Fortune's Son (16 page)

“And now such as he funds the bank at basset? I'd avoid his table if I were you, George. Now, do you still yearn to feed the bank at basset? Or do you care to join me at hazard?”

George looked wistfully toward the gold room. “I daresay my chances are better even with the lottery than any play with you.”

“Come now, Bosky. It's been some time since I've been plagued with a full evening of your company.”

“You've been otherwise engaged,” George answered with a hint of peevishness. “Besides, you know as well as I it can never be the same.”

“What are you talking about, Bosky? What can never be the same?”

“Our association. Since the incident at Medmenham… As much as it pains me to say so, I am advised that your friendship is… a liability,” he finished in a rush.

“A liability, eh?” Only the twitch of Philip's jaw betrayed any emotion. “Your mother doesn't like me much, does she?”

“So sorry, ol' chap. We've kicked up some jolly good larks, but you understand how it is.”

“Suit yourself,” Philip said with a careless shrug. “But if you are dead set on the gold room, I beg you do me one final favor.”

“And what might that be?”

“Keep an eye on her.”

“Her?”

“Lady Messingham. She is, by far, too single-minded and stubborn for her own good.”

“And so the pot called the kettle burnt-arse,” George jibed.

“Bugger yourself, Bosky.” With that parting remark, Philip turned toward the sound of clattering dice.

How dare he!
Sukey seethed but realized too late with the prince's lascivious stare down her décolletage, that without Philip by her side she would once again spend the evening warding off Frederick's persistent advances. Her only possible escape would be at the tables. The devil or the deep blue sea, she considered wryly and wafted away from the prince at the first opportunity.

She had come prepared to play. After pawning her jewels to pay her most pressing debts, she had two hundred pounds with which to wager and was determined to leave at the end of the night with at least five hundred in her pocket. Philip was to have overseen her at
vingt-et-un
and loo, later partnering her again at whist, all games in which she could now acquit herself creditably even without Philip's aid. At least that had been her plan until Philip and she had once again quarreled.

He'd been so edgy and irritable, even in the carriage, but she should have known better than to provoke him. She was well aware of his sensitivity regarding family matters but had pressed on heedlessly. Had she done so deliberately because he had come too close for comfort? She wondered now if she had cut off her very nose to spite her face.

With this unsettling thought, she wended through the crowd pressing toward the principal event. Bassett was the core of the action tonight, with peers and peeresses alike surrounding the table, eyes glazed in anticipation.

She wedged into the group, scanning in befuddlement the baize surface littered with multitudinous dog-eared cards, covered with gold and silver coins. Bassett was unfamiliar ground. Philip had reproved it in a most disdainful and high-handed manner, likening the game to a lottery, with as little chance of winning. But the crowd at the table, rapt, nearly rabid in their fervor, seemed to belie his warnings.

“Do you play, madame?” The voice of the
tallière
, smooth, refined, and slightly Continental, addressed her from behind an enormous mound of gold guineas.

That
voice! It couldn't be, after all these years!

Susannah's heart pummeled mercilessly against her breastbone. Slowly, tremulously, she raised her face, half-expecting her ears to have betrayed her, but her ears no more lied than her eyes, for all he was changed.

He would be just past thirty now, but dissipation had already taken its toll, prematurely aging and blurring once finely hewn aristocratic features. One would expect as much, given his family's resources and his own prodigal habits. His years touring the princely courts of Europe had apparently educated him in both style and in vice, and his dress and demeanor bespoke wealth superior to any ordinary gentleman's means. His immaculately tailored suit was of heather-colored velvet accompanied by a peacock silk waistcoat, and snowy linen dripping with the finest wrought lace. An enormous diamond cravat pin completed the picture that was over-refined, nearing effete. Even so, he was yet a striking man.

Upon first recognition of the once all-too-familiar face, the shock was nearly enough to send her into a swoon, a frivolous affectation she heartily despised and thought never to emulate, but she had come dangerously close. Her hands clutched the table, as if her swelling emotions would sweep her out to sea. When at last she marshaled enough resolve to look directly into his gaze, certain he would react as vehemently as she had, he regarded her with the fashionably blank façade of a stranger.

“Madame?” he repeated
.
“Do you play?”

He
doesn't even know me!
He had destroyed her life without a second thought, and now the scoundrel didn't even remember her? She had almost fled the table, so shaken was she, but then the anger came. It arrived in rivulets that infused her blood and then flooded her being as a roaring, raging river. It was the force of her fury that sustained her, that gave her the strength to remain at the table.

She knew the years had changed her dramatically, not just in the lush swell of her once gangly body, but also in her overall bearing. Any trace of girlish innocence vanished when that chapter of her life had closed. Though now quaking, she reminded herself that she now faced him as a woman. She was mature, sophisticated, and seasoned by the knowledge that beauty and self-possession could be powerful weapons when skillfully wielded.

She surveyed the table with uncertainty, but her answer was confidently voiced with a poised smile of dazzling white as she waved her fan languorously before her well-displayed bosom. “Yes. I do believe I'll play.”

His hooded gaze lost any hint of indolence, boring into her as if removing her clothing layer by silken layer, but still it held not the least hint of recognition. His lip twitched in a way that said she had fixed his interest, and with deft and nimble fingers he dealt her thirteen cards.

All hearts.

She examined them with consternation; racking her brain to remember what little Philip had told her about this ruinous game, while those around her frantically laid one, two, or several of their cards on the table, covering them with mounds of silver shillings and gold guineas. For a fleeting moment, she considered abandoning the table to seek her fortune at
vingt-et-un
instead, but the memory of Philip's high-handed arrogance rooted her to the floor.

She followed suit with the other punters, delving into her purse with some trepidation. Initially choosing caution as her rule, she placed twenty guineas atop the queen of hearts and anxiously regarded those around her.

When the flurry of wagering activity ceased, the
tallière
picked up a newly shuffled pack, flipping it over to reveal the bottom card. He laid it on the table, announcing, “Queen wins.”

Upon this declaration, the croupier swept the table of all silver and gold, save the couch stakes ventured on the queens.

“I have won?” She looked up, gaping in amazement.

The
tallière
answered, “The lady appears as lucky as she is lovely.”

“Fortune is with us both tonight, my lady,” George Selwyn said, placing himself at her elbow, and indicating his queen of spades with a grin.

“Mr. Selwyn? I am sincerely glad for your appearance. I confess I am a bit at sea here,” she said with a welcome that suddenly altered into an accusation. “Philip has not sent you to spy on me?”

“Pay or
paroli
, my lady?” the
tallière
interrupted.

Susannah's suspicion was lost with meditation of her cards. She worried her lower lip in indecision.

Glad to avoid an answer to her question, George explained. “You may now choose to accept half of your couch stakes from the bank, or indicate
paroli
.”

“Paroli?”
she repeated blankly
.

“Your couch stakes and winnings together remain on your card and you go to
sept-et-le-va
.”

Her expression remained vacant.

The surrounding punters murmured their impatience while George softly expounded. “The first card played is called the
fasse
, and always favors the bank, but as play continues, every odd card favors the punter, and every even card, the bank. Thus, should a queen appear again upon the player's turn, you stand to gain seven times your current stakes.
Quinze-et-le-va
would be fifteen times, etcetera, etcetera,” he explained with exaggerated patience. He demonstrated by crooking the right upper corner of her card.

“With thirty ventured, why that would be over two hundred guineas!” she exclaimed.

“
Paroli
then, madame?” The
tallière
tilted his head toward her tabbed card.

“It appears you have answered for me,” she spoke dryly to Selwyn. “Seven times you say?”

“Indeed, but 'tis just the beginning… if luck is with you.” George's eyes took on an excited gleam, “There is potential to gain a veritable fortune in just one sitting at this table.”

She had staked only twenty guineas and already had thirty. Her breathing quickened in anticipation of the next turn of the cards. The
tallière
flipped the next two in quick succession, the three of spades and the four of hearts. “Three wins, four loses.”

She exhaled in relief.

He dealt again. “Queen wins. Knave loses.”

“You have won again, my lady!” George cried.

“But it was so easy!” Susannah gasped in delight, receiving resentful looks from anguished punters groaning as the croupier swept to the bank any coins resting with a knave.

“You are exceeding lucky,
my
lady
of
hearts
. Do you wish pay or
paroli
?” asked the
tallière
once more.

Her breath hitched at the decision. She turned to George. “Did you not say that with
quinze-et-le-va
, the payout is a full fifteen times my stakes?”

“Indeed so, but now with only two queens remaining in the deck, the odds do not favor you.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Selwyn, being a creature of caprice, I am resolved to follow my fancy.” Heedlessly brushing aside all her reservations and every warning Philip had ever spoken, Susannah wagered several more gold coins and crooked the second corner of her card.

***

With a controlled flick of the wrist, Philip cast for the final time. The rolling cubes came to rest at deuce and ace. Crabs.

“Finally, the young rascal throws out!” cried one gent in jubilation, while another punter, who had wagered with the cast, bemoaned his fifty guinea loss.

Feigning dismay at his loss, Philip passed the dice to the next caster, knowing that he parted with far more than what he had lost on the final roll.

A gold watch and an exquisitely enameled Sèvres snuffbox now occupied the same pocket with Lady Yarmouth's diamond necklace. Philip had earlier taken the jewels to be appraised, intent on selling the individual stones, in lieu of negotiating the sale back to the king's mistress. Eight hundred pounds, the jeweler had assured him the diamonds would bring.

He calculated his additional winnings at nearly five hundred guineas, more than he had ever won in a sitting. Overall, a decent take. Surely enough with the necklace to more than clear his lover's debts. He saw it all as a propitious sign for his new beginning.

It would have been a superlative night, indeed, if it weren't for that spat, but she had a way of setting his back up like no one else… well, no one but his family. As to that, thank heaven, he had not come across his father's path this evening. His emotions were yet raw and volatile, and he was unsure how to deal with his newfound knowledge. He should have explained as much to her. They might have then avoided all the unpleasantness.

Philip considered how much he yet had to learn of women, but his lessons at Sukey's hand had proven, thus far, less than disagreeable. He grinned at the thought.

***

“You've bollocks of brass, my lady!” George exclaimed, too lost in the moment to guard his speech.

Susannah paid him no heed; his voice had long since become little more than a buzz in her ears. She'd stayed with her lucky queen and the impulse had paid off with seven hundred guineas now on the table divided between her queen and ace. Her mind was a flurry of calculations. If her good fortune continued, she might garner enough to live out her entire life, not just a woman of independent means but one of substantial wealth.

She held her breath, and her hands clenched the table's edge as the
tallière
turned over the next two cards, the ace of spades and the three of diamonds.

“Ace wins, three loses.”

“Good God!” Selwyn slapped the table. “You've done it again! You've the devil's own luck tonight!”

With her pulse drumming a deafening tattoo in her ears, Susannah dumped the remains of her purse onto the table, splitting it between the queen and the ace, the sum of her two wagers now totaling nearly a thousand guineas.

Recalling his promise to Philip, George was reluctantly moved to intervene with a staying hand. “Mayhap you should consider the payout. I've yet to see anyone surpass
trente-et-le-va.
”

With her eyes glimmering and her voice breathless, she answered, “Did you not study Virgil, Mr. Selwyn?”

He looked chagrined. “I'm afraid I left my studies at Cambridge a bit precipitately.”

“Fortune favors the bold,” she quipped overbrightly. She bent her card just as Philip's ominous warning came unbeckoned into her head.

And luck
tires
as
surely
as
the
player.