Diane Gaston - A Reputation for Notoriety

Ned leaned forwards. ‘You make your living by playing cards now, is that not correct?’

‘Essentially,’ Rhys admitted.

He’d learned to play cards at school, like every proper schoolboy, but he’d become a gambler on the streets of London. Gambling had been how he’d survived. It was still how he survived. He had become skilled at it out of necessity, earning enough to purchase his commission. Now that the war was over his winnings fed the foundation of a respectable fortune. Never again would his pockets be empty and his belly aching with hunger. He would be a success at … something. He did not know yet precisely what. Manufacturing, perhaps. Creating something useful, something more important than a winning hand of cards.

Hugh huffed in annoyance. ‘Get on with it, Ned. Enough of this dancing around.’ Hugh had always been the one to throw the first fist.

Ned looked directly into Rhys’s eyes. ‘We need your help, Rhys. We need your skill.’

‘At playing cards?’ That seemed unlikely.

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Ned rubbed his face. ‘We have a proposition for you. A business proposition. One we believe will be to your advantage, as well.’

Did they think him a fool? Eons would pass before he’d engage in business with any Westleigh.

Rhys’s skin heated with anger. ‘I have no need of a business proposition. I’ve done quite well …’ he paused ‘… since I was left on my own.’

‘Enough, Ned.’ Hugh’s face grew red with emotion. He turned to Rhys. ‘Our family is on the brink of disaster—’

Ned broke in, his voice calmer, more measured. ‘Our father has been … reckless … in his wagering, his spending—’

‘He’s been reckless in everything!’ Hugh threw up his hands. ‘We are punting on the River Tick because of him.’

Earl Westleigh in grave debt? Now that was a turn of affairs.

Although aristocrats in severe debt tended to have abundantly more than the poor in the street. Ned and Hugh would never experience what Rhys knew of hunger and loneliness and despair.

He forced away the memory of those days lest he reveal how they nearly killed him.

‘What can this have to do with me?’ he asked in a mild tone.

‘We need money—a great deal of it—and as quickly as possible,’ Hugh said.

Rhys laughed at the irony. ‘Earl Westleigh wishes to borrow money from me?’

‘Not borrow money,’ Ned clarified. ‘Help us make money.’

Hugh made an impatient gesture. ‘We want you to set up a gaming house for us. Run the place. Help us make big profits quickly.’

Ned’s reasonable tone was grating on Rhys’s nerves. On Hugh’s, too, Rhys guessed.

Ned continued. ‘Our reasoning is thus—if our father can lose a fortune in gaming hells, we should be able to recover a fortune by running one.’ He opened his palms. ‘Only we cannot be seen to be running one, even if we knew how. Which we do not. It would throw too much suspicion on our situation, you see, and that would cause our creditors to become impatient.’ He smiled at Rhys. ‘But you could do it. You have the expertise and … and there would not be any negative consequences for you.’

Except risking arrest, Rhys thought.

Although he could charge for membership. Call it a club, then it would be legal—

Rhys stopped himself. He was not going to run a gaming hell for the Westleighs.

‘We need you,’ Hugh insisted.

Were they mad? They’d scorned him his whole life. Now they expected him to help them?

Rhys drained the contents of his glass and looked from one to the other. ‘You need me, but I do not need you.’

Hugh half rose from his chair. ‘Our father supported you and your mother. You owe him. He sent you to school. Think of what would have happened if he had not!’

Rhys glared at him, only a year younger than his own thirty years. ‘Think of what my mother’s life might have been like if the earl had not seduced her.’

She might have married. She might have found respectability and happiness instead of bearing the burden of a child out of wedlock.

She might have lived.

Rhys turned away and pushed down the grief for his mother. It never entirely left him.

Ned persisted. ‘Rhys, I do not blame you for despising our father or us, but our welfare is not the main issue. Countless people, some known to you, depend upon our family for their livelihood. The servants. The tenant farmers. The stable workers. The village and all its people in some fashion depend upon the Westleigh estate to be profitable. Too soon we will not be able to meet the expenses of planting. Like a house of cards, everything is in danger of collapsing and it is the people of Westleigh who will suffer the most dire of consequences.’

Rhys curled his fingers into fists. ‘Do not place upon my shoulders the damage done by the earl. It has nothing to do with me.’

‘You are our last resort,’ Hugh implored. ‘We’ve tried leasing the estate, but in these hard times, no one is forthcoming.’

Farming was going through difficult times, that was true. The war left much financial hardship in its wake. There was plenty of unrest and protest around the country about the Corn Laws keeping grain prices high, but, without the laws, more farms would fold.

All the more reason the earl should have exercised prudence instead of profligacy.

‘Leave me out of it.’

‘We cannot leave you out of it!’ Hugh jumped to his feet and paced the room. ‘We need you. Do you not hear me? You must do this for us!’

‘Hugh, you are not helping.’ Ned also rose.

Rhys stood and faced them both. ‘Words our father once spoke to me, I will repeat to you. I am under no obligation to do anything for you .’ He turned away and walked over to the decanter of brandy, pouring himself another glass. ‘Our conversation is at an end.’

There was no sound of them moving towards the door. Rhys turned and faced them once again. ‘You need to leave me, gentlemen. Go now, or, believe me, I am quite capable of tossing you both out.’

Hugh took a step towards him. ‘I should like to see you try!’

Ned pulled him away. ‘We are leaving. We are leaving. But I do beg you to reconsider. This could bring you a fortune. We have enough to finance the start of it. All we need is—’

Rhys lowered his voice. ‘Go.’

Ned dragged his brother to the door. They gathered their hats and gloves and left the rooms.

Rhys stared at the door long after their footsteps faded in the hallway.

MacEvoy appeared. ‘Do you need anything, sir?’

Rhys shook his head. ‘Nothing, MacEvoy. You do not need to attend me.’

MacEvoy left again and Rhys downed his brandy. He poured himself another glass, breathing as heavy as if he’d run a league.

He almost wished Hugh had swung at him. He’d have relished planting a fist in the man’s face, a face too disturbingly similar to his own.

A knock sounded at the door and Rhys strode over and swung it open. ‘I told you to be gone!’

‘Whoa!’ Xavier raised his hands. ‘They are gone.’

Rhys stepped aside. ‘What were you doing? Lurking in the hallway?’

‘Precisely.’ Xavier entered the room. ‘I could not wait a moment longer to hear what they wanted.’

Rhys poured another glass of brandy and handed it to his friend. ‘Have a seat. You will not believe this, I assure you.’

Sending away the Westleighs ought to have been the end of it. Rhys ought to have concentrated on his cards that night rather than observe the workings of the gaming hell on St James’s Street. He ought to have slept well without his thoughts racing.

Over the next few days, though, he visited as many gambling establishments as he could, still playing cards, but taking in everything from the arrangements of the tables, the quality of the meals, the apparent profitability of the various games.