Scar pulling taut, the Prince smirked and twisted to tug at the frame of the painting. It hinged, opening to reveal two panes of glass. With a frown, Casper neared to see that it overlooked the floor of the gambling hell.
The establishment was still stuffed to the rafters, and Casper could make out nothing but a blur of faces until a pair of opera glasses were stuffed into his hand. Peering down, he spied Uncle in the secluded bay window with…the same five guineas he’d begun with.
“A drink downstairs?” But the scoundrel grunted as he cast a disdainful gaze. “Although perhaps you could attend to your attire, Your Grace, before we descend to my club.”
Casper stared down at himself. He’d taken but a moment before they’d left Grosvenor to lock up his study and grab his greatcoat. He was without cravat, had not changed his linen since the dash around the square, shirt sleeves at half mast and still clad in his dinner breeches.
A sorry shagbag of a fellow.
“But of course…Your Highness.”
“So, is there a Mrs Prince?”enquired Uncle, plonking two guineas on red number six.
Casper winced. Even he’d never dared enquire into the hell owner’s amorous affairs.
The man in question barely moved a muscle, save for those required to utter the word, “No.”
Four shimmering chandeliers with twelve branches apiece were suspended above the room, splaying light upon loss and win, whilst discreet waiters hovered with aged vintages.
No house-employed harlots trawled this club, but a few invited sirens nevertheless played their hand, swathed in frocks to distract even the most ardent gambler.
Despite the general hustle and bustle of the place, the ambience at this particular table was restrained. The departure of Lady Luck – or perhaps the arrival of the Prince – quietening all.
As far as Casper remained aware, this was the lone club in London to own a roulette wheel – an attraction which was rumoured to have been…acquired from the Palais Royal in Paris. The green baize suggested serious endeavour, the gold of the wheel promised riches, but the black and red of wagered numbers heralded a devil’s bargain.
A cut above the place he’d found Ernest in, the Prince’s club instilled upon its patrons an atmosphere of wealth, privilege and favour.
An astute man, indeed.
Uncle scrutinised the hell owner. “I imagine with the hours you keep, it must be difficult to meet the right lady.”
The Prince abruptly leaned across the oval table to place four guineas on black number eleven. “Women are a liability.”
Once, Casper might have agreed…but no longer.
The roulette wheel spun. Silence hung. The ball bounced, skittered. Settled.
“Black eleven,” the croupier called.
“Bugger,” grumbled Uncle Virgil. “Have you ever thought of holding a masquerade night here, Prince? You could invite suitable ladies. I have a number of costumes–”
“May I interrupt, Sir?” They all twisted to a slight man nattily dressed in scarlet, a feather gracing his lapel. “You are required at the entrance. A minor altercation with Lord Bythorn.”
The Prince uncoiled, rising to his full height, the ever-present swordstick slapping his leg.
Lashes aflutter, the few women purred, the many gentlemen shrank in their seats, the croupiers lowered their eyes and even the roulette wheel appeared to slow its motion for its sovereign.
“Is life not masquerade enough?” he murmured enigmatically and with a nod strode for the entrance.
“Curious fellow,” ventured Uncle, thrusting another two guineas on black number eleven.
The roulette wheel spun. Silence hung. The ball bounced, skittered. Settled.
Red number six.
“Bugger,” grumbled Uncle.
“Have you never considered a Lady Virgil Brook?” Casper queried. In all these years, he’d never known his uncle to form a lasting attachment.
