Four
Tristan raked in his latest winnings, stacking the coins and notes neatly as Mr.Brooks looked on in dismay.The haze of cigar smoke hung heavy in the air of the gambling den, mingling with the scents of whiskey and desperation.Glasses clinked all around while murmurs rippled through the crowd of onlookers, their anticipation palpable.
“Another hand,” Brooks implored, his hands trembling as he grasped at the few remaining coins in his purse.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed, taking in the man’s disheveled state.One more loss might ruin him completely.As a gentleman, Tristan should politely refuse.And yet...opportunity knocked but once.
“Very well,” he said at last.“Another hand it is.”
Brooks nodded, relief washing over his features.The onlookers leaned in, rapt with morbid fascination as the cards were dealt again.Lady Luck proved a fickle mistress, however, and Brooks paled as he beheld his losing cards.
“Another hand, sir,” he rasped, all former composure gone.Brooks’ hands trembled as he counted out his coins and pushed them to the center of the table.“My luck is surely due for a turn.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair as he studied the disheveled gentleman before him.After his string of losses tonight, accepting another wager from Brooks seemed imprudent, perhaps even taking advantage of the poor man.
Yet Tristan’s gambling instincts were piqued.One more hand could gain him a sizable payout, and he was never one to walk away from a potential windfall.
“Very well,” Tristan agreed at last, signaling the dealer for another round.
Brooks nodded eagerly as the cards were dealt.His eyes gleamed with a manic energy, like a drowning man grasping at a lifeline.
The cards fluttered onto the baize, each one sealing Brooks’ fate with a whisper of finality.Tristan watched dispassionately as his own hand—a winning assembly—commanded the pot.His fingers, steady and sure as he collected his winnings from the center of the table.Coins gleamed dully in the dim light, clinking softly as they piled before him.Brooks face was a tableau of unease, painted with hues of desperation; sweat beaded on his brow, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes—those windows to a man’s soul—flickered with the wildness of a cornered animal.
The gambling den around them was alive with an undercurrent of tension, a silent witness to countless downfalls and triumphs.Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, filling the air with the scent of tobacco.It mingled with the earthy aroma of spilled ale and the musk of men who had lingered too long in their vice.Glasses clinked in a discordant symphony, punctuating the murmurs of anticipation from the onlookers.They crowded around the gaming tables, their expressions rapt, as if they were attending a theatre of fortunes rather than a pit of ruin.
“Another round, Brooks?”Tristan asked, his voice the epitome of polite ennui, yet beneath it lay the sharp edge of a duelist sizing up his opponent.The nobles and scoundrels alike paused in their revelry to cast glances at the unfolding drama, sensing the scent of impending calamity.
“Indeed,” Brooks said, his voice barely above a trembling whisper, betraying the gallantry he attempted to project.“Fortune favors the bold, or so they say.”
“Or so they say,” echoed Tristan, his gaze never wavering from the man across from him.In the den's tempest, amongst the whispers and glances, not a soul could discern the thoughts behind his piercing eyes—whether they held the cool detachment of a seasoned gambler or the calculated intent of a predator poised to strike.
Brooks, with a steadiness that belied the tremor in his fingers, emptied his pockets of their scant contents.The jingle of coin was a hollow echo in the chambered heart of the gambling den.Finding his purse lacking, he slid a ring from his finger and tossed it into the pot.
Tristan watched, the lamplight catching the glint of speculation in his eyes as coins tumbled across the baize.He remained silent for a stretched moment, the muscles along his jaw clenching as if restraining words or perhaps a curse.The room held its collective breath, the rattle of dice and shuffle of cards pausing in deference to the tension that strung between the two men like a drawn bowstring.
“Mr.Brooks,” Tristan began, his voice a modulated baritone that seemed at odds with the lurid whispers skulking in the smoke-laden air, “surely you jest.There is no honor in fleecing a man of desperation.”
“Desperation?”Brooks countered, a wry smile cutting through his unease.“No, sir, this is but a momentary setback.Allow me the chance to change my luck.”
Tristan’s eyebrows arched, a silent testament to his surprise at the other man’s audacity.A lesser man might have reveled in such a prospect, but Tristan’s reluctance was palpable, a veneer of gentility laid over the instincts of a seasoned gamester.His gaze drilled into Brooks’, seeking some semblance of reason behind the reckless gamble.But there, amidst the scent of vice and the stifled ambitions of many a ruined gentleman, he found naught but the hollow gleam of hope against reason.
“Very well,” Tristan conceded, his lips curving into a smile that did not reach his frosty eyes.“Let us proceed.For the sake of sport, if nothing else.”
The words were spoken with a finality, even as the undercurrents of the den swirled with whispers of omens and folly.Tristan leaned forward, a predator in gentleman’s attire, the deck of cards his willing accomplices as they dealt fate with each turn.
The last card fell like a guillotine, severing the last thread of Brooks’ hope.With a hand that lacked both grace and fortune, he revealed his loss to the hushed room.The silence was broken only by the soft shuffle of cards and the distant clink of a coin against glass.
“Damnation,” Brooks muttered under his breath, his face ashen as the reality of his situation dawned on him.
Tristan watched dispassionately, collecting the scattered winnings with the indifference of a man to whom such victories were commonplace.“It appears Lady Luck has abandoned you tonight, Mr.Brooks.”
“Indeed.”Brook’s face drained of color, his expression crumpling into despair.
Tristan watched him pitilessly, though a twinge of regret pulled at his conscience.Perhaps he should have refused that last wager after all.But the deed was done now, and he could not back out of his winnings.
“Come sir, let us conclude our business here,” he said briskly, gathering the coins from the baize, not nearly enough to settle the man’s debt.
“Indeed,” Brooks said, his voice hoarse, each word laced with despair.He fumbled in his pockets, hopelessly searching for something of value, but finding naught but lint.“I find myself momentarily...indisposed to settle the debt.”
