Page 67 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“Gambling and women,” Georgie said, barely able to suppress a laugh.
Oh for the love of— “Must be some other fellow.” Jack dropped his coat over the chair and sat down again. “Rivington’s road to hell would hardly be paved with those particular vices.”
“No, I swear. It’s Rivington, all right.”
“Where is he, then?”
“What is it, eleven o’clock?” Georgie checked an undoubtedly stolen pocket watch. “He’s likely still at Beale’s.” That was one of the nastier sorts of gambling hells. “That is, unless he’s already left for his club, where he’ll be caught cheating at cards.”
“What?” Jack asked, shrugging into his coat and heading for the door. Thinking better of it, he returned to his desk for his pistol and another knife.
“Riding to the rescue?” Georgie’s voice was mocking but not terribly unkind, all things considered. “You’ve let your head get turned by a pretty face, and now you’re moved to heroics. I never thought I’d see the—”
“Sod off.” Jack pat down his pockets to make sure everything was where he wanted it. “You wouldn’t have told me unless you intended for me to run after him.” As if it hadn’t been obvious for days that Jack was clamoring for an excuse to accidentally encounter Rivington. “Anyway, I thought you wanted me to stay away from gentlemen?” Jack was already heading down the stairs.
“Oh, he’s no gentleman, my dear brother. Gentlemen never cheat at cards.”
Jack felt his heart give a thud with something that could have passed for hope.
“Georgie, what the devil have you done?”
How many more snifters of brandy could that potted plant take before it withered up and died? Oliver had, on the sly, been dumping nearly all his brandy into that poor plant for days now. But it looked perfectly well. Perhaps brandy was beneficial for house plants. It was terrible for sleight of hand, though, and since Georgie Turner had gone to such trouble to show Oliver how to throw every game of cards he played, Oliver figured the least he could do was to manage the thing soberly.
“Bad luck, Rivington,” said the man to his right. “You ought to quit now before you’re in too deep.” The man spoke in the slow cadence one uses when speaking to a stubborn child or a roaring drunk.
The idea, Georgie had drummed into his head, was to lose miserably. Once Oliver was generally understood to be close to ruin, nobody would be surprised that he would turn to dishonesty to right his ship. He had one more hand to lose here, and then he’d go to his club, where he would clumsily cheat. After that, he’d be thoroughly discredited and ruined. And he would have Jack, if Jack would agree to have him.
“Can’t quit yet. I’m due for a win, you see,” Oliver slurred. “That’s how it works. Maths.” He tapped his forehead knowingly.
Another hand, another bit of trickery to engineer a loss. This was a shocking amount of money to waste in such a way, but he supposed he would have spent more on an engagement ball, if he had been the marrying sort. And it was for a good cause—the only cause that mattered at the moment. He could spend the rest of his days dressed like a ragamuffin and taking common hackneys, if only he were with Jack.
During the next round, even the dealer threw scornful glances at Oliver. Perfect. Let the whole room whisper about his dire straits, his impending ruin.
Suddenly, Oliver felt a hand on his shoulder. At first he feared that his sleight of hand had been detected, and he braced himself to be thrown bodily onto the street.
But then the hand squeezed his shoulder, and it was a touch he would have recognized anywhere.
“He folds.” Jack addressed the dealer, using his free hand to divest Oliver of his cards and throw them facedown on the table. “Out, Rivington.”
Oliver, his heart pounding in his chest, made his excuses to the other gentlemen—a term he had to use loosely indeed in this company—and followed Jack down the stairs, into the street. Perhaps the few sips of brandy he had swallowed before pouring the rest into the plant had gone to his head, because he felt almost unsteady on his feet. He could feel his blood buzzing in his ears.
“Did Georgie teach you to fuzz the cards like that?” Jack demanded once they were far enough away from the gaming hell to avoid being overheard.
Of all the things to ask, that’s what Jack wanted to know? “I see I was wrong to trust Georgie to keep my plans secret.” Jack steered him into the shadows, and Oliver could not have gone more willingly. “Is that why you came? To save me from the dishonor of cheating at cards?”
Jack snorted. “No, I came to stop you before you landed in debtors’ prison.”
Oliver’s back was flush with the stone wall now. “Very noble of you.”
He watched in satisfaction as Jack decided whether that was supposed to be an insult. “Fuck you.”
“Is that the plan?” Oliver widened his eyes innocently.
“I ought to be asking you precisely what the plan is, because I bloody well haven’t the faintest idea. Did you set out to bankrupt yourself?”
“Of course not. I set out to create the appearance of having bankrupted myself.” He looped his arms around Jack’s neck and drew him close so they were both hidden deep in the shadows. “By the way,” he said into Jack’s ear. “I’m not the only one who’s been playing at card tricks this week, am I?”
Jack straightened, pulling away from Oliver. “How did you—I don’t know what you’re—”
