Unbuttoning Miss Matilda. Lucy Ashford

sake, he’d been mad to even think he could make money from this venture—and now the place was even more of a wreck thanks to those villains who’d paid him a visit this afternoon! Pieces of broken pottery still lurked in every corner.

      And so, surrounded by fakery and memories, he sat there with a large glass of cheap red wine for company and steadily drank his way through it while playing with a well-worn pair of carved wooden dice, left hand versus right. That way, a soldier friend once told him, you never lose. You could also, Jack reflected, say that you never won, either.

      That particular friend had died in the French prison. Jack had survived, but he’d been wasting precious time ever since. He rubbed his hand tiredly through his wayward black hair, acknowledging that he had to pull himself together.

      After returning from France, he’d taken lodgings with some old soldier friends and started playing cards for money in various disreputable gambling dens. He had an excellent memory and the card sharps avoided him because he could always detect their cheating—but by God, it was a risky way of life because if you won too often you made bad enemies. Taking on Mr Percival’s small business had been an equally impetuous venture—and this afternoon’s encounter with that knife-wielding gang had forced him to admit that the shop had been a stupid idea from the start.

      His priority now was to claim back the Charlwood estate from Fitz, but he needed money to put any plan into action. Rifling through his pockets, he found only small change—but there was also an invitation card sent by an old army acquaintance to join him tonight at White’s. A visit to the exclusive gentlemen’s club might be just what Jack needed, because there would be gambling and the stakes would be high.

      It was now eight o’clock and the night was yet young. He drained his second glass of wine, then rose to prepare himself. Maybe he had sunk low. But from there the only way was up—and a little more money wouldn’t go amiss.

      * * *

      For the first couple of hours, his visit to the club in St James’s Street actually went rather well. There were quite a few former army officers present in addition to the friend who’d invited him and, once they’d all moved to the card tables, it wasn’t long before Jack started winning, though the sums he won weren’t vast. Being full of good intentions—quit while you’re ahead for once—he was about to pocket his profits and leave when someone else walked in.

      Fitz.

      ‘Ah,’ said Sir Henry Fitzroy. ‘The failed soldier. The card sharp—’

      Jack had already risen to his feet. ‘Say that again,’ he said softly, ‘if you dare.’

      Jack’s fellow officers were already on either side of him. ‘Careful, now,’ one of them murmured in Jack’s ear.

      Another was addressing Fitz. ‘Be prudent, sir. Rutherford tends to react rather badly to insults—’

      ‘Especially when they’re damned lies!’ Jack had shaken himself free. He said to Fitz, ‘I’ll tell you what. How about a game of piquet? Shall we set the stakes at say, five shillings a point?’

      The onlookers gasped at the amount. Jack’s friends shook their heads in dismay. Sir Henry Fitzroy said grimly, ‘With the utmost pleasure.’ Within minutes the word had spread and men came in from all parts of the club to watch.

      Jack won steadily at first—it was almost too easy, because he was more skilful at calculating the odds and knowing just how far to push his luck, whereas his opponent was a careless braggart. Heated and slightly flustered, Fitz kept throwing tricks away and turned far too often to his wineglass. But then Fitz started to win—slowly to begin with, then more and more steadily. Jack’s expression didn’t change as his own pile of chips grew smaller, though once the game drew to an end he rose to his feet.

      ‘I hope, Rutherford,’ Fitz drawled from his chair, ‘that you’re not thinking of leaving without paying your debts?’

      ‘The remainder of my cash is in my coat,’ Jack said calmly. ‘Which I left with the porter out in the lobby. If you’ll follow me there, I’ll settle up with you.’

      Jack led the way out of the room, but the minute they were outside and on their own he spun round and jabbed his finger at Fitz’s chest. ‘You were cheating. You treacherous, jumped-up apology for a man, you were cheating.’

      Fitz’s face was a little pale now. ‘That’s ridiculous! Just because you’re not as good a player as you thought you were...’

      ‘Your sleeve.’ Jack bit the words out. ‘You hid some cards up your right sleeve. Didn’t you?’ And before Fitz could move, Jack had grasped the cuff of his coat with one hand and was reaching up the sleeve with the other—to pull out half a dozen cards. Jack stepped back, splaying them scornfully in his hands. ‘Oh, Fitz,’ he said softly. ‘You just cannot bear to lose to a better man, can you?’

      Fitz was blustering. ‘That’s impossible. I don’t see how that can have happened...’

      Jack was gazing at him steadily. ‘Of course, I could have challenged you in there.’ He nodded towards the card room. ‘In front of all and sundry. But it would be rather bad form since you are, by great misfortune, my stepfather—so give me back the money you won and I’ll leave.’

      Fitz must have seen the deadly intent in Jack’s darkened eyes, because he reached into his pockets and handed the money over without a word. Jack took the coins and checked them. What a specimen. What a coward. Fitz, still perspiring, was looking around nervously as some other club members entered the lobby and hailed him by name.

      Jack said with scorn, ‘It’s all right, Fitz. I’m going now. As a matter of fact, I find that I’m in extreme need of some fresh air.’

       Chapter Five

      Jack walked all the way back to Paddington. It was late by now and cold yet clear—scattered stars could be glimpsed high above London’s rooftops—yet he wasn’t alone on the streets. True, most respectable folk were abed, but there were plenty of others for whom the night was yet young: drunken bucks who staggered along arm in arm singing bawdy songs, ladies of the night who loitered in search of customers, thieves who lurked down dark alleys. But all of them took one look at Jack’s dangerous expression and gave him a wide berth indeed.

      Once he was home Jack headed straight up to his attic bedroom where, after stripping off his coat and shirt, he poured cold water into a basin and used a well-soaked cloth to douse his face and shoulders. Reaching to wash his back, he winced briefly as the rough cloth skimmed the scars from the floggings he’d had in that French prison. They’d healed, but he knew he would always bear those marks, on his body and in his soul.

      He’d survived because of the secret prisoner exchange. But Fitz, the wretch, had convinced Jack’s mother that there had been a ransom note from the prison’s governor: ‘I saw the note, Jack!’ his mother had told him time and time again. ‘Even though it was in French, I was able to understand most of it. It said that unless your captors received five hundred guineas within two weeks, you would die in that dreadful place.’

      That letter had been forged by Fitz—Jack was sure of it. He was equally sure Fitz would have destroyed it as soon as Jack’s mother had married him. And he would never forget the look of outright triumph on Fitz’s face when the odious man first presented himself as Jack’s stepfather.

      ‘Were you looking forward to going home to Charlwood?’ Fitz had asked softly. ‘What a shame. The place is mine now—and you can rest assured that you will never set foot inside there again. Never. You understand me?’

      Jack towelled himself dry and realised he’d run out of brandy. Hell, he’d need a good dose of the stuff to help him sleep tonight. Then he remembered that the landlord of the alehouse along the road was always ready to sell a bottle to late-night customers, so after pulling his shirt