In that Pickmore was correct. “Very well.” With a sigh Henry made his way to the gaming rooms and stopped at the threshold as he took in the occupants. His stomach tightened. What the blazes were Keegan and Ashford doing here. Didn’t they have a mission to prepare for?
Of course, being seen at a Hazard table in a brothel did fit with what society believed of the Devils of Dalston, so Henry shouldn’t fault them.
As he was a known associate of the two, Henry forced a smile and made his way further into the room. Even if he wasn’t up to a night of revelry, he must still act the part, which his friends were certainly doing. A woman on one arm, a glass of brandy in another and wagering on a game of chance.
“Kilsyth,” Ashford called. “It’s good to see you out. I thought we’d have to pull you back into society.”
“Or at least back to life’s pleasures,” Keegan laughed and fondled the breast of the woman on his lap.
“Pickmore and I just attended the theatre,” Henry responded defensively.
“Pickmore,” Keegan and Ashford cried at the same time as if they were deep in their cups.
“Where is the bloody bastard?” Keegan asked.
“Being entertained upstairs, or will be soon.”
Henry ordered a brandy and studied the men gathered around the table. In the middle sat an agitated gentleman of approximately five and twenty years. His face pale even though sweat glistened his brow. Either it was the drink, his losses or something else, but there was almost a madness in his light green eyes. Desperation perhaps? Was the man close to losing his quarterly or worse?
“One person. Private game,” the gentleman said.
None of the others at the table were willing to take up the offer.
“Ye, sir?”
Henry glanced around, but there was no one else standing beside him. Apparently, the gentleman was speaking to him.
“I don’t wager.”
“Then why are ye here?”
Henry could feel all eyes on him, including those of Keegan and Ashford.
“With a friend,” he answered slowly.
“A simple game while yer friend dips his wick.”
Irish! The man was most definitely Irish and from the Cork region if he was correct.
“Game?”
“Hazard.” Then he pulled a sapphire and diamond necklace from his coat pocket. “’Tis all I have.”
That, Henry very much doubted. A poor man did not carry around something so expensive if he were truly down to his last quid.
Pickmore was right in that Henry was wealthy and perhaps a simple game would prove to be entertaining. Besides, it would offer him a chance to study the others in the room, especially the gentleman with the necklace, in order to train agents for future missions. The study of character was always beneficial. “Very well, I’ll accept your challenge.”
* * *
Eve Doyle settled back on her heels before the fireplace, exhausted.
If father were alive, he’d be so disappointed in her brother, Brendan. Of course, if Father were alive, she wouldn’t be responsible for cleaning their small lodgings or the stack of mending on the table. However, before she tackled the mending, she’d see to cleaning the drafty fireplace since her clothing was already quite filthy. Not that their home was so dirty, but an old wagon had rumbled by while she was returning from the theatre and struck a puddle, spraying the contents onto her skirt. She’d been quite irritated as she had little clothing as it was and most needed to be laundered, which she would see to before the mending.
If Father were alive, Eve wouldn’t be trying to pay the rent through employment at the theatre. Not as an actress, but costume mistress, dresser and occasional hairdresser.
If Father were alive, she’d be asleep in her bed instead of awake all through the night, taking care of household chores while her brother was away and most likely getting into trouble as he was want to do.
If Father were alive, she’d have her sister, Caitlin, by her side, as they enjoyed the Season, or they would have already made brilliant matches. But her sister wasn’t here. Cait was in Cornwall where she’d managed to secure a position teaching at a girls’ boarding school.
