Page 1 of A Gentleman's Reckoning
Prologue
November, 1816
Haymarket, London
“Aubin! Your toast?”
John Aubin turned to face his three friends who sat sprawled in their chairs with easy insouciance. Lord Stuart had a cigar balanced between two fingers, Sir Theodore paused in his act of taking snuff, and Fanning set down his cup of brandy in anticipation. John turned back and caressed the chin of the newly arrived lady of easy virtue, who was particularly easy on the eyes.
“Later,” he mouthed with a lift of his eyebrows, and she offered a dimpled smile in return. He faced his friends with a broad grin. Putting a booted foot on his abandoned chair and leaning his elbow on one knee, he reached his other hand up and snapped his fingers. “A bottle of your finest champagne.”
A servant hurried to do his bidding and, after opening the bottle with a mutedpop, he poured the champagne into flutes,setting one in front of each of them. John lifted his glass, then, remembering the importance of the occasion, stood on both feet and waited for his friends to clamber to theirs. None of them were particularly steady.
“Gentlemen, when a man has the misfortune to lose four thousand pounds in a single night…” He paused and pointed at each of them in turn, laughter bubbling up in his chest. “And let that be a lesson to you to keep your head whilst playing cards, lest you fall into the same trap.”
“We hear you, and we heed you,” Fanning replied, with what soberness he could find within him.
“The toast?” Stuart prompted, his lazy eyebrow lifted.
“The toast,” John repeated, clearing his throat. “And when another gentleman has the fortune to win those four thousand pounds in a single night through fair, honest play, then ’tis onlyfair…that the gentleman act bountifully toward the friends who have supported him throughout the evening, bringing sustenance and encouragement?—”
“Aye, that be us,” Theo said gravely.
“And so I lift this toast,” John went on with an admonitory look at his friend who had just interrupted. “And with it a promise to share my fortune with all those in need?—”
“That be us,” Fanning said with an inebriated bout of delirium, and this time it was Stuart who silenced him with a look.
“Let us now drink to our good health, to the poor fellow who was foolhardy in his play, to the horses next week who will carry our luck further on the racetrack, and to this very fine bottle of champagne. I shall not consider the price but will only salute poor Barnsby in thanks and hope his descendants do not judge him too harshly. I certainly do not.” A cackle of female laughter came from behind him, and he sent the two straw damsels a wink.
“I raise this toast to my excellent friends and declare, ‘May Fortune favor us yet. To Fortune!’”
“To Fortune,” came the cry.
“To us!” He lifted his glass as the others repeated, “To us!”
John’s eyes smarted as he drank, and the bubbles came back up, causing him to cover his mouth with his sleeve. When he blinked and opened his eyes, the room seemed to grow obscure and the voices and sounds to blend into an unintelligible din. He blinked again and brought his eyes to the window, whose burgundy velvet curtains were open. The pinkish light of dawn appeared between the two houses on the opposite side of Haymarket Street.
Could it be dawn already? Granted, they had begun their game at five o’clock the afternoon before, but he had formed the vague idea that they had only just arrived at Mrs. Woodstone’s establishment an hour ago. A thin vertical ray of yellow light pierced the dark space between the buildings, and he blinked against the sudden glare. A woman on the far side of youth went over and untied the curtains, drawing them closed. How could it be daybreak?
He brought his bleary regard back to his friends, who were now involved in their own pursuits of pleasure, having appeared to forget all about him. The sight of discarded glasses and melted lumps of wax on the table, another bout of raucous laughter from somewhere in the corner of the room, and his brief spell of victory so soon forgotten depressed him beyond measure. Ah, perhaps he was growing too old for such things. But no—twenty-eight was far from old. He was in the prime of youth!
John shook his head. It was the drink that was causing this maudlin attitude. He needed to sleep and perhaps eat something sustaining. He opened his mouth to inform his friends that he was leaving, but one glance at them told him they would not care. As he accepted his hat and cane from a servant, the lovely straw damsel came and linked her arm through his, peering up into his eyes. He smiled down at her, but it fell as hestudied her unlined face. She looked too innocent for such a life.
“What is the matter, milord?” she asked him, though he was no lord.
He fixed his gaze on her for another moment before shaking his head. “There is nothing the matter with you. It is only I. Good day.” He bowed and walked out into the street.
Haymarket was quieter at dawn than it was in the middle of the night, but it was never entirely still. Some, like him, were heading home after a night’s debauchery. Other, more honest folk were setting up their wares to begin selling, one offering breads and rolls, another hot drinks, and still another meat pies. John began walking in the direction of Hanover Street and crossed a vendor selling both ale and gin from two barrels on his cart. The smell turned his stomach, and he hurried on.
It was a short walk to his rented lodgings, and before he reached it, he had already decided to leave for his brother’s estate in Surrey—the estate that would soon be his. Perhaps the change would help him to be more worthy of the gift Gregory wished to bestow upon him. Lately, he had been unable to resist acts of folly and found himself burrowing more deeply into a troubled, wastrel existence. A sort of restlessness had seized him that he could not shake off, at least not while he was in London. The time to take a break from his current life was now. He would likely suffer for the journey after a night out, but perhaps he deserved any misery he brought upon himself. He could not say. The fresh air of the ride could only do him good, and even if he stopped at an inn to break his fast, he could accomplish the rest of the journey by noon.
An hour later, John had collected some basic necessities in a traveling portmanteau, had his horse saddled, and gave word to his servant to bring the rest to Westerly. He rode southward, and by the time he had navigated his way past the throng of people, carts, and livestock on the London Bridge, he haddecided to stop at The George Inn in Southwark for a meal. He had always been well satisfied with his fare there. It was but a few streets more, and he was indeed feeling the effects of his intemperance by the time he reached it.
He swung down and handed the reins to an ostler, then went inside in search of a free table. Sinking down into an empty wooden bench by the window, he resisted the urge to put his head on his arms and fall asleep right there. Why had he not had the wisdom to simply stay in London and recover for a day or two there?
The inn was active, but not bustling. It was too early for it, he assumed. A servant came and took his order, which included strong coffee, bread, eggs, and fried ham. He tucked into the fare, his spirits lifting as the scent of delicious food teased his nostrils, and the hot, bitter brew revived him. Each bite seemed to restore him to health. The room brightened as the morning advanced in increments, and at last, he leaned back and tucked his hands into his waistcoat, satisfied.
“…discuss it here where it’s quieter.”
