“Luck is a sop for those of poor vision and scant intellect. In the end, superior players win despite, not because of it.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham upon losing four shillings to Lady Colchester during a game of piquet.
The goddess of fortune had not smiled on Colin in months, but today was particularly bad. He glared up at the figure of her likeness, a sculpture of Fortuna pouring gold from a cornucopia. She stood inside the foyer of Reaver’s, a feminine, mocking reminder of the lure of false hope, or so he had always thought.
“My lord, if you would care to wait in the dining room, Lord Chatham has said he will join you momentarily.”
Colin glanced over at the lean, dark-skinned majordomo. “Thank you, Shaw.”
When he entered the dining room, he found it empty of all but a few gentlemen quietly sipping their morning coffee. Unlike White’s and Brooks’s, Reaver saw no need for restraint in his club. Every surface shone with blatant luxury, from gold silk walls and draperies to sparkling crystal chandeliers to ornate gilded mirrors. It was decadent. And misleading—no one became wealthy here except Reaver. Colin chose to sit with his back facing the wall at a table in the far rear corner, where they would have the greatest privacy.
Inside, he felt the quaking begin, that crawling, writhing sensation that made him want to rise, to run. Pulling air deep into his lungs, he forced himself to calm. Not yet. He must see Chatham first.
With his usual ghostly grace, the dark-haired viscount arrived, wielding his walking stick with an insouciance that made the casual observer underestimate him. Colin had seen what the man could do with the carefully disguised weapon, so he made no such assumptions.
“My, my. You are looking a bit worn at the edges, old chap.” Cool and unreadable, Chatham sat, propping his cane against his chair.
“Do you have it?”
“Of course.”
Colin slumped as relief flooded his body. For the first time in weeks, he could breathe without wondering if it would be the last time. “Thank God,” he whispered.
Chatham reached inside his coat and withdrew a pouch. He slid it across the table with a lean, long-fingered hand.
“The final sum?” If Colin were fortunate—which, again, had proven an elusive quality of late—it would be filled with over a thousand pounds, more than enough.
“Not as much as you would like, I’m afraid. Flatmouth denies everything. Claims Phillips put his name in without his consent.” Chatham shrugged and sighed. “What can be done?”
Frowning, Colin nodded, running a hand through his hair. He tore the pouch open and counted the notes. Blinking, he counted again. Frantically, he dug into the leather pouch to see if he had missed something. No.
No, no, no.
“Where is the rest of it?” he demanded.
Chatham raised a brow. “That is the rest of it. What you hold is all you have.”
“This is only four hundred. It is not enough.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, Flatmouth was not the only one to renege after the fact. Do you know, I believe your friends may be less than honorable fellows.”
Colin leaned forward over the table, his voice low and deadly. “Where the bloody hell is my money, Chatham?”
The other man’s eyes were flat and emotionless. “As I said, you have what I managed to gather. The rest, well. After your brother’s efforts on the lady’s behalf, I venture you shall never see it.”
Colin’s head snapped back at the mention of Harrison. “What has he done?”
“Made it abundantly clear he will destroy any man associated with the wager. Naturally, many whose names were in the book chose to invoke a lapse of memory, and now recall the circumstances of that evening a trifle differently than you or I. Lady Jane’s brief foray into thievery was merely a Banbury tale told in jest. Or so it now appears.”
“How does he know the contents of the book?”
One corner of Chatham’s lips lifted subtly. “I gave it to him.”
Sitting back in his chair with a hard thunk, Colin stared at the viscount, wondering if the man had gone stark staring mad.
“Or, to be more precise, I sold it to him.”
For the briefest of moments, Colin had dared to imagine he might finally be safe. All the air he had breathed during that blessed idyll fled in a hiss. Harrison would break each and every man listed in the book. Slowly and with devastating purpose. Colin had seen it in his brother’s eyes when he’d told him about Jane’s humiliated tears. He wouldn’t stop because a man denied participating in the wager—that would mean nothing. Those who had reneged did not understand. But they soon would. Refusing to pay their debt would not save them from the Duke of Blackmore.
It would, however, consign Colin to a worse fate. Palms covering his eyes, his fingers forked through his hair. “I am bloody well dead,” he groaned. “Dead.”
“Yes, I imagine that is true. Incidentally, do you still have that book of maps I lent you?”
He dropped his hands, shooting his former friend a hostile glare.
Chatham smiled. As usual, it did not reach his eyes. “Better to retrieve it prior to your demise, wouldn’t you say?”
Minutes later, Colin left Reaver’s with less than half of what the wager should have paid. Four hundred eighteen pounds. It was perhaps sufficient to leave. It was far from enough to stay.
Tucking the pouch inside his coat, he made his way out of the quiet square and onto the bustling St. James Street. In front of him, a coach-and-four lumbered past, followed by a coal cart. The racket of the wheels and the horses and all the various shouts of those going about their daily routine was both comforting and disconcerting. He needed to get to the docks. He needed to disappear. His neck was crawling.
Wasting no time, he turned north toward Piccadilly, walking faster, heart pounding. He could scarcely believe what had happened. Four hundred eighteen was no small sum, but to him, it was a death sentence. Syder would never accept half of what he was owed. And Colin had run out of time.
A lad and his aged companion strolled past, the old man’s cane thudding on the ground. A horse snorted and clopped behind him. Every sound, every movement was sharper, more startling. His senses told him to run, but he knew that would only draw unwanted notice.
He reached Jermyn Street, pausing to wait for an opening to cross. If he could get to the coach stand at Piccadilly and Bond, he could take a hack to the docks. From there … he didn’t know. Perhaps one of the new steam packets. He would have to leave London; that much was certain. But how far must he run? Here, Syder seemed all-powerful, a black-hearted monster with tentacles stretching from the hells of Pall Mall to the slaughterhouses of Whitechapel.
Four hundred eighteen would not sustain Colin for long without connections. He knew no one in America or Canada. He had an aunt in Edinburgh, an old school chum in Dublin, a former mistress in Paris. How many miles would Syder consider too many for the pleasure of killing the man who had cheated him?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know a bleeding thing.
Glancing behind him, his breath stuttered, his heart slamming inside his chest like a hawk trapped inside a wooden crate. Drayton. He thought he’d shaken the houndish, haggard runner. Bloody hell.
Veering right onto Jermyn, he quickened his pace. Ahead was a small alley between two shops. Drayton lagged far enough behind that if Colin ducked into it at the right moment, he stood a chance of losing him. Letting a man behind him elbow past, Colin watched a post-chaise amble by before dashing into the alley. It was darker there, the brick walls looming close on either side. The long path stretched like a corridor, but he could see more light at the end. Colin loped deeper into the narrow space toward the brighter, open mews, hoping it would lead him out onto an adjacent street. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Drayton followed.
And felt his head explode into darkness.
*~*~*
Black brightened to red, faded darker, then lightened to gray. The quiet snick of a pistol cocking reached Colin’s ears, but blood pounded so loudly and grotesquely inside his skull, it scarcely registered.
“Death is dreadfully final. Might I suggest retreat?”
Coming from above him, the voice was icy and nonchalant. Chatham? No. Couldn’t be.
“Syder’ll hear ’bout this.” That voice, deeper and rougher, also sounded familiar.
“Perhaps he will. Or perhaps you lost Lord Lacey’s scent after pursuing him to the docks. I recommend the latter.”
“Men what lie to Syder end up skinned like cattle.”
“Hmm. And what happens to men who fail in their task because they were stripped of their prize before it could be delivered?”
Only Colin’s sickening, pounding head filled the silence that followed. It rushed and throbbed against the cold, hard damp pressing his cheek. Heavy, booted footfalls slowly retreated. Colin’s stomach roiled, the pain sending his gorge rising. Distantly, he heard the first voice murmuring to someone, another click, and the quiet tap of a cane on hardened mud. But soon, he felt his stomach heave, and the contractions of his body forcefully emptying itself caused his head to explode again. After that, the red returned, then the black, then nothing.
*~*~*