Page 1 of One Night with a Rake

One

“Confound it! Can’t a man lose his shirt in peace?” Lord Nathaniel Colton, along with every other gentleman in White’s, looked up from his cards, distracted by the loud clatter followed by a dull thud. The door to the exclusive coffeehouse stood propped open to the elements because some poor blighter had collapsed at the threshold on his way in.

Or possibly out, Lord Nathaniel surmised, it being difficult to tell from the way the body was splayed under the lintel, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The wet breath of January washed through the open door and over the assembly of gentlemen who’d escaped their domestic entanglements for the company of their peers, morning papers, and steaming cups of Arabica bean bliss. No one else seemed to be stirring to go to the fellow’s aid, so Nathaniel rose from his seat at the poque table.

“A wager first,” Lord Gobberd said loudly. “Is the man alive or dead?”

No one in the coffeehouse so much as twitched. Even at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning, there were several good chaps about who might eventually have gone to the gentleman’s assistance. Or at least closed the door behind him. However, the announcement of a wager over the matter froze them in place. Nothing took precedence over gambling.

“Alive,” Nathaniel said, not because he was naturally optimistic, but because it didn’t seem sporting to bet against the stranger at the door.

“Very well, I say dead. The stakes?”

All of Nate’s chips were committed to the current hand, so he had nothing more on the table to offer. He removed the leather shields protecting his cuffs from smut that accumulated on cards and gaming tables. Then he took off his gold wrist studs and added them to the pile. Lord Gobberd, who was likewise invested in their game, rummaged in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a much folded piece of yellowed paper.

“The deed to a house in Covent Garden.” Gobberd knuckled his eyes and squinted at his cards again. Then he tossed them down. “Shall we dispense with the game and let this side wager decide the entire matter? Winner takes all.”

They’d been playing since yesterday afternoon, pausing only to use the necessary and eat and drink enough to keep body and soul together. Between the two of them, Nathaniel and Gobberd had emptied the pockets of a dozen men and accepted IOUs from a dozen more. The gleaming pile of spoils in the center of the table constituted a small fortune. Certainly more than enough to meet Nate’s needs for the next ten years.

And pay off the debt to his tailor besides.

“Done,” Nathaniel said. Evidently Gobberd’s hand was a sorry one, but there was no point in haggling over the stakes if a man’s life might hang in the balance. He strode toward the door, knelt beside the fallen figure, and felt the man’s neck for signs of a pulse.

He’d done it often enough during his brief military career, so it took him only a moment to find the throbbing vein. Sluggish, but unmistakable.

“He’s alive.”

Nathaniel didn’t see an obvious wound, so he propped the young gentleman into a sitting position. The man’s head, which was topped by a disreputable-looking deerstalker, lolled back, revealing a round-cheeked face punctuated by a wispy attempt at a mustache. Nate knew the type—a country mouse fresh from a stint at Oxford who was now immersing himself in the more questionable delights of London. Nathaniel didn’t recognize him, but since he’d stumbled into White’s and the cut of his tweed jacket was impeccable, the gentleman must be a peer, or the son of one.

The fellow smacked his lips twice and his head wobbled from side to side. He didn’t open his eyes, but a string of mild obscenities streamed from his lips, confirming Nate’s assessment that he was indeed among the living.

“Mr. Worley, some smelling salts, if you please, to help him recover his wits.” Nate shook his head at the strong scent of gin wafting up from the groggy fellow. If a man was determined to get foxed, gin was a quick way to go, but Nate preferred whisky when the occasion called for self-inflicted oblivion. “And as much black coffee as he’ll take.”

Nathaniel took a couple chips from the poque table and flipped them toward the steward to pay for the inebriated gentleman’s care. Then he reattached his wrist studs, scooped the rest of his winnings into his top hat, and started toward the keeper of the wager book who held the actual funds represented by the chips.

“Hold there, Colton.” Lord Gobberd stopped Nate with a fleshy hand to his forearm. “You’ve got to give me a chance to break even.”

“Winner takes all. Your words, not mine, sir.” Nate shrugged him off and continued on his way. Gobberd’s half-whispered “Damned cheat” reached Nate’s ear.

Nathaniel turned and skewered the man with a steely gaze. “Am I given to understand you feel yourself ill-used, Lord Gobberd? If you have a complaint, I shall be only too happy to give you satisfaction.”

Gobberd’s Adam’s apple bobbed uncertainly. His mouth snapped shut. Even if Nathaniel had cheated, he was far too good a swordsman to insult with the accusation and every man in White’s knew it. Besides, he hadn’t cheated.

This time.

Lord Gobberd mumbled a hasty apology, jammed his hat on his head, and beat a path to the door. Nathaniel didn’t turn away till he was certain the man was gone. Gentleman or no, Lord Gobberd had always struck Nate as the weaselly sort, the type who might shank a fellow in a crowd when he wasn’t looking.

Nathaniel collected his winnings and started toward the door with a satisfying bulge of banknotes and IOUs in his pockets. The deed to Gobberd’s house was tucked into his waistcoat. Given the location of the place, Nate was fairly sure it wasn’t the man’s personal residence. A Covent Garden address was more likely to house Gobberd’s light-o-love, if the miserable old curmudgeon had one.

And if he does, it only proves some women are able to overlook a great deal to keep a roof over their heads.

“I say, Colton,” Sir Martin Daventry called out, making Nate pause at the doorway. “Mother is hosting a bit of a rout on Thursday next. Be a good chap and put in an appearance, would you?”

The invitation surprised Nate. It was the first he’d received from anyone respectable since he returned from France three years ago. After the disaster of Maubeuge, his disgrace kept him on the fringes, but not quite expelled, from Polite Society. He wondered what had prompted Daventry to forget that Nate clung to respectability by a thumbnail.

“And be sure to bring Lady Caroline,” Daventry added. “Mother’s had the Broadwood tuned for the occasion.”

As I thought. Nathaniel was being tolerated for the sake of his sister’s prodigious talent. Caro in attendance at a party was as good as engaging a concert pianist for the occasion. In addition, she was far too beautiful for Nathaniel’s comfort. When she made her official “come out” once the Season started, he and his father and brother would need rather large sticks with which to beat off prospective suitors. The Colton men were determined that only the worthiest would pass their gauntlet.