Page 67 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 19

Everything is ready. We’ll see you at the club tonight.

Good Luck, Lars.

―Excerpt from a letter from Mr Leo Hunt (Son of Mr Nathanial and Mrs Alice Hunt) to The Hon’ble Larkin Weston.

12th November 1850, The Sons of Hades, Portman Square, Marylebone, London.

“Evening, my fine fellows. How’s tricks?” Larkin slurred, falling heavily against the doorjamb as he arrived on the threshold of Leo’s private office at the Sons of Hades. He waved the bottle in his hand, peering blearily at the men awaiting him inside.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Leo said, the colour draining from his face as he surged to his feet.

“Oh, Christ,” Pip said, staring at Larkin in horror as he staggered into the room.

“Whassa matter?” Larkin asked, taking a slug from the bottle and swaying gently.

“You’re half seas over, that’s what!” Jules said furiously, getting up and walking over to glare at him. “Dammit, Larkin, you reek of whisky, and after all the bloody work we’ve done to—”

Larkin straightened up and grinned at them, having received exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. He’d always excelled at amateur dramatics as a young man at family events, and had been confident he could pull it off. “I’m not drunk,” he said, walking over to the desk and setting the bottle down upon it. He sat down in the chair Jules had just vacated, enjoying the bewildered glances his friends were exchanging. “I’m afraid I’ve had plenty of opportunity to refine my portrayal of a drunken lout. Rather too much personal experience and lived in the full glare of the public too,” he added ruefully, gesturing to his rumpled appearance. He’d not shaved that morning and put on the previous day’s wrinkled clothes, much to Barnes’ distress, who took his dishevelled appearance as a personal affront. He’d deliberately got soap in his eyes to make them bloodshot, which had stung like the devil, and then rubbed glycerine into his face to make it look sweaty. To cap it all, he’d then doused himself liberally with whisky before filling the empty bottle with cold tea.

Leo stared at him and then gave a bark of laughter, returning to his seat. “You’re going to make him think you’re bidding recklessly because you’re foxed,” he said, admiration in his eyes now. “Nice. Very nice indeed, and I tell you now, it couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow. I want that devil out of the club tonight and never to return.”

“Charming chap, is he?” Larkin asked, feeling anger rise in his chest as Leo pulled a face in answer. Larkin remembered the bastard’s audacity, the revelation that he had goaded a drunk and desperate man into playing too recklessly and could not wait to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Not only had he fleeced a man on the edge of his sanity of all he owned but had tried to force the grieving family’s beautiful young daughter to marry him. Oh, he was going to enjoy tonight and make certain Mr Jenkins rued the day he’d tangled with the Merrivale family. His family, he thought, with a sudden swell of protectiveness. For that was what they were now, as far as he was concerned. Aunt Connie might have found love and the protection only a husband could offer, but he knew Maggie. He knew she would not feel comfortable for long living on her aunt and uncle’s charity, no matter how pleased they were to offer it.

No. Maggie and Gideon were his to protect and love now, supposing they would allow him that privilege, and Caro too if that’s what she preferred. Somehow, Larkin suspected Aunt Connie would throw herself into fashion and the theatre and the excitement of her new world, which would probably appeal to the young lady, having been sheltered for all her life. He did not think that prospect would appeal to Maggie, though. All she wanted was to return to her beloved manor and bring up her son in the place she missed so desperately. Larkin meant to give her that chance, whether or not she wished to live that life with him. At least then, she would be free to choose.

A knock at the door revealed one of the staff who told them Mr Jenkins had arrived and was waiting for them. The game was on.

Larkin waited in the room next door as his friends filed in and greeted Mr Jenkins, congratulating him on winning the chance to play the owners of the Sons of Hades. They explained that membership was as rare as hen’s teeth but, if he beat them all, they would give him that privilege. A privilege it was too, for not only did one need to be fabulously wealthy to gain entry, but to meet a set of criteria that no one in the ton had yet to fathom. For the sons did not judge upon breeding and who you knew, but upon whether they deemed any man decent, honourable, and a person with whom they would willingly sit down and spend a couple of hours in company. Entry to their elite world would open doors at which Jenkins could not even guess.

Larkin listened, lip curling, as Mr Jenkins tried to ingratiate himself to Jules. As the Marquess of Blackstone, he was the highest ranking of them all, and Larkin did not doubt that Jenkins had done his homework, discovering who was who, and might be of use to him. It was nothing new, of course, and how their world worked, but his toadying only made Larkin itch to get this night over with.

“But we’re one short, aren’t we?” Jenkins asked. “Mr Weston is still one of you, is he not? Won’t he be joining us?”

Larkin smiled as he imagined the worried glances the men were exchanging.

“I believe he will be joining us shortly,” Pip drawled, and Larkin heard the sound of a chair being pulled back. “But we may as well start without him, or we might wait all night.”

“Ah, yes. I heard he’s rather a wild young fellow. Likes a drink, don’t he? Comes of hanging about with all those artistic types, I imagine,” Jenkins said, his tone amused.

“No doubt,” Pip replied dryly. “We’re playing Pharo, five hundred guineas a counter. I trust that suits you?”

If it didn’t, Jenkins was in no position to complain, though the staggering sum for one counter had to give him pause. He’d won a considerable sum over the past games, according to Larkin’s friends, but not enough that he could view bids like that with equanimity. Larkin heard no reply, so assumed the fellow had nodded. Play began and silence reigned for a while, the only sound the occasional chink of the ivory counters and the players making their bets.

Larkin bided his time, though he was climbing the walls with impatience.

“I’m out,” Pip said, three games later, during which he’d had managed to lose an eye-watering sum to Jenkins. This was Larkin’s cue, so he picked up his bottle, this one a quarter full with actual whisky, took a deep breath, and went out to the corridor.

“Evening, chums,” he said, lurching in through the door and allowing the bottle to slip from his fingers. It clattered to the floor, spilling its contents and filling the room with alcohol fumes.

“Bloody hell, Lars!” Pip remonstrated, surging to his feet. “What did we tell you about turning up tap hackled?”

Larkin looked bemusedly at the bottle on the floor and then squinted blearily up at Pip, blinking hard as he pretended to struggle to focus. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” Pip said wearily, tugging on the bellpull to rouse someone to come and clear up. “Come along, you’re in no fit state to play tonight,” he told Larkin, taking hold of his arm.