Page 30
Story: A Lady’s Gambit
As he passed Mr. Phillips, Drake lifted his pointer finger from the glass in his hand—just enough to indicate the table in question, without drawing notice from any but the intended observer.
Mr. Phillips responded with a slight nod and allowed himself one more moment’s survey of the chamber before moving inward, bearing the manner of a gentleman in search of nothing more than modest amusement on a cool autumn evening.
He decided it would be unwise to press the moment, and so he lingered at the periphery of play, watching long enough to be certain that Vale had taken note of him.
When their eyes met, Phillips offered a discreet nod.
Vale returned a grin he meant to pass for a smile.
Cobb was nowhere in sight—neither seated at the table nor standing nearby.
Satisfied for the moment, Phillips withdrew with care. If Vale had him in mind as a prospective mark, he would be the one to make the approach. Better to appear disinterested, to make the bait less conspicuous.
With measured steps, Phillips made his way toward the table where Downey sat conversing with the silk merchant. Reaching the table, Mr. Phillips offered a courteous bow. “Gentlemen,” he said, “might I join you for a moment, if it would not disturb your conversation? I am Mr. Phillips.”
The older gentleman looked up with a composed nod. “Not at all, Mr. Phillips. We are only passing the time. I am Mr. Holcombe,” he said, with a brief glance at his companion, “and this is my new acquaintance, Mr. Downey.”
Downey inclined his head with polite neutrality, betraying no sign of recognition.
Mr. Phillips took the offered seat. “A pleasure, I am sure. The house seems busy this evening—I confess I was drawn more by the quiet in this corner than by any hope of strong cards.”
“I see no wrong in a card game with pleasant company,” Mr. Holcombe replied with a mild, benevolent smile. “Even if the cards prove reluctant to cooperate.”
The room carried the low hum of cards being shuffled, coins clicking against polished wood, and the murmured discourse of men who believed their affairs to be above reproach.
Cobb arrived not long after in the club, sweeping in with his usual self-assurance. He left his coat and passed through the room slowly, nodding to footmen and lingering just long enough near Vale’s table for a brief word with him. Phillips watched this movement with faint interest.
“It seems we are nearly at full muster,” Mr. Holcombe remarked mildly, his gaze unreadable as he observed the interplay with the detachment of a man watching a play unfold.
Mr. Phillips responded with equal calm. “One might think the hour has brought out every gentleman in London seeking his fortune.”
Vale and Cobb, having exchanged a few quiet words near the gaming table, turned toward the one where Mr. Phillips, Mr. Holcombe, and Mr. Downey were seated. Their approach was measured, their expressions blandly sociable.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Vale said easily as they neared. “What a pleasure to meet you again. Might there be room for two more among such well-appointed company?”
Cobb gave a short bow, more flourish than warmth. “We find ourselves between tables and thought to impose—if the company permits.”
Mr. Holcombe’s smile did not waver. “Certainly. Mr. Vale. I promised Mr. Cobb a chance to recover his losses, is it not?”
“You do me honor, sir,” Cobb replied with a slight inclination of the head. “At your service.”
As the senior gentleman at the table, Mr. Holcombe turned with unhurried ease toward the others. “Allow me to complete the circle: this gentleman is Mr. Downey—new to the club, but not to the game, I assume. And beside me, Mr. Phillips, whose good fortune I should try to distrust all evening.”
Vale gave a gracious nod first to Downey, then to Phillips. “An honor, Mr. Downey. Mr. Phillips and I crossed paths last night, but I’m pleased to meet you both at a more—leisurely table.”
Cobb followed with a slight inclination of the head. “Indeed. A pleasure, gentlemen.”
As chairs were drawn and introductions exchanged with due civility, Mr. Drake approached with the manner of a man who had never hurried in his life. He carried a freshly filled glass and the trace of a smile.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said with an affable nod to Vale, Cobb, and Phillips—the only ones he was supposed to know. “I trust I do not intrude?”
“Not in the least,” Mr. Phillips said, gesturing toward the final seat. “Let me do the honors. Mr. Drake—permit me to introduce Mr. Holcombe and Mr. Downey.”
Mr. Drake offered a shallow bow. “A pleasure, gentlemen.”
“Likewise,” said Mr. Holcombe, with a nod.
Mr. Downey met his gaze briefly. “Welcome, sir.”
With the circle now complete, the group settled into a moment of stillness—the brief, courteous pause before the cards were drawn and the night’s true game began.
Drake took the final empty seat without any further invitation, offering a casual nod to Phillips and Downey. “Evening, gentlemen.”
Cards were fetched by a footman. Each gentleman drew a single card to determine who would begin. Cobb revealed the lowest, and with a nod of reluctant amusement, reached for the deck and began to shuffle.
“Shall we make it Commerce, gentlemen?” Vale said with a genial smile. “Six hands at the table, and no shortage of courage. Might we ask for counters?”
“Of course,” Mr. Holcombe nodded with evident approval.
At the signal, the attendant bowed slightly and withdrew. Within moments, he returned with a polished wooden tray bearing six neat stacks of ivory counters, which he placed with practiced grace at the center of the table.
The players reached forward to claim their shares, the air around them quieting as the rhythm of the game began to form—light conversation, the soft clatter of counters, and the shuffle of cards weaving together into something that looked, from a distance, like mere leisure.
But at this table, no hand was idle. Every gesture meant more than it showed. Mr. Drake caught Mr. Downey's eye for a fraction of a second. The match had begun.
The first rounds passed with the practiced ease of seasoned players. Wins and losses fell with the usual randomness, no fortunes made or broken, no hands too bold. To the casual observer, it was simply a table of gentlemen passing the evening in amiable diversion.
But a keener eye might have noticed how Vale and Cobb, though seated apart, moved in quiet harmony—trading glances, folding hands in turn, and never pressing the game too far.
They preferred modest wins or graceful withdrawals, as though waiting for a signal only they could read.
It was clear they had not yet settled on their quarry.
Whether it would be the older gentleman with the sharp eyes and mild smile, or the gentleman from the previous night with the steady hand and unreadable face—neither had made a false move.
Then came a shift.
The wagers began to rise—slowly at first, in careful increments.
Vale raised once, and Cobb followed in the next hand.
Mr. Holcombe, seemingly untroubled, met each increase without hesitation, his expression neutral, his counters sliding forward with unstudied calm.
He was not the one driving the game forward—but he did not resist the pace.
Mr. Holcombe, glancing over his cards with the faintest flicker of satisfaction, raised again. “A little more interest, gentlemen? I believe this hand warrants the risk.”
A murmur of assent passed around the table. The counters slid forward.
Vale did not object. Nor did Cobb. They had been patient—and now their mark was playing along.
The game tipped quietly into higher stakes—one hundred and twenty pounds.
The trap was wise. It was not a single-hand bet, rather a cumulative stake.
That made it still legal, although disguised.
Outside the usual legal tolerance, but quite a tempting amount for fraudsters.
The game was flowing just as they wished.
And without knowing it, Mr. Holcombe had stepped into the role they had laid bare: that of the evening’s unsuspecting victim.
Phillips watched—each card, each glance, each hesitation—adding up to a pattern only he understood.
According to the Gaming Act of 1664, all wagers exceeding £100 were considered void—regardless of outcome. If a man lost more than that amount, he could not be legally compelled to pay it, and no court would enforce the debt.
The Act of 1710 went further: anyone who won more than £10 in a single wager could be sued by the loser to recover the sum—along with treble damages.
Likewise, if a man lost more than £10 within twenty-four hours, the law entitled him to reclaim it by action; and if he failed to do so within three months, a third party could bring the case on his behalf.
The swindlers knew this, of course. That was why they schemed carefully—combining winnings with loans, disguising stakes, and manufacturing obligations under the guise of private debts. It was a trick designed not only to multiply profit, but to make the final sum appear lawful and enforceable.
But cheating—or even collusion—rendered the entire debt not merely void, but criminal. And that was where Mr. Phillips found his leverage. By invoking the very laws the scoundrels had sought to skirt, he could turn their own scheme against them—and reclaim control of the matter.
Therefore, for Mr. Phillips, that flicker of satisfaction of the silk merchant was not enough. It was not the expression of a man holding three Aces—too cautious, too deliberate. If the man had truly held the highest hand in the game, he would have shown more confidence, not calculation.
Phillips studied his own hand: two Kings and a Nine. That knowledge alone eliminated the possibility that any man at the table could truthfully hold three Kings, which perhaps left a straight or flush—or, most likely, three Queens.
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