had never seen such a thing in his many years of sampling London’s entertainments. He didn’t know he could still be surprised—which was both alarming and intriguing.
The carriage drove past the queue on the way to the front door. He, Langdon, and Ellingsworth got out of the vehicle, then stood in the street, looking at the latest in gambling establishments.
“I’m not getting in line,” Alex stated flatly. The very idea that a duke would queue up like a clerk buying his luncheon was utterly foreign.
“That’s not a concern,” Langdon assured him. Leading the way, he ascended the front steps and approached a man in green livery.
“Back of the line,” the doorman said without looking at Langdon.
Langdon scowled. “I was here yesterday! With my friend.” He shook Ellingsworth by the shoulder.
“Back of the line,” the servant intoned. “Got to make room for fresh faces, fresh blunt.”
“We brought a new face with plenty of blunt,” Ellingsworth insisted. He pointed at a very irritated Alex. “This is the Duke of Greyland.”
At last, the doorman’s impassive façade cracked. His eyes widened as he reached behind him to open the door. “Right this way, Your Grace.”
“And my friends,” Alex said coolly as the other people in the queue shifted and muttered in discontent.
“May of course enter.” The doorman waved them forward.
Alex climbed the steps, then entered a foyer where another liveried servant took his coat, hat, and walking stick. The servant performed the same task for Ellingsworth and Langdon.
“Ah, Your Grace! My lords!” A man of middle years with silvering hair and an extremely amiable countenance came striding forward, his hands outstretched as if welcoming old friends even though Alex had never met the man before. Somehow, word must have already reached him from the front of the house that a duke and two other noblemen were in attendance. “Welcome! All of you are most welcome to my humble establishment.”
Humble wasn’t quite the word Alex would have used to describe the place. From the foyer, he could see into a large chamber adorned with crystal chandeliers, shining brass fixtures, equestrian paintings, and curtains fringed with gold braid. It was a cross between Carlton House and a brothel—though the two weren’t all that different from each other.
“I am Martin Hamish,” the proprietor continued, a hint of Scottish burr in his voice. “And this institution of fortune is at your disposal.” Hamish snapped his fingers, and a footman appeared with three glasses of sparkling wine, which Langdon and Ellingsworth immediately seized. Alex slowly picked up the remaining glass and sipped at the wine. He was pleasantly surprised to find it of an excellent vintage.
Hamish waved his hand toward the main gaming hall. “We have hazard, vingt-et-un, faro, which was quite favorable toward Lord Langdon. Plenty of excellent food and drink. I employ a cook straight from the court of poor Louis XVI. Lord Ellingsworth most particularly enjoyed our lemon cakes yesterday.” He beamed at them. “Trust me, Your Grace, my lords, you will find no more pleasant way to spend an evening than under my roof.”
Alex nodded at Hamish, then ambled toward the large gaming hall.
Ellingsworth turned to him. “Stake me a hundred pounds.”
“What? No,” Alex said immediately. He had the money, but he’d seen his young friend lose cash like raindrops in a cupped hand. Ellingsworth went through his quarterly allowance at an alarming rate.
“Then give me five thousand pounds,” Ellingsworth said easily.
“Did you secretly imbibe a cask of whiskey on our way here?” Alex demanded.
His friend rolled his eyes. “I’m sober.” He thought about it for a moment. “Mostly.” He exhaled. “The hundred pounds would set me up at the tables so I could win that five thousand.”
“Which you need because . . . ?”
“I have a project I’m working on.” Ellingsworth grinned. “A secret project.”
Alex could just imagine what folly his friend wanted to finance. “An expensive secret.”
Langdon dug into his coat pocket and produced a hundred-pound note. He held it out to Ellingsworth. “Enjoy, old man.”
“My thanks.” Ellingsworth grabbed the money and hurried off toward the tables.
“First of all,” Alex said with exasperation, “what the hell are you doing walking around with that much cash on your person? You’re a duke’s heir.”
Langdon shrugged. “Most underground gaming in London is cash only. They’re not interested in my vowels, duke’s heir or no. Your other question . . . ?”
“Why on earth did you give Ellingsworth the hundred pounds? He’s just going to lose. He usually does.”
“He’s my friend, Greyland.” Langdon smiled faintly. “It costs me little to make him happy for a few hours. Mayhap you ought to consider the price of your own happiness.” With that, Langdon ambled off.
Shaking his head at his youthful friends, Alex stood alone and surveyed the chamber. Unlike at some gaming hells, this unnamed one permitted women as well as men to risk their fortunes. Jeweled diadems and plumes were as plentiful as stickpins and Brutus-styled hair. Perfume, sweat, and alcohol scented the noisy air as the guests clamored at the various card and dice tables. More servants in green constantly moved through the room, bearing trays of food and drink.
He moved deeper into the room, taking his time, assessing. Perhaps Alex might be able to carry through with his plan and forget himself for a while in this place. Let slip the tether that always bound him.
By nature, he wasn’t a man given to gambling. It was the curse of his class, the need to wager outrageous sums on nearly anything. The betting book at White’s was proof of that. And this gaming hell was, too.
The large vaulted chamber was packed with patrons eager to know the thrill of a bet, the highs of winning and the crushing despair of a loss. Boredom ran riot amongst aristocrats, especially now that Bonaparte had been exiled to St. Helena, never to escape again. That boredom bred a need for sensation, for emotion. Alex had never felt this ennui, too busy with his responsibilities, but he knew several who did. Ellingsworth and Langdon were two of many men hungry for experience in the midst of privilege. Langdon, especially, seemed to thrive on challenge and danger.
Alex was slightly older, and perhaps he flattered himself to think he was wiser, too. But what had that gotten him?
He took a step toward the hazard table. The hell with it. Time to give up some of his control. Sink his teeth into the meat of life.
Yet before he made it to the table, he saw more than a few of the patrons looking in his direction. Some of them were whispering behind hands and fans. A few glanced at him with that dreaded emotion: pity.
He threw back the last of his wine. Damn and hell, was there nowhere he could go to feel at ease?
If they wanted something to talk about, by the devil, he’d give them enough ammunition to set their chins wagging for the next decade.
He stalked to a vingt-et-un table. People’s gazes and whispers followed him. The Duke of Greyland never gambled. Tonight, he would.
He wagered wildly, heedless of his cards. Wins and losses piled up, until he no longer cared how much money he’d lost or gained. It could have been a pittance, or a fortune. What did it matter?
A small crowd gathered, watching with barely concealed amazement.
“He’s gone mad,” someone whispered.
“The chit broke his sense,” another answered.
He moved to place another substantial, careless