Read Online Althea by Madeleine E. Robins - Free Book Online Page B

eye that boded ill for no one but himself.
    At one table, Sir Tracy Calendar, having won a substantial
pile of money from Lord Sefton, was now engaged in conversation with him and
Lord Petersham. As Francis Bevan entered the room, Lord Petersham had just
finished one of his distracting daydreams about tea admixtures, to the great
amusement of his friends, and it was this momentary lapse in the conversation that
permitted Calendar to notice Bevan’s arrival. He also noticed the man’s
unsteady gait and flushed face.
    Sir Tracy excused himself and approached Bevan. Francis, who
expected to be reprimanded again as he had been by Alvanley, stiffened and
glared at Calendar, who mildly asked if Lord Bevan was interested in a game of
hazard. All Francis’s stiffness relaxed so suddenly it was comical; he had
expected a set-down and had received, instead, an invitation to play with a
notable gamester! The wine and this particular new bit of consequence puffed
Francis’s confidence greatly, and he accepted with alacrity. Had he been more
sober or less headstrong, he might have demurred, for he was too well
acquainted with Calendar’s reputation and with his own ill-fortune to chance
such a meeting ordinarily. Tonight he was to be as unheeding as anyone — as
Maria, in fact.
    Tracy, for some vaguely philanthropic reason, found himself
playing hazard with a slightly inebriated and moody Francis Bevan. From the
moment he had seen Bevan’s eyes across the room, Tracy had been sure that the
man was set on some sort of ruin and was seized with an untraceable insight
that told him it might be better for the young man to lose to someone less
punctual in matters of play and pay — to himself, that is — than to one of the
professional gamesters present, who would doubtless bleed the young lord for
all he was worth.
    He was amused and pleased by the stoic way Lord Bevan
insisted on taking his losses. For all he could do was lose, writing vouchers
finally for large sums. Although Tracy thought it might be a good idea, he
could not ask that no more wine be served without, he thought wryly, Bevan’s
calling him out. So on they continued, with the pile of vouchers growing as the
night progressed, and Sir Tracy wondering what sort of despair Bevan must be
feeling at his night’s work.
    Francis’s elation at the very fact of Calendar’s invitation
very quickly subsided, leaving only a stubborn intent to continue playing.
Francis was not a gambler by nature so much as by habit; as he was so
shockingly bad at it, he was often scolded for his social gaming by his agent
and his wife. Tonight, however, he was possessed by a need to gamble, not so
much for the intoxication with chance as for the reckless feeling of abandonment
it afforded him. It was very late when Calendar, pleading fatigue, suggested
they end the game and gave Francis the total of his vouchers. Francis did not
reply to the staggering figure but only turned pale. After a moment or two he
said that he would send a draft on his bank the next day, to which Calendar
replied that there was no hurry — thirty days was more than sufficient time —
as it was only the beginning of the new quarter, he did not doubt but that Lord
Bevan would be prompt.
    Francis could only thank him and leave the club, his head
buzzing and his heart sinking, as he repeated to himself the figure Calendar
had given. He was not yet sober but was becoming so with disastrous rapidity.
All that was left was to return home, submit himself to the ministrations of
his sleepy valet, and fall into a deep, uneasy slumber, dreading tomorrow’s
reckoning and cursing the night entirely.
    Sir Tracy Calendar, having left Lord Bevan, spoke for a few
minutes with Mr. Brummell and Lord Petersham, then took his leave, preferring
to walk rather than to call a chair or ride. He was surprised at his behavior
tonight but felt he must not refine too closely upon it. After all, Bevan did
not ordinarily game so freely. It would