Page 45 of The Duke's Bride in Disguise
"Er," Coachford shrugged, "You might have to grovel."
"I can do that."
"On your knees," his friend continued, casting an unsure look at Raff.
"If needs be," Raff replied pragmatically.
"And be prepared for screaming, histrionics and..."
"Yes?"
"Does your Lady Emily have a particularly good aim?"
Lud. Should he expect missiles the next time he met Emily? Raff recalled her angry, hurt voice, and decided that a vase or two launched at his head, was more than he deserved for upsetting her so.
But, his mind prodded him gently, she said she could not marry youbeforeyou opened your big mouth and insulted her.
This memory caused him to frown, though his brandy addled brain soon became distracted by Coachford, who began to wax lyrical about his own tempestuous love life.
"It's a numbers game," Coachford said with a hiccough, as he finished his tale, "Namely—the more women you are involved with at the same time, the more likely you are to end up with a black eye."
"Indeed," Raff replied restlessly. The brandy had cleared his head, but he still felt on edge. He wanted to move, to pace, to be somewhere more lively than White's, for the near empty club was rendering him contemplative. The last thing he wanted to do, was to spend the rest of the night brooding over how idiotic he had been with Lady Emily.
"What's say we find somewhere more exciting?" Raff asked, pouring out the last of the brandy into two glasses.
"Sounds like a plan," Coachford replied, a smile lighting up his tawny eyes.
The two men stumbled from White's into Coachford's carriage, which took them down the road to Pickering Place. The notorious square—the smallest in London—was located down a dark alley just off St James' Street. One would assume, when walking by, that the arched walkway merely gave way to a small residential courtyard, but one would be wrong.
The secluded square was actually home to some of London's most notorious gaming hells, and as well as these establishments, Pickering Place was also a notorious spot for bear-baiting, duels and fistfights. Even Brummel had fought there once, which of course had secured Pickering Place's infamous reputation. As Raff and Coachford made their way down the alleyway, the sound of music, shouting, and general drunken revelry greeted them.
"Crockford's?" Raff asked his friend, though there really was no question as to what establishment they would be visiting.
Crockford's was owned by a man named William Crockford—also known as The Shark—who had been born a fishmonger's son but, thanks to his exceptional skill at cards, had managed to rise up from a life of poverty, to open what was London's most exclusive gaming hells.
From the cellars to the top floor, Crockford's oozed grandeur and luxury, and it was here, amongst the well mannered servants dressed in livery, that high class men came to spend their fortunes. Hazard, cribbage, and any game of chance one could think of, were played in the opulent rooms of Crockey's, and should one fancy a bite to eat, there was a French chef on hand to serve up culinary delights.
All in all, it was a very fine establishment, though sadly its guests were often too inebriated to appreciate the splendour.
"What'll it be?' Coachford asked, as they entered the main gaming room, which was teeming with young bloods, "Cards, drink, women—or all three?"
Raff watched as Coachford's attention was distracted by a blonde light-skirt, who caught the marquess' eye and gave a saucy smile.
"Another drink," Raff said dryly, "Then you can abandon me for what seems to be your preferred choice."
The two men made their way further into the crowd, settling themselves at the periphery of the cribbage table to watch as the Duke of Belmont—who was famous for his luck—bested young Theodore Bellhurst. The dapper young man had none of his customary swagger about him and it was clear—even to a brandy sodden Raff—that the lad was in over his head.
"Another game?" Bellhurst called, as the duke laid out his winning hand.
"I don't offer credit, boy," Belmont replied with a cool stare, which raised a chorus of laughter from the gentlemen watching. Raff rather thought the duke, who had a reputation as being cold and ruthless, was doing the young dandy a favour. From beside him he heard whispers that Bellhurst had lost thousands to the duke—a sum that no third son could afford to wager.
Theodore Bellhurst threw down his cards in disgust at Bellmont's words, and rose from the table in a huff. There was a clamour as the waiting crowd jostled to take his place, but Bellmont held up a hand.
"That's me done for the night," he said, to no one in particular, and he too stood and left the table.
"Lud, Kilbride, if I had known you were here I would have stayed for another game," Bellmont said as he spotted Raff, "It's been an age since I played against a man who can afford to lose to me."
"Unfortunately for you," Raff replied easily, "I'm also a man who is acutely aware that he has no skill at cards, and, as such, shouldn't risk his fortune against a charlatan like you."
