Half an hour. An hour, at most, and only Vingt-et-Un would do. For a lady intent on counting cards, there was no better game than Vingt-et-Un.
She tugged her hat into place, threw her shoulders back and marched up the drive.
The tall, broad gentleman waiting just inside the door of the first salon had her shaking in her half boots, but he hardly spared her a glance. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Hart’s Ace. May I take your coat and hat?”
“No!” Oh, dear. It wasn’t quite a shriek, but it was close, and several heads jerked in her direction. “Er, I mean, no thank you, my good fellow. I’m, ah… I’m a trifle chilled, you see.”
“Of course, sir.” He gave her a careless bow. “Enjoy your evening.”
There wasn’t much chance of that, was there? But she scurried into the inner salon as the doorman turned to the gentleman behind her.
There! She was through the front door. That was one hurdle cleared.
But she soon encountered another. The Vingt-et-Un table was utter chaos. Inebriated gentlemen stood cheek to jowl, all of them jostling and shouting at once and generally behaving like a pack of rabid hyenas.
God above, what a melee.
It took every shred of courage she had to approach the table, her heart stuttering with each step, but as she drew closer one of the gentlemen rose and wandered off toward the Faro table, and she managed to slip into his vacated seat. It was, alas, right in the center of the crowd of howling hyenas, and hardly unobtrusive, but it would have to do.
Half an hour, that was all. No more than half an?—
“Your cards, sir.”
The ten of clubs sat on the baize in front of her, facing up. It wasn’t a bad start, but the card in her hand was a six. Dash it, sixteen was a tricky hand.
All around her gentlemen were shouting bets and demanding cards. Handfuls of gold coins fell onto the baize, seemingly out of nowhere. She took note of the visible cards, committing them to memory. She was quick with numbers, yes, and it did give her an edge, but there were no guarantees, and even small mistakes were costly.
She clutched a guinea in her fist, the edges of the coin digging into her palm. It wasn’t easy for her to sacrifice it. It galled her to waste what few coins she had in such a frivolous manner, but her father had been right about one thing: money begot money.
She took a breath and tossed the coin onto the baize.
The other gentlemen at the table were wagering much larger sums, and the dealer cast a skeptical glance at her poor little single guinea, but she wouldn’t risk more than that.
Not just yet.
Slow, and steady. That was how it was done.
She ended the first round with twenty to the dealer’s seventeen, and slowly, one careful wager at a time the small pile of guineas in front of her began to grow.
Four pounds, then five, then eight on a particularly astute wager.
Eight pounds was a mere pittance at a club like Hart’s Ace, but in addition to the seven from last night it was nearly enough to see her, Percy and Jenny safely to the end of their visit.
One more hand would do it. She glanced around, but the gentlemen surrounding her were far too invested in their own wagers to pay the least bit of attention to her.
She turned back to her cards, her mind made up.
One more hand would be safe enough. One more hand, and that was all.
He was back. The boy who’d stolen ten pounds from him last night was back.
He was wearing the same clothing he’d been wearing the night before, his cravat and the wide brim of his hat still obscuring most of his face, but this time, he bypassed the Lottery table and took the only vacant seat at the Vingt-et-Un table.
Interesting. Vingt-et-Un wasn’t the game for the faint of heart. Was the boy playing deep tonight?
The lad placed a guinea on the baize.
A single guinea.
