grin.
* * * *
The smell of tobacco and gin blended with the smoke from poorly trimmed candlewicks that cast their flickering light around the crowded gaming hell. Rough looking men with broken noses and missing pieces of ears presided over the green baize tables scattered around the large, low-ceilinged room. Faro. Whist. Macao. Hazard. Whatever game of chance a sporting blood wished, Wheatie offered. Cold-eyed professional gamblers played alongside rowdy young toffs from the better part of town. The laughter of garishly dressed females punctuated the low murmur of men placing bets.
Drum had brought Jason here after the debacle at the ball earlier that evening. The little dandy insisted that it would take his friend's mind off his troubles and related how he and Alex Blackthorne had met at Wheatie’s tables. The aura of danger appealed to Jason. He gambled recklessly, with Drum watching his back and rationing the amount of blue ruin he consumed. Always lucky at cards, Beaumont found himself winning steadily before the night was over. But the pile of blunt on the table in front of him did nothing to assuage his restlessness.
“I'm becoming afflicted with what you English call the Lombard fever,” he said to Drum.
“Tis nearly dawn,” his companion replied, studying the whites of Jason's eyes, which by this time resembled red ink on a bankruptcy ledger. Several of the gamesters around the table muttered about the American toff quitting while he was so far ahead, but one quelling look from Drummond made them subside in surly acquiescence.
Stuffing several guineas into the cleavage of his blond companion's gown, Jason whispered, “With thanks for bringing me luck.”
“Aw, luv, if you goes 'ome wi' me, I promise yer luck ain't goin' ta run out anytime soon,” she cooed, brushing her large white breasts against his arm.
He shook his head. “Sorry, Ginnie,” he said, hoping that was her name. It was late, and he was well on his way to being foxed. Besides, in addition to giving him luck that wouldn't “run out anytime soon,” he suspected that if he went with her, the wench would probably give him something else that wouldn't “run out anytime soon.” One night with Venus, a lifetime with mercury!
“Let us depart, then,” Drum interjected, taking his much larger charge's arm. He was used to squiring brash young foreigners about the dangerous haunts of London.
Shortly they were on the narrow, dark street in front of Wheatie's, ready to walk until they could find a jarvey to take them home. Hack drivers seldom ventured into such dangerous parts of the city. It proved to be a long and sobering walk. As they neared the more civilized confines of the West End, Drum described how his friend Joss' fighting dog had once knocked Alex Blackthorne across a marble foyer, riding his chest like a sled. Jason threw back his head to laugh just as a shot whistled past his nose.
Instantly both men crouched, weapons drawn as they moved quickly into the shadows.
“A near thing, that,” Drum whispered, his eyes scouring the dark alleyway. “Be still. There may be another lurking,” he cautioned.
“He'll get away—and I'm bloody tired of being used for target practice,” Jason replied, shaking off his friend's hand and running toward the alley.
“Little wonder your ship was all but shot out from under you,” Drum murmured softly. He had his Egg pistol in one hand and a deadly sword cane in the other.
Within moments, it became clear that the attacker had escaped into a warren of old buildings housing several hundred of the city's poorest inhabitants. They made their way back to more familiar territory, where Jason flagged down a jarvey and gave directions to Drum's lodgings.
The little dandy was not to be deterred
* * * *
The smell of tobacco and gin blended with the smoke from poorly trimmed candlewicks that cast their flickering light around the crowded gaming hell. Rough looking men with broken noses and missing pieces of ears presided over the green baize tables scattered around the large, low-ceilinged room. Faro. Whist. Macao. Hazard. Whatever game of chance a sporting blood wished, Wheatie offered. Cold-eyed professional gamblers played alongside rowdy young toffs from the better part of town. The laughter of garishly dressed females punctuated the low murmur of men placing bets.
Drum had brought Jason here after the debacle at the ball earlier that evening. The little dandy insisted that it would take his friend's mind off his troubles and related how he and Alex Blackthorne had met at Wheatie’s tables. The aura of danger appealed to Jason. He gambled recklessly, with Drum watching his back and rationing the amount of blue ruin he consumed. Always lucky at cards, Beaumont found himself winning steadily before the night was over. But the pile of blunt on the table in front of him did nothing to assuage his restlessness.
“I'm becoming afflicted with what you English call the Lombard fever,” he said to Drum.
“Tis nearly dawn,” his companion replied, studying the whites of Jason's eyes, which by this time resembled red ink on a bankruptcy ledger. Several of the gamesters around the table muttered about the American toff quitting while he was so far ahead, but one quelling look from Drummond made them subside in surly acquiescence.
Stuffing several guineas into the cleavage of his blond companion's gown, Jason whispered, “With thanks for bringing me luck.”
“Aw, luv, if you goes 'ome wi' me, I promise yer luck ain't goin' ta run out anytime soon,” she cooed, brushing her large white breasts against his arm.
He shook his head. “Sorry, Ginnie,” he said, hoping that was her name. It was late, and he was well on his way to being foxed. Besides, in addition to giving him luck that wouldn't “run out anytime soon,” he suspected that if he went with her, the wench would probably give him something else that wouldn't “run out anytime soon.” One night with Venus, a lifetime with mercury!
“Let us depart, then,” Drum interjected, taking his much larger charge's arm. He was used to squiring brash young foreigners about the dangerous haunts of London.
Shortly they were on the narrow, dark street in front of Wheatie's, ready to walk until they could find a jarvey to take them home. Hack drivers seldom ventured into such dangerous parts of the city. It proved to be a long and sobering walk. As they neared the more civilized confines of the West End, Drum described how his friend Joss' fighting dog had once knocked Alex Blackthorne across a marble foyer, riding his chest like a sled. Jason threw back his head to laugh just as a shot whistled past his nose.
Instantly both men crouched, weapons drawn as they moved quickly into the shadows.
“A near thing, that,” Drum whispered, his eyes scouring the dark alleyway. “Be still. There may be another lurking,” he cautioned.
“He'll get away—and I'm bloody tired of being used for target practice,” Jason replied, shaking off his friend's hand and running toward the alley.
“Little wonder your ship was all but shot out from under you,” Drum murmured softly. He had his Egg pistol in one hand and a deadly sword cane in the other.
Within moments, it became clear that the attacker had escaped into a warren of old buildings housing several hundred of the city's poorest inhabitants. They made their way back to more familiar territory, where Jason flagged down a jarvey and gave directions to Drum's lodgings.
The little dandy was not to be deterred
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