Hart glanced up. He’d forgotten Duncan was there. “Good Lord, man, do you ever stop talking? Go and see to young Aviemore at the Hazard table. He’s one toss of the dice away from ruining his father.”
“Right away, boss.” Duncan strode off, and within two minutes young Mr. Aviemore was escorted discreetly from the blue salon and bundled into one of the club’s private carriages, where he would be sent home to his father with Hart’s compliments.
As fond as he was of pocketing the ton’s bank notes, jewels, and gold coins, wealth was nothing without power and influence, and Lord Aviemore had both. The man would be in his debt now, and when the time was right, he’d make certain to turn the debt to account.
“For God’s sake, Hart you’ve won again!” Lord Pomeroy tossed his cards aside in disgust. “Honestly, has there ever been a luckier man in existence? I don’t know why any of us play with you at all.”
“My boundless charm, perhaps?”
Lord Pomeroy snorted. “No, that’s not it. Go on, then. Go and play at Piquet with Lord Munsey. You’re putting me off my game.”
“Your wish is my command, my lord.” He tossed his cards face down on the baize, rose from his seat and offered the half dozen scowling gentlemen surrounding the Whist table a nod. “Gentlemen, I wish you all a pleasant evening.”
It was time for him to make his own rounds, in any case. In the last hour a great crowd of rogues had gathered around the Hazard table, and the play had grown rather frenzied in the last ten minutes.
Someone had either won an impressive sum of money or lost one.
The latter, most likely, just as it should be.
He didn’t make it as far as the Hazard table, however, because as he was passing through the blue salon a gentleman entered the room. He’d never seen the man before, but there was nothing so unusual in that. New people arrived in Brighton every day.
But this man caught his attention at once. There was something…off about him.
He was an unusually small, slender man, and his clothing didn’t fit properly. His coat was too wide in the shoulders, and his breeches were too long, with the extra fabric bunching around his knees.
There was no costly superfine to be found here. No embroidered silk waistcoat or jeweled stick pin. The lad looked as if he’d slept in the alleyway behind the club.
He wasn’t the usual sort of patron, that was certain, but it wasn’t just his clothing that singled him out. It was also his manner. Hart’s Ace was an elegant, sumptuous place with high ceilings, glittering chandeliers and rich, jewel-toned fabrics, and people invariably stopped to gape with open-mouthed awe at all the finery, particularly if they’d never been inside the club before.
Not this gentleman. He didn’t appear to notice any of it, nor did he spare a glance for the fashionable company crowded around the tables. He paused in the center of the room for an instant before heading toward the Vingt-et-Un table, but partway there he abruptly changed course and took a seat at the Lottery table, instead.
Strange, that. There was something furtive about him, a stealthiness in the way he moved, as if he wished to avoid attracting attention.
He did a good job of it. No one seemed to notice him.
No one except Hart, but then he hadn’t gotten where he was by ignoring his instincts, and right now his every instinct was urging him to stay back, watch the odd gentleman, and see what transpired. If he was up to something nefarious, he’d find it out before the man turned over his first card.
He wandered toward the crowded Lottery table but veered off before he reached it and took a seat at the far side of the Vingt-et-Un table, where the man couldn’t easily see him. Lewis, who was manning the Vingt-et-Un game tonight looked up as Hart sat down. “Good evening, Mr. Hart.”
“Lewis.” He gave the man a brief nod, then gave the cards Lewis had dealt him a cursory glance before laying them face down on the table.
He didn’t give a damn about the game, but this seat provided an unimpeded view of the newcomer. Fortunately, the man didn’t appear to have any idea he was the object of such intense scrutiny and kept his gaze on his cards.
He was younger than Hart’s usual patrons. There wasn’t a trace of a beard on those fresh, smooth cheeks. The boy didn’t look to be more than twenty years old, but it was difficult to tell, as his cravat was so absurdly voluminous it hid his chin and jaw, and he’d pulled his hat so low over his eyes it was a wonder he could even see his cards.
How curious.
He observed the play for a moment before joining the game, but no sooner did he join than he began to win. He took the first round, then the second. He lost the third, but he’d soon built his winnings up again, the small pile of silver fish counters in front of him growing taller with every moment that passed.
He never took his eyes off the cards but focused on the game with a fierce intensity Hart had only rarely witnessed before, and never in one so young. It was all rather fascinating to witness, and soon enough Hart forgot his own cards.
The boy’s single-minded focus was impressive, certainly, but it was more than just that. It was the dull gleam of the mother-of-pearl markers, the delicate play of them between the boy’s fingers, flashes of silver as if they were real fish, and the soft slap of the cards against the baize.
The boy’s eyes were everywhere at once, darting from his own cards to the discard pile to the undealt cards in the dealer’s hands. Back and forth, back and forth. He never missed a card. It almost looked as if…
As if he were counting cards.
But no, that was impossible. Martin, who was manning the table was dealing from six separate decks. No one could keep track of over three hundred cards.
