Page 15 of The Danger of Desire
Besides, why was Owen accompanying the fellow, and without wearing any livery, either? Had Miss Trevor lied about Owen’s position? Was Owen her suitor’s servant, rather than hers?
That made no sense, either. From what Warren had overheard, Owen had been concerned about Lady Pensworth dismissing him. So the man had to be the baroness’s servant. What the bloody hell was going on here?
The two fellows headed down the road, and Warren watched until he felt it safe to go into the street to follow them. This wasn’t his usual sort of pastime. Unlike Lord Rathmoor at the club, he wasn’t adept at trailing suspects and uncovering skullduggery.
As they turned toward a seedier part of town, he continued shadowing them, his curiosity roused. Was the younger gentleman another servant? Why was the footman accompanying him, and where? What were they up to?
All entertaining questions. Yes, perhaps he should look at this as his night’s amusement. Because God knew he hadn’t had much else to entertain him lately, what with his best friend settling into comfortable married life and his youngest brother doing the same, and the world passing him by—
The world was not passing him by. That was ridiculous.
Annoyed by the very notion, Warren stalked the two chaps for some time. He’d begun to wonder if it was worth his trouble when he realized they were going into Covent Garden, where the theaters lay, along with some choice brothels.
It was the area of London where he spent most of his nights, so he was heading in the direction he would have come anyway, just a little later than usual.
Owen and his companion were likely here for the same reason he would have been. They certainly weren’t attending the theater—those were all closed at this hour.
For their sake, he hoped the two fools had condoms or they could find themselves in deep trouble long after their entertaining jaunt. He always carried preventives, having learned long ago the risks of his way of keeping the night at bay. Not for him a bout of the clap, or supporting a slew of dubious by-blows.
In any case, this was proving to be a fool’s errand. Perhaps Owen had convinced Miss Trevor not to meet her suitor; it looked as if the fellows were merely servants out on the town.
But their departure at precisely 1:00 a.m. was enough to keep him following them until they entered a gaming hell.
Damn. He hated these places. He preferred to play cards at a club where he trusted his fellow players. He’d learned the dangers of gaming hells in his youth, while trying to keep busy and awake until dawn. This particular hell, a hazy den called Dickson’s, was frequented by both respectable and not-so-respectable gentlemen.
Which category did Miss Trevor’s suitor fall into, if indeed the youthwasher suitor? And if he was, why on earth was Owen accompanying the man? Perhaps the two had become friendly during their setting up of assignations with Miss Trevor.
Warren paused outside as if to light his cigar and surveyed the two chaps through the door. They didn’t stop in the taproom, but headed right through it to the card room in the back.
Sauntering into the taproom, Warren debated how to act. Pretending to be someone else would be pointless. Aside from the fact that Owen had seen him today, many of the other gentlemen would know him from his numerous visits to the stews.
He supposed he could leave and just warn Miss Trevor next time he saw her that her suitor was a gamester. But he still wasn’t even sure the youth in the too-large hatwasher suitor. Besides, he wanted to at least get the fellow’s name and find out his intentions. Not blunder in without understanding the situation.
Very well. Best to join the card play as himself. But first, he’d see what he could glean about the gentleman he could hear being greeted jovially by the other players.
As Warren walked up to the bar and ordered a brandy, the owner of the hell approached. “Knightford!” Dickson cried. “It’s been an age.”
“Indeed, it has. I’ve been too busy up the street at Mrs. Beard’s to come wallow with you fellows much,” Warren said. “More congenial company there.”
“I’ll wager you’re right about that,” Dickson said with a chuckle. “Her girls know how to keep a man happy.”
They certainly did. And how to keep his mind off the night.
Sipping his brandy, Warren watched through the doorway as the chap with Owen took a seat at a piquet table. That was a game primarily of skill. It made sense that a fortune hunter would prefer it.
“Who is that young devil there in the oversize hat, who just came in?” he asked Dickson. “I don’t recognize him.” In truth, he still hadn’t even had a good look at the youth’s face.
“That’s Jack Jones. He’s a Welsh cousin of that other fellow Owen, although Owen never plays, just watches.”
A cousin, hmm. Perhaps Owen was trying to broker a marriage between his mistress and his cousin? Or perhaps his mistress didn’t know that the arsewasOwen’s cousin.
Warren took a drag on his cigar. “Where in Wales is he from?”
“He’s never said. All I know is he don’t talk much, don’t drink much, just plays his cards. Always leaves well before dawn. Don’t seem to like people. And in the month since he’s been coming here, he’s brought in more business than I’ve had in the previous three.”
“How the bloody hell has he done that?”
Dickson shrugged. “He doesn’t lose. Jack’s damned good at cards, although he can’t be more than twenty, at the most. He prefers games of skill like piquet, and he plays them well. So word has got round that Jack Jones is the man to beat, and all the players in town have been trying to prove they can top him. But nobody ever does.”
