But neither was it White’s, or Brooks, or even Watier’s. For all its gilded finery, Hart’s Ace wasn’t a private club. Any gentleman who wished to wager might go there and take his chances, regardless of his lineage. Mr. Hart wasn’t an aristocrat himself, but he was a clever businessman, and thus perfectly amenable to emptying the pockets of those who couldn’t afford to lose as well as those who could.
She wouldn’t lose. She never did. That was why she never wagered anymore, now that her father was gone. He’d dragged her from one filthy hell to another, drinking her winnings as fast as she could make them.
But he’d been dead two years now, and good riddance.
She hadn’t set foot in a gaming hell since, and she’d sworn to herself she never would again, but it was different, this time. This time, she had no choice. Percy was getting better. He was. They weren’t leaving Brighton. Not yet. Not until his lungs were as clear as fine crystal.
She couldn’t lose her brother. She wouldn’t.
He and Jenny were all she had left.
And so, Hart’s Ace it was. Tonight, if it could be managed. Jenny and Percy had told her they wished to attend a musical evening at the Old Ship Hotel this evening. She’d agreed to accompany them, but when the time came, she’d plead a headache and send them off without her.
She’d have to borrow some of Percy’s clothes, too, as ladies weren’t permitted inside Hart’s Ace. They’d be too big for her, but she’d find a way to make do.
Tonight, then.
By the time she woke tomorrow morning, it would be over.
To all appearances, Armitage Hart was playing an innocent game of penny Whist.
But nothing unfolding at Hart’s Ace was ever as innocent as it appeared. In truth, he was watching. Whatever might come to pass inside his club this evening, he’d be witness to it.
Nothing happened at Hart’s Ace without him knowing of it.
Take Lord Constable, for example. He arrived at the club this evening with a handsome gold pocket watch and chain dangling from his waistcoat pocket, but he’d been playing rather deep tonight. If he lost this next round at Hazard, he wouldn’t be leaving with it.
The odds were not in his lordship’s favor. By midnight, the watch would no longer belong to him.
Then there was young Mr. Aviemore. The boy had deep pockets, but he was so far into his cups he couldn’t tell a queen from a jack. It would serve him right if he lost every penny of it, but the lad’s father was Lord Aviemore, and a wise businessman didn’t ruin the only son of a powerful earl.
Hart’s Ace hadn’t become such a success by accident. No one had expected much from the son of a tailor from Lambton, but as it turned out he had a keen head for business and had made Hart’s Ace into the most wildly successful club Brighton had ever seen.
And now, well…now he was bored.
It was the same thing, night after night. Gentlemen came, drank to excess, wagered vast sums of money most of them could ill afford to lose, and left in the wee hours of the morning with empty pockets.
That was the trouble with making such a success of it. There was no challenge anymore, no joy to be had in it, just one endless night after the next and the stench of stale cheroot smoke lingering on his clothing.
Perhaps he should open another club. God knew there was plenty of money to be made in London, but what did he need with more money? He already had enough, more than he could spend in a lifetime.
It was all just so wearying?—
“Bad luck tonight, boss? The cards finally turned against you?”
He glanced up into the smirking face of his man Duncan, who’d just finished making his rounds through the club. “Bad luck is good luck for us, Duncan, as you well know.”
Duncan snorted. “Mayhap you’re pining for Miss Reynolds, eh? I hear she left Brighton last week. Shame, that. Pretty girl, she was.”
Hart rolled his eyes. “I don’t pine for anyone, Duncan.” Least of all Miss Reynolds, despite all the good citizens of Brighton panting for a romance between them. They were keen to marry him off. No doubt they fancied he’d be safer once he was domesticated, but Miss Reynolds wouldn’t be the one to do the job.
Now the redheaded vixen who’d brained him with her parasol was another matter entirely. He wasn’t the sort of man who became besotted at a single glance—or at all, really—but he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her.
Those green eyes! God above, they’d looked right through him, down to his very soul, and that saucy tongue. He did like a lady of spirit.
But damned if he could find her. He’d checked every private lodging house in Kemptown, Regency Square and Waterloo Street, but no one knew her. Perhaps she was a guest in a private home, or?—
“’Course you don’t pine, boss.” Duncan winked. “The lassies pine for you, eh?”
