Authors: Emery Lee
Fortune's Son
Copyright © 2011 by Emery Lee
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Cover illustration by Aleta Rafton
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Newmarket, 1751
Philip Drake, Earl of Hastings, awoke to the cockerel's crow with the anguish of a thousand anvils ringing in his head. He shifted in his chair with a groan, his entire body feeling as if it had been pummeled. He blinked in confusion at the shambles of his surrounds. Broken glass covered the flagstones. His coat, cravat, and tie wig littered the floor.
When he inhaled, his stomach lurched from the pungent odor of brandy that had, since last evening, lost even the faintest appeal. He realized he'd never made it to his bed afterânow regrettablyâhaving knocked back nearly a full bottle of his favorite poison.
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, but gasped, seizing it between tremulous hands, as the demons gleefully struck their hammers anew. Holding his body completely inert, he shut his eyes again, waiting for the reverberations to subside. The broken glass, the spilled brandy, all bore witness that it had not been just some ghastly dream. The entire scene of the day before replayed itself in his throbbing head.
He thoughtfully considered how little he knew of his nemesis. Why had Roberts challenged him? Why had he not dropped his gauntlet before another noted turf man? March, Portmore, Hamilton, or certainly Devonshire, could have covered such a wager with barely a dent in their coffers. Had he been singled out? He laughed bitterly to think a man of
his
vast experience of the world could have been so completely gulled.
Having no answers to these questions, he resolved to address the immediate problem of money, or, better said, the lack thereof. He sat behind his desk to compose two missives, the first to the mysterious Roberts, with the hope of buying some time, and the second to the Duke of Cumberland, who had long coveted the Hastings's brood mares. He signed and sanded the billets, impressing the wax seal with his signet, and then rang for a footman to dispatch them.
By an unwritten code, a gentleman must settle his debt of honor promptly. An obligation of this magnitude might be granted three days' grace, but even with such a reprieve, calamity hung like a noose about his neck.
With a groan, he raked his hands through already disheveled hair, racking his brain in desperation to find some way out of this morass of⦠he finally admitted⦠his own damned making.
***
Midafternoon saw a speedy reply from the Duke of Cumberland, with a summons to Palace House. Philip knew it impolitic to refuse a royal invitation, though his mood was far removed from roistering with the duke and his racing cronies.
These votaries of the turf included the Dukes of Grafton, Bedford, Devonshire, and Ancaster, Lords Portmore and Chedworth, Sir John Moore, Captain Vernon, and others. The duke's cabal included some of the most powerful and influential men in the land, the horse racing, wine-tippling, debauching men-about-town who referred to themselves as the “Jockey Club.”
Philip endured the hours-long bacchanal filled with ribbing over his defeat nursing his port, while bumper after bumper was tossed to the health of king and present company. After the mandatory salutes, dozens of bottles followed suit, swiftly emptied in inebriated encomiums to the swiftest horses and the fastest women.
While Lord Coventry extolled the alabaster skin of Miss Maria Gunning, the Duke of Hamilton followed with words of veneration for the statuesque figure of her sister Elizabeth. Lord Portmore marveled at the lively eyes of Mrs. George Pitt, until the toastmasters, with wigs now askew, cravats dangling, and waistcoats unbuttoned, finally degenerated into vulgar tributes to their mistresses and other “frail beauties.”
“To the fair Fanny Murray,” spoke Sir Richard Atkins, raising his glass in a poetic declamation. “A salute to a whore be only a farce, lest it praise milky white tits and a plump, ripe arse.”
“Hear! Hear!” The room roared. Glasses clinked. Wine sloshed.
Rising in the spirit of one-upmanship, Captain Vernon followed with a lascivious leer, “To our lewd Lucy Cowper, pray she ne'er gets the pox, our purses would be fuller, but withered our cocks.”
“Now there's a bloody poet for you!” The room rang with ribald guffaws.
“Alexander Pope may rest undisturbed,” Philip remarked wryly to Sir John Moore, who was eager to join the debate whether Lucy Cowper, Fanny Murray, or Nancy Parsons should wear the crown as London's most coveted courtesan.
“Order! Order!” cried Sir John, rising from his seat and declaring in stentorian tones, “With such a dispute in the house, I move for a divide.”
Philip's mind was far from the raucous revelry. Cumberland had purchased the mares. Although he knew he need not long await the duke's gold, it would still not be enough. Even full dispersal of the remaining racing stock might only bring half the sum he required to settle his immediate debts if his multifarious creditors were to call in his loans. His finances were already balanced as precariously as a house of cards, and one small breath of scandal over the racing wager would be enough to blow it all to hell.
Philip was pulled abruptly from his morose cogitations by the unexpected arrival of Prince Frederick. “Gentlemen, I am moved to forestall these proceedings.”
“Insufferable prig,” Cumberland murmured under his breath, but not quite low enough.
The prince scowled at his brother, the duke. “If you gentlemen are naming the toast of London, you overlook a most exquisite specimen of womanhood.”
“Mayhap the Lady Hamilton?” someone sniggered. “He has certainly examined that specimen at close range.”
Ignoring the remark, the prince took up his glass and cast a pointed look in Lord Hastings's direction. “This lady of whom I speak is a nonpareil, the epitome of ageless grace and beauty. I nominate Susannah, Lady Messingham.”
Turning to Philip, Sir John remarked, “How now, Hastings? It appears word travels fast. Whilst the duke may covet only your horses, 'twould appear our worthy prince would have your mistress.”
“The very dice obey him.”
âWilliam Shakespeare,
Antony
and
Cleopatra
A Roll of the Dice
The Rose of Normandy Tavern
Marylebone Pleasure Gardens, 1739
“Seven's the main!” the young gentleman called out in a voice pitched with anticipation. The vibrantly hued flock of velvet-clad gentlemen and silk-draped ladies surrounding the table watched with rapt eyes glazed and breath bated as, with a long-practiced flick of a hand, he cast the ivory cubes from the wooden box onto the round, bevel-edged table. The dice clattered to a halt, rolling up six and one.
“Damme, nicked again!” The central hazard table resounded with the low curses and shrill cries of dismay from its punters.
While others at surrounding tables hovered with solemn concentration over their cards, the proprietor, Daniel Gogh, surveyed the scene with pride and satisfaction. Surely his
ridotto
al
fresco
to open the new Marylebone Pleasure Gardens would be touted the event of the season.
He had risked both reputation and a small fortune to transform a venue once offering such sanguinary attractions as cockfighting, bull baiting, and bare-knuckle boxing into an elegant place of genteel dining, gaming, and musical entertainment. The varied diversions of the evening had included an organ concerto by Mr. Handel, a performance by the noted violinist Knerler, and illuminations at midnight. He had topped it all off with a late supper inside the Rose of Normandy tavern. Hours later, the gaming rooms still buzzed with activity: the resonating clink of champagne glasses, the echo of gay laughter, and cries of anguish and triumph interspersed with the spinning E-O wheel and rattling of dice boxes.
***
At one of the tables, a young gent of no more than twenty, with all of the affectations of a town beau, remarked to his equally raffish companion, who had cast the dice, “You've the devil's own luck tonight, Drake.”
“Don't I though?” his cohort replied with a wolfish grin as he raked in his winnings. “I should advise you, Bosky, that your money would be better placed on the next cast, rather than trying to set me.”
“Will you never drop that infernal sobriquet? Moreover, that's the third nick in a row! What were the odds of that?” He lowered his voice and added a pointed look. “Might I warn you that I am not the first to wonder about those dice of yours?”
Philip Drake's sharp eyes narrowed, losing all trace of good humor. “What are you implying, my friend?”
“Simply to take care if you are up to any tricks. You might take particular heed of that burly fellow with the broken nose.” George Selwyn slanted a warning look across the table. “He looks like a bruiser, and none too pleased that you have so singularly defied the odds this evening.”
“Don't tease yourself further, Bosky. I doubt my good fortune will continue. The odds, as you so succinctly stated, are against it.”
“Nevertheless, I think you're up to some mischief to which I won't be a party.”
“I've heard that before, but suit yourself.” Philip tossed another five guineas onto the table, doubling his stake. Thereupon, the groom-porter announced the new odds, but as he reached for the dice, a low and husky feminine voice stayed Philip's hand.
“Might I yet place my stakes, gentlemen?” she asked. “I'd like to wager with the caster. He appears an uncommonly lucky young gentleman.”
“The rules permit you to wager on or against the caster, madam,” answered the groom-porter.
Philip looked sharply up from the dice, meeting a pair of eyes as deep and brilliant as the emeralds she wore. Though much of her face was concealed behind a domino, her mouth was well-formed and as lush as her figure, which was generously displayed by the low-cut gown. The sum effect would cause any but a blind man to stumble.
Philip wasn't blind, but he was for a moment stunned.
Who
the
devil
was
she?
***
She had watched him with fascination from across the room. He was a cool one, indeed. While others at the tables cursed and shouted with every cast of the dice or unlucky turn of the card, the only trace of emotion displayed by the young man at the center of the hazard table was a slight upward tilt of his lips as the croupier paid out his winnings. His movements were always deft and self-assured, as if the dice were his to command.
After a time, she nudged Lady Hamilton to ask, “Jane, who is that young gentleman over there at the hazard table?”
Jane, Lady Hamilton, squinted. “That would be George Selwyn, an aspiring wit, but more of a sad rattle, I'm afraid. He's younger brother to Albinia, one of Princess Augusta's new Maids of Honor. You met her earlier this eveningâdo you remember?”
“But I do, and I am well-acquainted with the Selwyns. No, it's not George, but his companion, the one presently holding the dice box, whom I inquire after.”
Jane's eyes narrowed again, raking the young gent appraisingly. He was taller than average and uncommonly well-proportioned. His complexion was dark and his features strong rather than regular, with a determined set to his jaw and a sensuous mouth, but the intensity of his dark eyes was most arresting.
“Hmm. I know him not, but he cuts quite a dashing figure. I think I now comprehend the nature of your curiosity. Surely a cut above a hot brick to warm a young widow's bed. But don't you think him a bit⦠fresh⦠for a woman of your years?”
“I'm hardly in my dotage!” the younger woman protested. “Besides, you misapprehend my interest. I only observe his uncommon skill at the tables. It appears he never loses.”
“It is purely his skill you admire?” Jane's indulgent smile bespoke her utter disbelief.
***
Fascination supplanted Philip's initial appreciation of the mystery woman when she emptied the clattering contents of her purse nonchalantly onto the table, challenging the other players. “I believe it is fifty guineas, gentlemen, but feel free to count it, if you must.”
Fifty guineas was a small fortune, and as the caster, Philip was required to match her stakes if he chose to acknowledge her wager, but even after his considerable run of luck, Philip had barely half that sum to his name.
In answer, ol' reliable George handed over his own purse with a nod of reassurance. Philip could always count on Bosky when in need. George Selwyn was generous to a fault with the last penny of his quarterly allowanceâwhile it lasted, which wouldn't be long if Philip threw out on the next cast.
The groom-porter looked back to Philip, announcing, “The lady stakes with the caster at three to two.”
Forcing his attention away from her and back to the game, Philip affected a cocky assurance, knocking the dice box on the table beside her money to acknowledge the stakes, and once again called his main at seven. His attention once more diverted back to the game, he steadfastly met the bellicose stare of Crooked-Nose as the dice rattled onto the table, turning up six and five.
“Eleven! Caster nicks again!” called the groom-porter. The beauty at Philip's side squealed her delight.
As Philip reached to take up his winnings with one hand and dice with the other, Crooked-Nose slammed a beefy paw on top of his.
“I be thinkin', jontlemen,” he said, his brogue betraying his Hibernian origins, “that it be high time to have a closer look at the young sprig's dice.”
Philip colored at the insult.
Perceiving his friend's flaring temper, a panic-stricken Selwyn spoke in a loud whisper, “Good God, Drake, don't answer back, lest you care to have your pretty countenance rearranged. I remember him now. His name's Knight and I swear I've seen the Irish brute best Sutton, the Gravesend pipe maker, at Hockley-in-the-Hole. You know, the one who soaks his fists in brine?”
Philip gritted his teeth and retorted back to his companion, “Nevertheless, had I not recently pawned my sword for rent money, I'd spit him like a roast pig for such an affront!”
“You forget too quickly your near-run at Blackfriars,” said Selwyn. “Had you not finally thrown crabs⦠I begin to fear I risk my own neck just by association with you, ol' chap.”
Unarmed and at a considerable disadvantage, Philip still turned to his accuser, prepared to answer the insult. Meeting the fellow nose-to-crooked-nose, Philip's eyes never left his antagonist as he coolly addressed the groom-porter, “Mr. Martingale, pray oblige the
gentleman's
request. A simple hammer should do the job to a nicety.”
Martingale by this time had signaled Mr. Gogh that some bad business was afoot. Distressed that a scene of violence might blight the success of his opening night, the proprietor swiftly answered the call.
Having witnessed the exchange, the lady's eyes widened in mixed apprehension and dismay.
“Mr. Gogh!” She stepped forward and laid a staying hand on the proprietor's arm as he approached.
The gentleman sketched an answering bow, while his eyes fixed on the hazard table.
Undeterred, the lady gushed, “What a delight this evening has been, with the violins, the illuminations, and only the best of wines! Your pleasure gardens are sure to become a resounding success.”
“I am overwhelmed by your encomiums, dear lady. You arrived with the Prince of Wales's party, did you not?” Gogh managed his growing impatience with obsequious civility.
“I did indeed, and well-received we have been, dear sir! I have already heard Lady Hamilton, who has the ear of the prince,” she winked, “state that she vastly prefers your establishment even to the Spring Gardens at Vauxhall. I've no doubt the entire court of Leicester House will purchase season tickets.”
“It has been my inestimable privilege to receive such personages of distinction, but now if you will pray excuse me⦔ He cast a panicked look to the lackey, who by this time had returned with the requested hammer.
“But sir,” she held fast to his arm to whisper, “there is something I must say to you.”
“I am honored by your confidence. What might it be, my lady?”
“Only one⦠element⦠would mar a near perfect evening.” Her eyes were wide with apprehension as she slanted a look back to the bruiser. “From a lady's perspective, you understand⦠such creatures make one feel ill at ease. Although I have had the best of good fortune at your tables, my pleasure is blighted with the fear of being robbed when I depart.”
Mr. Gogh was now all concern. “By Mr. Knight? I admit he is a bit rough about the edges, but quite a harmless fellow outside his professional domain, I assure you. Pray dismiss any such fears.”
“But this quarter has had such a reputation in the past⦔ she spoke with a worried frown.
Eager to avoid any blight on his opening, he answered, “If it would relieve your anxiety, my lady, I'll have the rascal removed from the premises at once.” Gogh nodded grimly to the groom-porter to carry out the silent injunction.
“You are all that is sympathetic, Mr. Gogh.” She beamed in triumph.
***
“What the devil is that minx up to?” Philip exclaimed when two very large fellows appeared to escort his antagonist outside.
As she tripped gracefully back to the table to collect her winnings, George replied with grudging admiration, “Never underestimate the wiles of a woman, particularly a beautiful one, ol' fellow. Moreover, I'd advise avoiding
that
one
in future; she appears to be particular trouble.”
“Indeed she does,” Philip murmured speculatively. “But still, who is she?”
“Hang me if I know.”
“Come now, Bosky. You know all the courtiers. Your parents practically raised you in the king's bedchamber.”
“A gross exaggeration, of course. As to her identity, I haven't a clue, but I'll be hanged if she didn't call Gogh over just to save your pretty hide,” George taunted.
“My hide or her winnings?” Philip wondered aloud. “In either case, I'll hang myself before I'll stand accused of cowering behind a petticoat!”
“Is that so? Then you'd rather have had a knife embedded in your gut this fine evening? It appeared to me you were well on your way, if that were your heart's desire.”
“Pox on you, George! I had it in hand.”
“'Tis the size of the fight in the dog, then? I fear you are over-emboldened by drink,” Selwyn mocked. “The blighter easily held a three-stone advantage, not to mention evidence of experience with his fists, and you with no weapon.”
“But by her actions she dismisses me like some no-account.”
“So that's the truth of it. You're pricked that she failed to distinguish the man behind the façade of callow youth, but hear me once, my friendâshe has done you a favor that, thank God, you might now live to repay.”
“Bugger you, Bosky.”
“Your wit overwhelms me this night.”
Philip answered with a scowl.
“Best forget her, anyway, Drake. She's well above your touch.”
Philip caught her eye across the table. She answered back with a suggestive quirk of her lips. He turned to George with a triumphant smirk. “Would you care to wager on it, my friend?”
***
To Philip's surprise, Mr. Gogh detained him as he sought to leave. “A word with you, young sir?”
Philip became instantly defensive. “If there is question of my gamesmanshipâ”
“I assure you, it is nothing of the kind. I was asked to deliver this message.”
Philip opened the note written in a woman's delicate hand:
My Bold Young Gallant,
Fear of footpads and cutthroats has me desirous of your escort.
Lady M.
“Above my touch, did you say?” Philip handed George the note. “I trust you can find your way safely without me?”
“Indeed, and I daresay I would be much safer without you this night,” George remarked, and then read the missive with a low whistle, adding a cautionary word, “Very interesting to have attracted such notice, but I warned you about such types.”