I might be an idiot when it comes to women, but I understood cards. They were my true friends and never let me down.
I sat across from a sniveling landowner sweating from his temples, who kept bumping the table with his bouncing knee. Scowling at him, I waited for him to play his final card so I could walk away triumphant.
Mr. Timmons, if I recalled his name correctly, squeezed his eyes shut. “If I lose this game, I will lose everything.”
He was in good company. I had lost a large piece of my own future tonight. I tapped my fingers on the table impatiently.
“I have a wife and three children, my lord.”
This was not the first time I had played an idiot who had gambled with money he did not have, but I could not trust his whining. Men would say anything to keep their money, and they usually did.
“Play the card, man.”
Mr. Timmons’s fingers trembled as he laid down the ten of clubs.
I laid down my higher trump and pushed away from the table. “You can deposit the money into my account by the end of the day tomorrow.”
Timmons fell to his knees and pleaded for mercy through broken sobs.
Some men could really put on a show.
Ignoring him, I slapped Abramson on the back on my way out. I had not the patience to wait for him to finish, nor did I want to give him an opportunity to bring up the reason I had left the ball like a ragingbull. Besides, if he admitted to knowing anything, I would likely trade a friendly slap on the back for a punch to his jaw.
The moon gleamed off the shine on my hessian boots, my steps grating against the cobblestone road as I made my way across the street to the town mews for my horse. The gambling hell roared to life behind me, the raucous tunes mingling with the autumn breeze. A stableman brought out my horse, Champion’s black coat melding into the darkness of the pasture behind him. I accepted the reins, and he put his furry muzzle against my chest and nudged me, likely sensing my strange mood.
I was not one inclined to anger, but tonight I was teeming with it. Winning had done nothing to smother it as I had hoped.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, tossing the stableman a coin.
He caught it and strode away, the door of the mews banging closed behind him.
Circling my horse, I put my boot in the stirrup. I began to pull myself up on the saddle when someone grabbed me from behind, yanking me back. Before I could find my footing, a second person joined the first, gripping my arms with a fierceness I could not loosen. I was no small man, and I fought to shake the surprise attackers. It was to no avail. They dragged me into the dark alley and shoved me to the ground.
I squinted, trying to identify them, but what I saw was not encouraging. Not just two men stood over me but a half circle of four men, all with hooded faces and wooden clubs in their hands.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“A friend.” A gruff voice came from the man at the center, as if he were attempting to disguise his voice—though it did little to hide his sarcasm. I guessed him to be the leader, since he was the spokesman.
Was I about to be robbed? “Tell me the meaning of this.”
“I thought it obvious,” the leader’s gravelly words spat. “Tonight’s the night you meet your maker.”
Not robbed, but murdered. A chill ran down my spine.
The disguised man took a step back while the others inched forward. He pointed at me. “Get on with it, men.”
Before I lost my opportunity, I lunged for their leader. But I was too slow and was hit from behind. I barely caught a fistful of the departing man, fabric ripping off his person, as a club slammed into one of my legs. Something cracked and lightning pain coursed through my body. The ground slapped my hands and knees. There was no time to rally before a kick jolted me in the ribs.
I wrestled with my remaining strength, reaching for their legs and feet, trying to catch my breath. A fist struck my temple and my vision blurred, but it was fight or die, and I was not ready for the latter. I had a whole lifetime I had anticipated living.
Battered from every side, I wildly swung my fists. An image of Timmons sobbing on the floor flashed through my mind, and a greater fear overcame me. Did I deserve to die? How many innocents had lost money to me and my obsession to win? Father had named me Atlas to carry our family name on my shoulders. But I had lived only for myself.
My mother and sister had already lost Father and Athena.
Would they lose me too?
My last thought was of Mary Anne. If I died, she would not miss me.
