Page 25 of Forgotten No More

It was true. Guilt filled Ruby. Ever since her friend had deceived Brock into thinking she was someone else, Vi had a very strict ‘no lying’ policy. “It was not my intention.”

“Oh, come out here now.”

Ruby used her perch a few feet above the crowded street to search for her mother, but the women had disappeared. Probably into another shop full of frivolous items they didn’t need.

“They’re gone, I assure you,” Vi encouraged her. The footman stepped forward, opened the door, and set the steps down for Ruby. She eyed him, then the steps, and finally Vi before stepping down. “Let us seek refreshments before I pass out on this very street.”

“You said you were feeling quite the thing today and that exercise would do you good,” Ruby said in alarm, scrambling to Vi’s side.

Vi only chuckled.

After the excitement of the morning, Ruby reflected that it was time she found a more efficient way to assess her list of potential fathers. The reality of one’s dire situation is no clearer than when huddled on the floor of a carriage, hiding from one’s own flesh and blood. And sneaking into homes, whether occupied by the owner or not, was risky. She needed to find a way to manage that risk…and quickly.

Chapter 10

Harold stared down at the three aces and pair of kings before him. Not the first lucky hand he’d been dealt that evening, and hopefully not the last. He itched to place his cards face-up on the table and display his winning hand, but instead he kept his face passive and his fingers steady.

All Harold needed was a few more solid hands and his purse would increase tenfold in just one evening. The notion of winning the money he needed to fund his brother’s venture without dipping into his ever-dwindling savings was too good to pass on. When Brock had invited him to White’s for an evening of gambling, Harold had jumped at the chance. He’d always been a superior card player—and all activities that involved some risk, including business ventures. Brock liked to jest that was the true reason for their lasting friendship—that, and the standing invitation to stay at the Haversham townhouse.

The Marquis of Drake, Andrew Penton, held his hand close to his chest. Harold was unsure whether it was to hide his cards from view or because his eyes had deteriorated with age. Regardless, Harold was certain he held the finest hand, just as rumor held he always had the finest woman upon his arm. His reputation as a rakehell of his time was legendary, even to those who’d grown up away from society’s gossip rags.

Daring a look to his left, Brock eyed him closely. After playing for many years together—and winning their brothers’ allowances as soon as the coins hit their pockets—Brock knew Harold’s tells. The smirk on his friend’s face told Harold Brock was aware he held the top cards, but he was willing to risk his own coin to see what cards he laid down. Brock pushed a short stack of notes toward the center of the table. They both looked to Drake for the next move. With no hesitation, Drake, too, pushed money into the ever-growing pot, leaving only a few coins and a note or two in front of him.

Then, it was Harold’s turn. He pondered his cards, giving Drake the impression that he was apprehensive about whether to add his own coin at the risk of losing it all. For more dramatic effect, he swept his forearm across his forehead as if wiping away moisture caused by the tension of the situation. Keeping his breathing even despite the blood running through his veins faster than a star flying across the night sky, he also pushed his money forward.

At the same moment, Brock sat back in his chair and let out a wallop of excitement. “Well, gentlemen,” he said. “I do believe we have a winning pot like none have seen in this club in over a decade.”

Harold didn’t take his eyes off Drake as he waited for the elderly lord to show his cards.

Hopefully, his losing cards.

For a moment, the blink of an eye, Harold pondered the ramifications if the hand did not go in his favor. It would mean losing half of the coin he’d managed to save. He’d be forced to return to his father’s home long before he’d planned.

Harold let out his breath when Drake threw down his cards, a hand similar yet far inferior to his own.

Brock threw in his own cards, facedown, admitting his defeat.

Keeping his excitement at bay, Harold laid down his own hand: a full house. He gathered the mound of notes and coins and pulled them across the table, all the while remaining composed. It was ungentlemanly to boast of one’s luck at the card table—not to mention it would scare off other players. And Harold needed other players besides Brock, if he was to increase his capital.

“Lucky break,” the marquis muttered. “Haversham, are you responsible for bringing this upstart swindler into our club?”

“Oh, don’t be such a poor sport. You know as well as I that if one is willing to chance their money on the flip of a card, one must also be prepared to see it leave in the pocket of another.” Brock chuckled. “I lost my coin just as you.”

“I do hope the man doesn’t lack so many manners that he walks away without giving me the opportunity to relieve him of my funds.”

Drake spoke as if Harold wasn’t sitting across the table from him. Men of the ton were a peculiar breed. “I assure you, your lordship, that I have no other place to be this evening. I will continue our game until you’re ready to depart, or I lose all my funds and must beg more from Lord Haversham.”

“It’s good you know your place, boy,” the marquis said. He pushed his losing cards toward Brock, who gathered them to shuffle and start anew. “It’s difficult to find men nowadays who recognize their position in society. Is it not, Haversham?”

“Oh, Mr. Jakeston knows his place very well, indeed,” Brock said as he winked in Harold’s direction. “I have kept him on a tight rein since we were children.”

“See that you continue to do just that,” the elderly man huffed. “We cannot have these tuft hunters taking over our country.”

Harold wanted to laugh at the old man’s dated reference to social climbers. If a person could not trace back their lineage three hundred years, then they were obviously setting their sights too high in the marquis’ opinion.

“Shall I deal, gentlemen?”

“Very well.” Drake eyed Harold suspiciously, as if he expected cards to fall from his shirtsleeve.