Chapter 17
Alworth, who’d returned from Wiltshire three days ago, sat in the breakfast room of his club, reading the newspaper, and eating a plate full of beefsteak, potatoes, and kidney beans. He washed everything down with ale. He wondered where Pen was. The porter reported she’d been at the club on Tuesday, but not since then. He hadn’t seen the boy—girl—brat—in, he counted, over a fortnight. She hadn’t been at her lodgings when he’d passed by earlier, and she hadn’t come to the club or to his house, either.
What was she up to? An odd feeling that he might pinpoint as being worried overcame him. Nonsense. He wasn’t worrying about Pen, was he? He had no business worrying about Pen. None of his business at all.
To prove his point, he opened theSpectatorto read, but reread the same paragraph several times.
Where on earth could that brat be? Nothing had happened to her, had it?
Just as he perused the announcement section, a portly man stepped up to his table.
“Alworth. A minute of your time.”
Alworth looked up. “Pennington.” Not his favourite person. But one needed to be polite, nonetheless.
“I wanted to ask for your advice. I’ve heard that Kumari’s been your pupil.”
“Indeed.” Alworth lifted an eyebrow.
“So you know the boy. What about gaming? How good are the chances, really, of Kumari winning the match against Blackstone?”
Alworth blinked. “Did you say match?”
He laughed as if Alworth had made a jest. “Naturally. Where have you been? All of London is talking about it. It’s even been recorded in the betting books of Perpignol’s, as well as here, at White’s.”
“Indeed,” murmured Alworth with an impassive face. “It seems I have been out of it. Perpignol’s? By George.”
“How good, would you say, are his skills at cards? The stakes are damnably high. I can’t afford to lose.”
“Might I have a look at the book?”
He brought the betting book over. Alworth perused it. Indeed, there was Pen’s name. A duel of cards. And nearly all the gentlemen of the club have set wagers against him. A few for him. Alworth almost groaned.
So this is what Pen had been up to. While he himself had been busy in Wiltshire, she’d gotten herself set up for a duel of cards.
By George. The girl was thorough.
“My dear fellow, Kumari has a young and agile mind. He has considerable experience at cards despite his youth. In my opinion, Kumari therefore has the best chances of winning.”
Pennington blanched. “I hope to prove you wrong. I have a considerable sum to lose if the milksop wins.”
“That is too bad, Pennington. One should never underestimate milksops. When did you say it takes place?”
Pennington looked at his pocket watch. “Tomorrow evening.”
Alworth swore. “Now, if you will excuse me. I have some urgent business to conduct.”
He foundPen’s lodgings empty, as they had been the last three days. The landlady, a fat lady with a greasy apron, smacked her lips when she assessed Alworth.
“I can leave a message for him if it’s urgent,” she said, no doubt expecting to be bountifully reimbursed for her troubles.
“No, thank you. I will deliver the message myself,” Alworth replied coolly. He stepped out of the house to wait, just when Pen disembarked from a hackney.
“Ah. Well met, Pen.”
She looked startled when she beheld him. A rosy flush covered her cheeks. “Alworth. I didn’t know you'd already returned. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting. For you.” He took her by the arm and led her past the curious eyes of the landlady.
