The Rake's Redemption

A small black-and-white whirlwind sped across the slate floor, coming to a sliding halt at Charles’s feet. Bright brown eyes and a black button nose peered out from a mop of hair while a long pink tongue lolled nearly to the ground. Soft barking sounds told Charles he was loved.

Squatting down, Charles ruffled the dog’s long ears. ‘How have you been, Adam?’ The mutt of disreputable breeding looked up at him. ‘Very well, I take it.’ Charles glanced at Alphonse. ‘Has Adam been impertinent?’ Charles knew the answer.

‘But of course. He demands the best slices.’

‘Just like his namesake,’ Charles muttered, thinking of his sister Juliet’s new husband.

He loved this dog that had been a stray, even though he had named him after his unwelcome brother-in-law, who was also of dubious lineage. It had been one of his more subtle rebukes to his sister during her affair with Adam Glenfinning. As usual, it had done no good. Juliet had gone her own way.

For a moment the picture of Emma Stockton as she had looked on her porch not more than an hour ago flooded his mind. Her hair had spiralled from beneath the brim of her unfashionable straw hat. Her grey eyes had been challenging yet vulnerable, a trait he was beginning to find caught him off guard more than he cared. Even the freckles marching across her short nose in no pattern or order drew his admiration.

He shook his head to get rid of the portrait. He was not the sort of man to dwell overly long on a woman, particularly one who fit none of his criteria for beauty. She was too thin and too tall, along with everything else about her that irritated him.

‘Woof!’ Adam’s wet tongue on Charles’s hand came immediately after the demand for attention.

Charles stood. ‘You are a demanding scoundrel.’ The dog seemed to smile as though he knew there was no rebuke. ‘I am going to my office. Alphonse, please bring me something to eat.’

‘Yes, monsieur.’ There was a pause. ‘And what about that canine monster you spoil so shamelessly?’

‘He will need sustenance as well.’

‘Humph!’

Charles smiled as he left the kitchen. Alphonse might fuss and complain, but more than once Charles had caught the Frenchman accidentally dropping a piece of meat on the floor.

Adam trotted close at Charles’s heels, his sniffing getting louder as they neared the office. The room was near the kitchen so the tantalising smells made Charles realise he was as hungry as Adam. They would eat while he balanced his books, a duty that had started as tedious and which he now found satisfying.

It was nearly midnight that evening when Charles looked around and realised he had made a mistake. He had allowed his cronies to talk him into coming to Crockford’s gambling hell.

It was his first time in such an establishment in nearly three years.

Candles were everywhere, lighting a scene of licentious pleasure. Men lounged in chairs, bottles of liqueur beside them. A few demireps clung to the arms of their protectors. Several green-baize-covered tables were crowded by gamblers.

A man sat at a faro table with a visor over his eyes and his coat turned inside out, hoping for luck—or, perhaps, having luck. Charles knew all too well what the man was feeling: the thrill of waiting for that winning hand; the need to play again and again no matter what happened. It was like taking another sip of alcohol. The need intensified rather than diminished.

The urge to join a table was nearly overwhelming. All his hard-earned abstinence seemed like nothing. He should never have come.

His hands broke out in a sweat. Moisture beaded his brow.

He needed to leave.

He managed to smile at the man nearest him. ‘I have decided this place is a bore,’ Charles drawled, glad the need didn’t show in his voice. He sounded as bored as he claimed to be.

The other man raised one brown eyebrow. ‘As you wish, Charles. I will stay awhile. Crockford’s is known for its high stakes and I feel lucky.’

Charles smiled again. ‘Luck is a fickle lady.’

The man shrugged. ‘As is any woman.’

‘So be it.’

Charles took one last look around the crowded room, knowing as he did so that he tempted himself. But he also knew he was strong enough to resist. He had learned the hard way what ruin this vice could bring.

He turned away and sauntered toward the door. Several men watched him, a knowing look in their gazes. His downfall was not ton gossip, but nor was it secret. He nodded to acquaintances, determined that no one would know how hard this was for him.

A flurry of activity caught his eye just as he neared the exit. Some of the richest men in England circled a table more crowded than the others.

Charles knew someone was betting heavily and either winning or losing. He could not resist even though he knew that going over exposed him more than he should to the urge to gamble. Better not to even go near.

But go he did.

Faro. Sinclair Manchester was the bank and Richard Green was the lamb.

Memories flooded back. Five years ago he could have been Green.

Charles kept his face void of the anger and pain building in him. How dare Manchester fleece such a young boy?

Manchester was a tall, thin, effete man who dressed impeccably and seemed to mince when he walked. His silver-tipped ebony cane, which leaned against the wall behind him, was an affectation as effective as the quizzing glass hanging from his waistcoat. His sandy brown hair was cut in a perfect Brutus, the wisps dressed to frame his narrow and angular face. He was a dandy.

Charles considered himself a Corinthian. The two of them could not be a greater contrast. Particularly in the present situation. He turned to Green.

The boy’s blue eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. His blond hair was cut short like Charles’s, and his lapels were reasonable. He could turn his head. Perspiration dotted his brow. His smile was forced.

‘Charles,’ Manchester’s light tenor voice said, ‘come to pay us a visit? Join in. I am very lucky at the moment.’

Charles flicked him a glance. ‘Perhaps, later, Manchester.’ He turned to the young man. ‘Good evening, Green. I see you play deep.’ Charles watched the young man, wondering how he was going to get him out of this and deciding the sooner the better.

‘Y-yes.’ His stiff smile widened into a rictus.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t.’ Charles turned back to Manchester. ‘If you will excuse us, Green and I have things to discuss.’

‘Really, Hawthorne, don’t be a wet blanket.’ Manchester raked in the chips piled before him.

‘Ah, but I must,’ Charles drawled, placing his hand on Green’s shoulder and squeezing as he shifted the boy away from the table.

‘Ah, ex-excuse me.’ Richard Green went where Charles steered him, but said over his shoulder, ‘I will make my vouchers good tomorrow, Manchester.’

A twinge of pain caught Charles unawares. Seeing this youth, not yet a man and no longer a boy, in such a pass brought back unpleasant memories of where his reckless disregard for money had eventually landed him. Gambling deeply was only for those who had been left a fortune, not a younger son. The discomfort was enough to make him thrust Green roughly toward the door so the boy stumbled before gaining his footing.

‘Keep moving,’ Charles said through clenched teeth. ‘You are not staying here.’

Green’s eyes widened until they seemed to be two blue china saucers. ‘But, the night has just started.’

‘Be quiet.’ Charles scowled at the young man. ‘You are foolish beyond bearing.’

‘I-I s-say, you c-can’t order me about.’

Charles’s brows rose. ‘Can’t I? I am doing so and you will thank me for it.’