Page 3 of The Duke of Ruin
"What's the buy in?" he asked, as the cards were dealt.
"Ten pounds, your Grace," William Cheevers, who owned Bristol's largest shipping company, supplied helpfully through teeth which were clenching a cheroot.
"Let's see if we can't make this a bit more interesting," Ruan drawled, quirking his eyebrow sardonically. Ten pounds was a pittance in his eyes, barely worth shuffling a deck for.
The Duke of Everleigh removed his jacket, and loosened his cravat before summoning a footman to fetch him a brandy; if things went to plan, this would be a long night and he might as well get comfortable. He cut a dashing figure at the table, especially when compared to the other men. Where they were puffed and middle aged, he was young and fit. He had the body of an athlete; broad, muscular shoulders, which tapered into a narrow waist and an enviable flat stomach. His hair was jet black, and his ice blue eyes contrasted with the tan skin of his face. The Duke, unlike his pale companions, spent most of his time outdoors, and it showed.
The group played hard and fast at five card loo. The buy-in was raised several times to astronomical sums, and soon the five players had been reduced to but two: The Duke of Everleigh and Lord Greene --just as he had planned.
"I think you've been well and truly looed, my Lord," Ruan said with a satisfied smile as he revealed his own cards to be a flush. Four of the same suit and the coveted Pam, laid out on the table for all to see.
Lord Greene's face fell when he saw that he had lost again. In the last round he had staked his country pile to the pool, and as the winner of each trick, Everleigh could now add a stately home in Frome to his list of properties. Not that he would even notice it, he had that many estates dotted about the British Isles.
"Oh, God," Greene dropped his head into his hands, his face ghoulishly pale. Ruan surveyed his bald pate unsympathetically; the man had failed to win anything for the last few games, but instead of decreasing his bets, or passing all together, Greene had insisted on raising the stakes. A bad move, if one was to judge by his current expression of despair.
"I'll tell you what," Ruan said softly, his blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, looking for all the world as though an idea had struck him, just at that moment. "How about another game, old man? I'll make it worth your while."
Lord Greene looked up, his face hopeful, whilst the gentlemen around the table shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. They had heard the Duke offer hope before, only to snatch it away cruelly; broken men with nothing to lose could be goaded into gambling even more. The only person who didn't look faintly perturbed was Mascotte, who had, until now, watched the game with a detached disinterest. Ruan could see the rotund editor wrestling with a sly smile at the thought that he might see Lord Greene humiliated even further. Humiliation sold papers aplenty.
"Do you wish to cut another deck, your Grace?" Lord Greene asked, with no little confusion. The poor sod had nothing left to gamble with, for the Duke now owned it all; he could not play for another trick.
"No more loo," Ruan waved a dismissive hand at the idea. "And no other players. Just you and I, Lord Greene. Lets make it a game of hazard."
"What are the stakes?" the elderly Baron asked dumbly. "For I've nothing left to play with, unless you want the old nag I rode in on."
Macotte snorted, and even the other men at the table gave a laugh, though they were silenced by a dark look from Ruan.
"You have one thing I want," he said lightly, holding the old man's gaze. "Your daughter."
Silence filled the room, bar the laboured breathing of the Daily Star's editor, who seemed fit to explode with excitement at the turn of events.
"Olive?" Lord Greene sounded out his daughter's name slowly, as though it was unfamiliar to him. Judging by the amount of time he spent in clubs and gaming hells, Ruan reasoned that it probably was. It was a wonder the man could even remember he had a daughter, let alone her name.
"The very one," Ruan smiled. "If you win, everything you have lost will be restored to you. But If I win, then Olive's hand in marriage is mine, and mine alone."
Lord Greene raised his eyebrows appreciatively at the generous offer, though his expression remained worried.
"A daughter's hand is not something a man should gamble with," he said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He sounded as though he were trying to remind himself of that fact, rather than believing it fully.
"Most women dream of becoming a Duchess," Ruan countered, though he could see the other's collectively thinking: NotyourDuchess.
For, as the rumour went, Ruan had killed his last wife. It was half true, and because of it, he was the last man that any loving father would want his daughter to wed. Duke or no Duke.
"I don't know," Lord Greene looked wistfully at the table. He was tempted, or half tempted at least. Ruan sighed with annoyance, he would have to sweeten his offer.
"If you lose," he said evenly, drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. "I shall have Olive's hand, but I will also restore your estates to you as goodwill gesture. A marriage gift of sorts."
Each man at the table metaphorically scratched their heads at the conundrum now facing Lord Greene. If he staked his daughters hand, no matter what the outcome of the game, he would surely see his fortunes restored. But what kind of man would gamble with his own daughter as the stakes?
"And ifyoulose, your Grace?" Lord Greene sounded braver, though his hands trembled.
"That does not matter, my Lord, I never do."
Ruan smiled and the men surrounding him chuckled.
Buoyed by the thought of placing a bet he could only stand to gain from, Lord Greene quickly agreed to the terms, and two dice were fetched. Ruan allowed the older man to cast the first die, and it soon became apparent that Lord Greene had as much skill at Hazard as he had at five card loo.
In each of his rounds the older man rolled successive twos and threes, his face becoming paler and his hand shakier with each throw.
