tell you how to play without ruining yourself. It’s the method your father used.”
Beaton’s brows drew together. “How can I do that?”
“Decide how much you can afford to spend on an evening’s entertainment. Ten pounds? Fifty? Surely no more than that. Carry that with you in cash, and don’t gamble anything beyond that. As long as you win, you can play as long as you want.
“But when you’ve lost the stake you brought, the game is over . Write no IOUs, make no promises.” Mac glanced at Beaton’s empty champagne glass. “And take no more than two drinks in the course of your gaming, even if it lasts all night.”
“You’re talking chicken stakes!” the boy exclaimed. “I’ll be a laughingstock to my friends.”
“Perhaps you need new friends. Those who urge you to ruin yourself for their entertainment are not worthy of the term.” Mac brandished the vowels. “And if you forget yourself and lose a fortune for real, I will be happy to ruin your reputation.”
“You’re blackmailing me,” Beaton said, more in amazement than in anger.
“Indeed I am,” Mac said cheerfully. “Is it working?”
Beaton drew a deep breath. “I . . . I believe it is. I never felt so sick in my life as when I realized how much I’d lost.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I understand now why men kill themselves after losing everything. But I kept playing because the only solution I could see was winning it all back.”
“Not the best strategy, particularly when facing a Captain Sharp.”
“Was he cheating?”
Mac picked up the cards and expertly shuffled through, noting that several were sanded. “Yes. But even if he hadn’t been, he probably
The visible part of the boy’s face reddened. “It started out as a friendly game.”
Mac pulled the crumpled vowels from his pocket and leafed through, whistling softly as he totaled up the numbers. “It didn’t stay friendly for long.”
He studied what he could see of the boy’s face. “Are you Alfred Beaton’s son?” When the boy nodded, Mac said, “I heard that he died recently. My condolences.”
After young Beaton muttered thanks, Mac held up the collection of IOUs. “Would he be proud of you for this?”
The face that had been red now turned white. Mac continued relentlessly. “I’m guessing these couldn’t be paid without mortgaging the family estate. You have younger sisters, don’t you? And a newly widowed mother? Will they enjoy living in a hovel if you gamble away their home? I hope your sisters will enjoy being governesses since they might never be able to marry if your gaming deprives them of their portions.”
“I didn’t mean any harm!”
Mac sighed. “Gamesters never do. And somehow, it’s never their fault when they devastate their families. It was the cards, or the dice, or Lady Luck.”
“I was foolish, I admit it.” Beaton stared at the IOUs Mac held. “I will not be such a fool again. Will you return my vowels to me?”
Mac decided the lesson needed reinforcement. “I’m going to keep them for—hmm, three years. If you gamble so recklessly again, I will hear sooner or later, and then I will produce these IOUs for the world to see. You will stand revealed as a dishonorable fool trying to gamble with money you’ve already lost.”
“That will ruin my reputation!”
“As opposed to ruining everyone you love?” Mac said dryly. “Has it occurred to you that it might be wiser to stop gambling?”
“Everyone gambles,” Beaton said defensively. “My father visited Damian’s whenever he was in London.”
“And he never lost more than he could afford.” Mac guessed that tonight’s escapade had something to do with the boy’s loss of his father and wanting to prove himself a man. “If you feel gambling is necessary for your social life, I will tell you how to play without ruining yourself. It’s the method your father used.”
Beaton’s brows drew together. “How can I do that?”
“Decide how much you can afford to spend on an evening’s entertainment. Ten pounds? Fifty? Surely no more than that. Carry that with you in cash, and don’t gamble anything beyond that. As long as you win, you can play as long as you want.
“But when you’ve lost the stake you brought, the game is over . Write no IOUs, make no promises.” Mac glanced at Beaton’s empty champagne glass. “And take no more than two drinks in the course of your gaming, even if it lasts all night.”
“You’re talking chicken stakes!” the boy exclaimed. “I’ll be a laughingstock to my friends.”
“Perhaps you need new friends. Those who urge you to ruin yourself for their entertainment are not worthy of the term.” Mac brandished the vowels. “And if you forget yourself and lose a fortune for real, I will be happy to ruin your reputation.”
“You’re blackmailing me,” Beaton said, more in amazement than in anger.
“Indeed I am,” Mac said cheerfully. “Is it working?”
Beaton drew a deep breath. “I . . . I believe it is. I never felt so sick in my life as when I realized how much I’d lost.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I understand now why men kill themselves after losing everything. But I kept playing because the only solution I could see was winning it all back.”
“Not the best strategy, particularly when facing a Captain Sharp.”
“Was he cheating?”
Mac picked up the cards and expertly shuffled through, noting that several were sanded. “Yes. But even if he hadn’t been, he probably
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