The Dark Earl by Virginia Henley Page B

rather than Will’s. When James’s and John’s luck did not change, they wandered off to one of the cardrooms.
    Harry had beginner’s luck and her pile of counters kept growing. Finally, Will steered them over to the dice table. “Would you like to have a go at shooting dice?”
    “I’d love to, but the table is divided into three and I’m not sure how to bet.”
    “Well, I’ll place the wagers and you can throw for me. Remember to use only one hand and the dice must hit the wall at the opposite end of the table.” Will handed her the dice and she blew on them before shooting them down the table.
    “Where did you learn to do that?” Will asked.
    “In Ireland. It’s our stableboys’ favorite pastime.”
    “I’d like to look around and observe the various card games. I’m here to do research, not to actually gamble,” Rachel reminded Harry.
    “Good idea. Will must play his favorite card game and we’ll watch.” She shook her head in wonder as they walked. “Fortunes must be won and lost in these rooms.”
    He pointed to a staircase at the end of the room. “Actually, highstake games are held up there in a private room.”
    “Can we go and see?”
    Will shook his head. “I’m afraid not. They only take place on Friday night. Besides, the owner of Hazard House is extremely selective in the men he allows upstairs. Only inveterate gamers are invited. ’Tis rumored they can use a private entrance at the back if they don’t want their identities known.”
    Harry was fascinated. “Have you ever been up there? Do you know the owner?”
    “No, I’ve never been invited. The man has a rather black reputation. I’ve seen his ravishing female partner—she runs the place. Her fatal beauty lures men to wager deep. ’Tis said that if a man gets in over his head, she gifts him with a silver bullet. The tales are legendary . . . though I don’t know how much truth they contain. I don’t come here often—I’m just an occasional punter.” He sat down at the faro table and the ladies hovered to observe the play.
    “Rachel, when you write the part of your story where the two older men gamble, the ravishing assistant must serve the loser a silver bullet on a tray. Then, rather than kill himself, he offers the winner his daughter in marriage. You must have it take place in a private room where they’ve insisted on concealing their identities. And you must portray the sinister owner of the gaming hell as the Knave of Clubs because of his black reputation.”
    “Harry, they were real historical people,” Rachel pointed out. “They must have been extremely wicked to settle their bet by marrying their offspring.”
    As they went to another cardroom to look for James and John, Harry observed the gamblers closely. There was a great deal of laughter, but she noticed that both the men and women drank almost continuously, and though the mood seemed frivolous and merry, it was a facade. Permeating the pretense of gaiety was an atmosphere of cynicism tinged with desperation.
    James looked up at his sister. “My pockets are to let. John’s in queer street too.”
    “Well, to be truthful, Rachel and I have seen enough. Let’s go and find Will.”
    The young men looked extremely relieved.
    On the way home, Harry thanked the Montagu brothers sincerely. “It was a great adventure. One I shall remember always. You were very generous to indulge us, Will. I’m sorry we dragged you away at such an early hour.”
    “It was my pleasure, ladies,” he said with a wink. “I was happy to disabuse you of the notion that we Scots are tighter than bark on a tree. As to the early hour, it gives me time to drop in at White’s.”
    “Can I come too?” James asked eagerly. “After we take my sister home, of course.”
    “Of course. Midnight is far too early for sixteen-year-old reprobates to retire.”
     
     
    The trio of males departed the carriage outside number 11 St. James’s Street and William dismissed their driver.