Lady Wentworth put down her teacup. “What change?”
“His inheritance, after the death of his father.” Eliza was confused by the older woman’s sharper tone. “I should think a greater measure of financial security might alter her view...”
“His father is not dead,” Lady Wentworth said with authority. “I saw the baron at Bath not a fortnight ago and he was as hale as ever.” She shook her head primly. “As for an inheritance, I have heard of none. Indeed, his father is as much of a spendthrift as his sons, of which Mr. Ethan Melbourne is the youngest. I doubt there will be a shilling for them to share once the baron leaves this sphere.”
It was Eliza’s turn to rattle her teacup in the saucer. “It was all a falsehood, from one end of the tale to the other,” she whispered, continuing when her mother’s expression turned questioning. “I sensed that there was some untruth in his confession, but I assumed it was a detail, perhaps the sum of his inheritance, not the entirety of the tale.”
Lady Wentworth took a cake with a composure Eliza could not emulate. “How much did he claim to have inherited?”
“Six thousand pounds per year.”
Lady Wentworth was startled into laughter. “There is an audacity about him, to be sure.”
Eliza set her cup and saucer aside, recalling Helena’s claim.
“What is it, my dear?”
“Helena told me that she would elope if her aunt did not find any of her choices to be suitable.”
Lady Wentworth finished her cake, shaking her head wisely. “You have nothing to fear on that account, Mrs. North. Your charge is penniless or close to it. Mr. Melbourne will choose an heiress, for he has only his debts to recommend him and no taste for economy.”
But Eliza thought of the wager Nicholas had seen at White’s and could only wonder at Melbourne’s choice. She told the older ladies who chut-chutted into their tea. “There is no accounting for the folly of young dandies,” her mother said.
“Doubtless Mr. Melbourne has wagered to his own advantage,” Lady Wentworth said, reaching to pat Eliza’s hand. “Your charge has no fortune, my dear, and is utterly safe as a result.”
“Imagine if she was the heiress of Hexham!” her mother said and they laughed together, well assured of the improbability of that.
All the same, Eliza was not entirely reassured.
Perhaps she was simply afraid for Nicholas.
If this was to be the last night of Nicholas’ existence, he could find little fault with it. The cards came to him with perfect ease: indeed, he only had to think which card would be best to welcome it to his hand. The gaming room at Brooks’s was full but not crowded, many of the gentlemen being regular visitors to that establishment. Wine and brandy flowed with abandonment, but Nicholas avoided both. His thoughts were clear, his playing decisive and his success worthy of note by all.
Haynesdale had accompanied him, of course, but sat with his back to the wall, avidly watching the play. He had taken a single brandy but swirled it in his glass, sipping of it so slowly as to make it last all the night long.
Nicholas lost track of time. There were only the cards and the game—and the thrilling sense that his winnings were mounting steadily. He was vaguely aware of Haynesdale’s murmured comments.
“Always thus.”
“Truly remarkable.”
“From boyhood.”
And the cards came to him as if summoned.
By midnight, he had won two thousand pounds, but the game was in its infancy as yet. The gaming room was windowless and dark, the shadows deep in the corners. It was sufficiently warm that many had shed their jackets. Nicholas remained in his full attire, his attention locked upon the game.
Players came and left, many of them known to Nicholas only by name. Lord Standish offered to buy him a brandy when that gentleman left the table after losing a thousand pounds, mostly to Nicholas, but Nicholas politely declined. Not a drop would cross his lips until he left the table.
Perhaps not even then.
He had the unbidden thought that Eliza would be pleased by his progress, then wondered whether—or if—he would see her again. He and Haynesdale had agreed to leave Brooks’s for Wimbleton, and there was a chance that Melbourne would have a lucky shot.
Nicholas dared not consider it in this moment.
There could only be the cards.
The Earl of Queenston seemingly could not bear to be defeated by a mere soldier, even one of gentle blood. That man settled opposite Nicholas, determined to regain his early losses. He should have stepped away from the table, but the gleam was in his eye and Nicholas guessed that the earl would play until he was penniless.
