Page 9 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“I’ll have it noted in your account. Should go some way toward reducing your debt to the Albion.”

“Do.” Foster settled his hat firmly on his head. “And practice your Russian.”

“I don’t know a word of Russian beyond nyet and vodka.”

“You might pick it up. You seem a dab hand at the foreign tongues.”

“I wouldn’t mind Naples,” Rowden called as Foster stepped out into the street. St. James’s was busy with traffic even at this time of night. “Heard they have some of the most beautiful women.”

“Plenty of beautiful women in London,” Foster called back. “Going to find myself one right now.”

Rowden smiled to himself as he closed the door behind his friend, but the smile held a touch of self-scorn. Rowden had no difficulty attracting women. They seemed to like men who had their own hair and their own teeth, and he was well-favored in terms of height and build, which conformed to modern fashion.

The difficulty was keeping a woman. He couldn’t maintain interest. Mistresses rarely lasted more than a few weeks. Well-bred women, particularly young women, a man couldn’t draw near unless he meant to take the leg shackle, which Rowden did not, and so there might be vast realms of lively and interesting young ladies going unexplored. But he found that the experienced women of his acquaintance palled quickly. Their interests were confined to gossip and pleasure, their intellect was small, and the demands for his attention and approval quickly became wearisome.

His latest mistress was a perfect example of this. Rowden had lost interest in her some weeks ago and was looking for a way to end things on conciliatory terms. He was hoping, frankly, that the dwindling interest was mutual and that she would allow herself to be lured away by another protector. That would spare him the performance of having to offer explanations and the customary parting gift.

He turned to find Bosley standing at the other end of the entrance hall, wearing the impassive expression with shades of annoyance and forewarning. “Mr. Atwood and Mr. Pearse have requested that you join them in the Oriental parlor.”

Rowden heaved a sigh and tapped his walking stick against his tall boot. “Of course they have.”

CHAPTER THREE

The Oriental parlor was one of the more popular parlors on the ground floor, but this evening it was clear of patrons. What remained was the heavily patterned fabric covering the walls, the distinct designs on the lacquered furniture and porcelains, and the scent of opium floating like smoke beneath the shaded lamps.

Also the looks of disapproval on the faces of his partners.

“Victor,” Atwood said. “Good of you to join us.”

Rowden disliked being addressed by his Christian name. His uncle was the only person close to him who addressed him as such, and usually in accents of condescension. Rowden did not think he could bear a scolding this evening; he wasn’t in the mood.

“All is well this evening? No disturbances? Good receipts?”

Rowden folded himself into one of the high-backed armchairs upholstered in red damask. He crossed one boot over one knee and adopted an attitude of ease, though his nerves were on high alert. Atwood and Pearse had been calling him on the carpet more and more these days.

Pearse offered him snuff, which Rowden declined. He enjoyed a cigar once in a while but had never been drawn to snuff, certainly not the way Pearse was, making his own blends and holding forth on the qualities of different types of tobacco. Pearse was a dandy in appearance, with his short hair carefully curled and a heavy mustache that he trimmed and waxed daily. He was only a year or two older than Rowden and kept rooms at the Dorants Hotel in Jermyn Street, where he contrived to live as much as possible like a dashing man-about-town.

Atwood had a score of years on the both of them. He was clean-shaven but still wore his hair in a roll above his ears, as if he could not give up wearing a peruke. He kept a wife and four children in Upper Guilford Street and a mistress in Golden Square, and his own coach and coachman waited in the mews to ferry him to one place or the other each evening. Atwood had been the one to offer Rowden a share in the Albion, putting Rowden’s talents for gambling and fortune-making to good use.

At the time, employment had seemed a sound idea, keeping Rowden out of the pockets of his uncle, who provided an allowance but with a great many strings attached. And a stake in the Albion gave Rowden reason to stay in London and keep an eye on Giles.

“Bosley sent your cousin home in a chair while you were engaged elsewhere.” Pearse withdrew a decorated snuffbox from his fob—he had several snuffboxes in his collection—and opened the lid, taking a deep sniff. “The Honorable Giles was showing the effects of rather too much opium.”

Pearse managed to inject a great deal of condescension into his tone. At the same time, he tapped a bit of snuff onto the back of one bare hand, pinched one nostril closed, leaned forward, and inhaled deeply.

Rowden watched this ritual with a curl of his lip. “I thank you for looking after Giles.” His cousin had been indulging in opium rather too often of late. It was time to steer him toward other interests, but Rowden was not his nanny.

“Any other reports?” he asked, since it was clear Atwood was waiting for an opening.

“I regret to say that the house sustained some significant losses tonight.” Atwood paused. “Again.”

Rowden twitched his shoulders. “Take it out of my share of the profits, as we agreed.”

Atwood dipped his quill and made a note in the ledger he held. “Your share of the profits has been negligible of late.” He sanded the entry to dry the ink, then looked back at a previous page. “For several months now, it would seem.”

Rowden wished he took snuff so he might have an action to focus on in this moment. “If your share of the profits is not affected, and operations are supported, I cannot see how the size of my portion should matter to you.”

“We are a gaming club, in addition to our other accommodations,” Pearse said. “We cannot have people always winning.”