Page 8 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“Don’t see how there’s any difference from the German,” Foster said. “Besides, we’ve got William of Orange nestled right here in Kew, writing letters we can easily intercept. We need a man in Austria. One who can understand the dialects. See if the Holy Roman Emperor would like to give up on this so-called peace and consider negotiating another Coalition.”

“I imagine Emperor Francis would be willing, if Britain will forgive Austria’s debts from the last wars,” Rowden said. “Governments need money, same as all of us. Squire, that’s another three hundred pounds to you. I believe you’ve won back your debt to the Albion.”

Eatwell took out a delicately embroidered handkerchief and daubed at the sweat on his brow. The room was warm, with the press of bodies and the lights of candles and lamps, but the man no longer oozed the sour scent of fear.

“That’s a relief,” he said with a heartfelt sigh. “Don’t know as how I would confront the Missus. Not after…” He stared at the wisp of muslin in his hand, then crumpled it in his fist. His face crumpled, too.

“Jane, dear Jane,” he sobbed. “What’s to become of you? What’s your poor old father to do?”

Rowden rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. “We might raise the bets to five hundred pounds. Foster, are you in?”

Foster glanced between Rowden’s implacable expression and the Squire’s doleful face. “That’s too high of stakes for me, but Squire Eatwell stands to come out quite plump in the pocket at the rate he’s winning.”

That was all the prompting Eatwell required. He nodded his head, chins wobbling. “Five hundred pounds. Will you draw, sir?”

“We’re at the turn,” Rowden answered. “There are three cards left in the shoe. The bet is to predict in what order they’ll be drawn. The banker’s card, the player’s card, and the last card, the hock.”

While Eatwell studied the casekeep and wrestled with his task, Foster pushed his check toward Rowden. “You didn’t answer about Austria. Can Grenville send you abroad again to gather information, should the office require extra eyes and ears?”

“If Grenville is willing to pay well, and I can find a likely cover.”

Rowden had done this before. He attached himself as a friend or hanger-on to some diplomatic envoy or aristocratic traveler, and while the government councilors held their interminable talks at which many words were uttered and nothing achieved, Rowden cut a swath through the gaming hells, the expatriate circles, the demimonde, and the taverns frequented by military men, gathering more information in a week of revelry than the councilors could obtain in two months of talks.

Such behavior confirmed his reputation as a hey-go-mad rakehell, thus justifying his uncle’s animosity toward him, but it also provided a promising source of income now and again. And a convenient channel for his energies, since he tended to become restive when left too long in one place.

“How’s your Russian?” Foster asked while the Squire sketched his finger over the green baize, muttering to himself.

Rowden raised a brow. “Napoleon’s siege of Valletta,” Foster said.

“I’ve heard. The French Knights of Malta deserted their charge of protecting the island, and the rest of the order surrendered without much fight. The Grand Master reportedly bartered for pensions and French land in return for handing over the army to a French garrison. Tell me what that has to do with Russia.”

“The Knights who didn’t turn their coats have asked Emperor Paul to be the new Grand Master of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem. And we know how Russia feels about the continuing French expansion. Italy, Holland, the German states, and now Napoleon’s in the Mediterranean? Who knows what his true aims are, since we haven’t been able to glean the least bit of intelligence, though Nelson’s in pursuit. Even the Ottoman Empire is starting to watch this little general.”

“He’s up to something,” Rowden agreed. “But where does Grenville think to begin?”

“That I don’t know. We can talk to Austria and to Russia, and we’ve got Hamilton in Naples, but without knowing the French aims, it’s difficult to plan how to mount a defense.”

“The aim is empire,” Rowden said. “The aim is always empire.”

“I have my bet, sir,” the Squire announced.

“Four to one odds, Squire,” Foster said. “You rely on your new luck to hold?”

The Squire pressed his hands together in pious prayer. “I trust God to provide for my Jane.”

Rowden turned up the cards, the sleight of hand easy in the dim candlelight. “It appears the Divine Father does indeed favor your daughter,” he remarked. “You’ve just won two thousand pounds.”

The Squire was so dazzled by his sudden stroke of good fortune that his knees wobbled as much as his chins as he staggered up from the chair. The handkerchief came into full play, mopping cheeks, brows, and his watering eyes. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve fallen into the hand of a delivering angel. What’ll I tell the Missus?”

“That you had wonderful play at the Albion but you don’t think London’s gaming hells are for you, and in future you’ll steer far clear of them.”

Rowden, who had never before been accused of harboring qualities even remotely angelic, herded the Squire down the main stairs toward the entrance hall, where he handed Eatwell his walking stick and his black felt hat as Will ran up with them. The Squire’s overcoat of sturdy British wool ought to keep him warm, and he could easily hail a hackney carriage along St. James or find a sedan chair for hire in Pall Mall.

“Take your daughter and your wife to the theater or Ranelagh Gardens for entertainment,” Rowden went on. “And take your two thousand pounds to Hinton’s bank and have them invest it for you in an annuity that will yield lifelong support for your daughter. Arrange to have them pay out fifty pounds a year. That should keep her for a good while.” Fifty pounds was the salary one could expect as a teacher or a skilled textile worker, or a government underling like Foster.

The Squire nodded and bundled himself out the door, still marveling over the great turn in his fortune. Rowden hoped he wouldn’t take some notion that his luck was reliable and try repeating the same action elsewhere on another night. Other gaming houses would be happy to take his fortune and send his wife and daughter to perdition.

“And what did I win tonight? How many hundreds?” Foster drawled as he accepted his hat from Will.