Chapter Two
Ramsey Scott, Marquess of Sterling, watched the floor of Temptations with a watchful eye. Already the evening buzzed with the news of the arrival of the Viscount of Kilpatrick and his new wife, the missing youngest daughter of the Duke of Chatterwood. It was a scandal for sure, and if there was anything Ramsey hated more than scandal, he couldn’t name it. Scandal. The very word caused his skin to crawl, his stomach to clench, and his mood to turn foul. Like walking on eggshells, trying to keep from fracturing them, he constantly tiptoed around the word, and the disasters it created.
He pushed his thoughts aside and his gaze flickered toward the door. John was on the other side of the curtain, watching those who came, and those who left, making notes in the registry as each person passed him by. The card tables were full, and the brandy was flowing like the Thames in spring. All in all, it was a quiet night, aside from the gossip mill working overtime. But that was to be expected in a gambling hell; secrets were traded as currency just as frequently as pounds. Many a man had lost a fortune in the trade of secrets, and there was no reason to expect that truth ever to prove false.
Just another reason to hate scandal. If it didn’t break your heart, it could break your bank.
Or both.
Oftentimes both.
He would know.
Again, he pushed his thoughts aside. Tonight they seemed to follow him like the London fog. Pushing off from the rail of the balcony, he walked down the carpeted hall and toward the servant’s staircase. The darkness was welcome, and he paused a moment in the cool stone hall of the stairwell. It was far easier to let your secrets be kept by the dark than by people.
People betrayed you.
People had their price.
The darkness, it only repeated the secrets back to you.
And then welcomed them to the grave.
Ramsey continued down the stairs and out into the lower hall. He paused by one of the doors into the main gaming room. Everything was in order; he wasn’t needed, so he turned right and headed to his private office. The music faded slowly as he walked away from the people and toward the seclusion he knew and loved. As he reached his office, he unlocked the door, passed through, and closed the heavy wooden door with a soft click, a strong barrier between silence and folly.
He turned to his desk and noted the several ledgers there awaiting his approval. Numbers, now that was a friendly thing if ever there was one. They were constant, true, and easily understood.
After pouring himself a small glass of brandy, he sat behind his desk and opened the first leather-bound book. As he scanned the numbers, his mind did the quick calculations and associated them with the columns to the right. In short work, he finished with one page, turning to another.
When the new entries were complete, he turned to the book of wagers.
This was the book that could make or break a patron. Because sometimes a game of faro wasn’t satisfying enough for a gambler’s heart, so often the men would offer a wager on something other than a card game.
A marriage.
A boxing match.
The damn weather.
It was insanity, yet he wasn’t opposed to taking their money when the wager was lost.
He opened the red leather-bound book and began to read the wagers.
Lord Garlington places a bet of five hundred pounds on Trent Waverly winning the boxing match on 15th May 1817. Lord Farthington accepts the wager and places five hundred pounds on the opposing fighter.
Both men signed their names.
It was a simple process really. Two men would wager each other, and Temptations would take a cut of the winnings.
But if a man wagered against the house—which sometimes happened—then Ramsey would have to put forth the terms and sign.
And most times, the house would win.
He scanned the various wagers, his gaze narrowing upon seeing a familiar name.
Westhouse.
His blood chilled, and his teeth clenched.
