Cynthia Bailey Pratt by Queen of Hearts

Berenice had said that morning when telling Danita of the previous night. “I wish you might have seen him. He laid his hand on his heart and bowed low, first to me and then to Grandmamma. She said it should have been the other way around. I don’t see what his old ancestor’s club had to do with my dancing the second polonaise with Mr. Newland. The Honorable Mr. Newland.”
    “Club?”
    “Yes,” her cousin answered, the flush on her cheeks deepening. “She said it was called the Hellfire Club. She called Mr. Newland a mushroom, but how can he be if his grandfather was a lord?”
    * * * *
    The gaming house was crowded. Men whom Carleton had often seen in London gathered around the table, two and three deep. Bath was quick to marry a man off, but slow to amuse him on the way to the altar. Gambling had declined from the great days, when Nash, a gambler himself, had set the rules for the town. Now, those who came scorned brandy, preferring tea, and Patience was the game of choice, not hazard. There were tabbies and milky maids to spare, and even, if called for, some of the muslin set, but for non-female entertainment, only two houses served the need. And only one of those was honest, more or less.
    Herr Grabelein’s was not Brook’s or White’s, but neither was high play discouraged as it had been of late at those two clubs. Nor were matters as likely to get out of hand, as at Watier’s. Grabelein ran a respectable gaming house, or tried to.
    However, he was no more pleased at seeing one winner take all than any of the others would be. Such a thing tended to make the less-fortunate players lose heart. Herr Grabelein stood behind Carleton now, watching every turn of the cards. Carleton knew he was there, and could virtually see the tapping of his heavy foot in its pump.
    This fact did not make him nervous. Tonight, he could not seem to lose. Every card he took was the right one. The pile of counters in front of him had not ceased to grow since he’d taken his seat at the round table. He tried to box that knowledge off in some hidden portion of his brain, to keep it a secret from his nerves. Once let out, his entire body would begin to tingle with the excitement of a second fortune gained and then farewell to the impassivity cultivated by every gaming gentleman.
    The men around him admitted it, however, and the whispers jumped from lip to ear, hung for an instant and passed on.
    “A thousand pounds.”
    “Try five.”
    “He’s cool enough.”
    “Make room, for Dame Fortune stands at his shoulder.”
    “Again!” said several voices at once, as the tiger once more passed to him, creating a still larger pile of counters. Carleton looked only at his cards, save an infrequent glance at the other players and Lord Framstead, who had taken a seat but who did not play. No one else seemed to want to take his place.
    The three others were wealthy men, who could lose thousands of pounds each and scarcely feel it. Yet, one sweated profusely, one’s cheeks had become a trifle leaner as the game progressed and the other sat preternaturally still, save for the slow movements of his right hand.
    “Last round, I think, gentlemen?” Sir Carleton said. He turned his head to summon Grabelein. Suddenly, he noticed how hot the room was and the smell of the sweat rising from the excited men nearby. He was also conscious of a great thirst warring with exhaustion.
    “I trust. Sir Carleton, a draft on my bank, Messrs. Clement, Tugwell, and Mackenzie, in the High Street, will be acceptable to you?” That was Grabelein, only his precise English marking him as a foreigner.
    “Of course.”
    “If you will accompany me to my office, I shall draw it up without delay.” The proprietor summoned a liveried footman to come and collect Sir Carleton’s winnings.
    With a glance at Lord Framstead, Carleton excused himself from the table. Several men reached out to brush his sleeve as he passed. Walking away, he was aware of a concerted rush to