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Authors: Georgette Heyer
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across the table.
The red-faced gentleman seated midway down the table opposite Lord Rupert Alastair looked under his brows at the Marquis, and said loud enough to be heard: “I’d say it was time another man held the bank. This is a damned one-sided game.”
His neighbour, Mr. Bowling, saw the glitter in the Marquis’s eye, and nudged him warningly. “Easy, now, easy, Montague,” he said quietly. “Ever known the luck to run evenly?”
Someone standing amongst the spectators said beneath his breath: “Vidal’s three parts drunk. There’ll be trouble soon.”
Drunk the Marquis might be, but his speech and intellect were unimpaired. He lay back in his chair, one hand in his breeches pocket, the other with its long fingers curled round the stem of his wineglass; and his hard stare challenged the dissatisfied player. “Had enough, Quarles?”
The tone was an insult. Mr. Fox took snuff, and looked sideways under the incredible arch of his brows. Lord Rupert picked up the dice-box. “Ah, you’re wasting tune. I’ll call seven.” He threw and lost. “Rabbit it, I’ve called ’em for the last hour, and the cursed dice turn up aces and threes.”
Montague Quarles said with bitter distinctness: “Enough? No, by God, but let someone else hold the bank! What do you say, gentlemen?” He looked round the table, but met with no response till Lord Cholmondley said gruffly: “I’m satisfied. Egad, I hope we know how to stand against a run of bad luck. Too much talk, is what I say.”
The Marquis was still looking at Montague Quarles. “There’s a matter of some four thousand pounds in the bank. Throw you for it.”
“Come, that’s fair enough!” declared a bluff man on the Marquis’s left.
Mr. Quarles said angrily: “Damned if I will! Not against you, my lord!”
“My God, do we sit all night arguing?” Bowling cried. “Let’s be done with this!” He took up the dice-box, called a main and threw. Vidal pushed a little pile of guineas towards him, and the game went on.
Money passed backwards and forwards, but the bank was still an easy winner at the end of a couple of hours’ play. The Marquis was drinking steadily. So were several others, notably Mr. Quarles, whose scowl deepened with each glass. On the Marquis the wine seemed to have little or no effect, His hand was steady enough, and there was only that glitter in his eyes to betray to one who knew him how much he had drunk.
My Lord Rupert, another heavy drinker, had reached the rollicking stage, and was sitting with his wig askew. Mr. Fox had broached his second bottle, and seemed somnolent. My Lord Rupert won a little, lost again, and called up the table to his nephew: “Rot you, Vidal, this is poor sport! Quicken the game, my boy!”
“Take the bank, Rupert?”
My lord pulled his pocket linings out, and began to count the guineas that lay before him. It was a difficult business. “I make it eleven,” he announced with a hiccough. “Can’t start a bank on ’leven guineas, Vidal. Can’t start bank at Timothy’s on less than sixty guineas.”
The Marquis said recklessly: “Raise you to two hundred, gentlemen.”
Mr. Fox nodded. Bowling pushed back his chair. “I’m out,” he said. “That’s too deep for me, Vidal.”
“Bank can’t win for ever,” the Marquis replied. “Stay the course, Jack, the night’s young yet.”
Mr. Bowling blinked at the clock on the far wall. “Young? I make it past four.”
“That’s young, ain’t it?” said Lord Rupert. “Four? Why, that’s devilish young!”
Mr. Bowling laughed. “Oh, I protest! I’m a man of sedate habits. Do you mean to take your breakfast here? I’m for my bed.”
“Sit it out!” recommended Lord Cholmondley. “We’ll break Vidal yet. Vidal! Is that bay mare by Sunshine out of Mad Molly still in your stables? I’ll stake my Blue Lightning against the mare I break your bank before six.”
The Marquis poured more wine. “Make it five, and I’ll take
The red-faced gentleman seated midway down the table opposite Lord Rupert Alastair looked under his brows at the Marquis, and said loud enough to be heard: “I’d say it was time another man held the bank. This is a damned one-sided game.”
His neighbour, Mr. Bowling, saw the glitter in the Marquis’s eye, and nudged him warningly. “Easy, now, easy, Montague,” he said quietly. “Ever known the luck to run evenly?”
Someone standing amongst the spectators said beneath his breath: “Vidal’s three parts drunk. There’ll be trouble soon.”
Drunk the Marquis might be, but his speech and intellect were unimpaired. He lay back in his chair, one hand in his breeches pocket, the other with its long fingers curled round the stem of his wineglass; and his hard stare challenged the dissatisfied player. “Had enough, Quarles?”
The tone was an insult. Mr. Fox took snuff, and looked sideways under the incredible arch of his brows. Lord Rupert picked up the dice-box. “Ah, you’re wasting tune. I’ll call seven.” He threw and lost. “Rabbit it, I’ve called ’em for the last hour, and the cursed dice turn up aces and threes.”
Montague Quarles said with bitter distinctness: “Enough? No, by God, but let someone else hold the bank! What do you say, gentlemen?” He looked round the table, but met with no response till Lord Cholmondley said gruffly: “I’m satisfied. Egad, I hope we know how to stand against a run of bad luck. Too much talk, is what I say.”
The Marquis was still looking at Montague Quarles. “There’s a matter of some four thousand pounds in the bank. Throw you for it.”
“Come, that’s fair enough!” declared a bluff man on the Marquis’s left.
Mr. Quarles said angrily: “Damned if I will! Not against you, my lord!”
“My God, do we sit all night arguing?” Bowling cried. “Let’s be done with this!” He took up the dice-box, called a main and threw. Vidal pushed a little pile of guineas towards him, and the game went on.
Money passed backwards and forwards, but the bank was still an easy winner at the end of a couple of hours’ play. The Marquis was drinking steadily. So were several others, notably Mr. Quarles, whose scowl deepened with each glass. On the Marquis the wine seemed to have little or no effect, His hand was steady enough, and there was only that glitter in his eyes to betray to one who knew him how much he had drunk.
My Lord Rupert, another heavy drinker, had reached the rollicking stage, and was sitting with his wig askew. Mr. Fox had broached his second bottle, and seemed somnolent. My Lord Rupert won a little, lost again, and called up the table to his nephew: “Rot you, Vidal, this is poor sport! Quicken the game, my boy!”
“Take the bank, Rupert?”
My lord pulled his pocket linings out, and began to count the guineas that lay before him. It was a difficult business. “I make it eleven,” he announced with a hiccough. “Can’t start a bank on ’leven guineas, Vidal. Can’t start bank at Timothy’s on less than sixty guineas.”
The Marquis said recklessly: “Raise you to two hundred, gentlemen.”
Mr. Fox nodded. Bowling pushed back his chair. “I’m out,” he said. “That’s too deep for me, Vidal.”
“Bank can’t win for ever,” the Marquis replied. “Stay the course, Jack, the night’s young yet.”
Mr. Bowling blinked at the clock on the far wall. “Young? I make it past four.”
“That’s young, ain’t it?” said Lord Rupert. “Four? Why, that’s devilish young!”
Mr. Bowling laughed. “Oh, I protest! I’m a man of sedate habits. Do you mean to take your breakfast here? I’m for my bed.”
“Sit it out!” recommended Lord Cholmondley. “We’ll break Vidal yet. Vidal! Is that bay mare by Sunshine out of Mad Molly still in your stables? I’ll stake my Blue Lightning against the mare I break your bank before six.”
The Marquis poured more wine. “Make it five, and I’ll take
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