Page 93 of My Own True Duchess
“Do go on, Mr. Wentworth. I am interested in your recitation.” Interested in the man who used the proceeds of a gaming hell to look after women and children.
“You are also uncharacteristically pale.”
Mr. Wentworth crossed to the sideboard and poured Theo a glass of something—lemonade, as it turned out. Not too sweet, not too strong.
“Thank you.”
He set three biscuits on a plate. “You will consume these, please.”
“You’re saying Mr. Tresham is a philanthropist.”
“A very active, shrewd philanthropist. I meet the obligations of my conscience, Mrs. Haviland, considering the degree to which fortune has smiled upon me. Tresham has taken on the betterment of the realm as a personal quest.”
No, he has not. For Jonathan, doubtless, this was simply what one did in anticipation of a ducal title when polite society forbade one to undertake a trade.
“He robs from the rich to give to the poor,” Theo said, biting into a biscuit.
“Is it robbery to offer wealthy people food, drink, and diversion in addition to an honest chance to walk away with great winnings? I, for one, am glad I am not called upon to refine on that distinction.”
Theo finished her biscuits and lemonade in silence, and Mr. Wentworth seemed content merely to sit with her. He had a great stillness inside him, not restful exactly, but calm.
“How does one win at gambling, Mr. Wentworth?”
She’d surprised him, a small gratification.
Dark brows rose, then knit. “I cannot advise gaming as a means of increasing your wealth, madam. Slow, steady gain can be had from the cent-per-cents. You are a young woman, and over time—”
“Mr. Wentworth, I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but I cannot put that question to anybody else now, and I want—I need—to understand how gaming works.”
He retrieved the biscuits from the sideboard—the whole lot—and resumed his seat.
“It’s simple, really. The only way to honestly win is to play against yourself.”
“I’ve been doing that for years. Explain how it works in the context of the card tables.”
They ate half the biscuits and had demolished a tea tray before Theo left. In her head, she drew up a list of people upon whom she must call, starting with Jonathan Tresham’s sister.
* * *
“You will take this one hundred pounds and leave England,” Jonathan said, thrusting banknotes at Moira. “If I ever see you in an establishment I own, I’ll call the authorities on you myself.”
For one instant, a stunned woman gazed at the money. The next, Moira snatched the cash from Jonathan’s hand.
“You’re giving me the sack when I’ve made you wealthy?” she snapped.
“I’m giving you a chance to avoid prosecution, Moira. You’ve embezzled from the payroll of a respectable supper club, colluded with the trades to steal more funds, and threatened the staff with bodily harm if they refuse to participate in your schemes. You are finished here.”
She lunged at him, and she was a substantial, fit woman.
“Moira, don’t make a bad situation worse.”
She fought like a trapped alley cat. Sycamore Dorning lounged outside the closed office door, making sure nobody intruded on this discussion, though having a witness to this altercation would doubtless only enrage the lady more.
Jonathan got a grip on her wrists, and because she would not give up her hold of the money, he eventually wrestled her to a standstill.
“You can’t prove anything,” Moira said. “You have no documents incriminating me.”
“I have sworn affidavits from the kitchen staff that they were instructed to carry only highly polished silver trays and to position them in such a way that the dealers could see cards reflected on the trays. They did the same with tankards, goblets, and snuffboxes. A smart dealer need only be able to detect who is holding face cards to have a substantial advantage, and your scheme made that information plain.”
