Page 19 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Everything is ready. We’ll see you at the club tonight.

Good Luck, Lars.

―Excerpt from a letter from Mr Leo Hunt (Son of Mr Nathanial and Mrs Alice Hunt) to The Hon’ble Larkin Weston.

12 th November 1850, The Sons of Hades, Portman Square, Marylebone, London.

“Evening, my fine fellows. How’s tricks?” Larkin slurred, falling heavily against the doorjamb as he arrived on the threshold of Leo’s private office at the Sons of Hades. He waved the bottle in his hand, peering blearily at the men awaiting him inside.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Leo said, the colour draining from his face as he surged to his feet.

“Oh, Christ,” Pip said, staring at Larkin in horror as he staggered into the room.

“Whassa matter?” Larkin asked, taking a slug from the bottle and swaying gently.

“You’re half seas over, that’s what!” Jules said furiously, getting up and walking over to glare at him. “Dammit, Larkin, you reek of whisky, and after all the bloody work we’ve done to—”

Larkin straightened up and grinned at them, having received exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. He’d always excelled at amateur dramatics as a young man at family events, and had been confident he could pull it off. “I’m not drunk,” he said, walking over to the desk and setting the bottle down upon it. He sat down in the chair Jules had just vacated, enjoying the bewildered glances his friends were exchanging. “I’m afraid I’ve had plenty of opportunity to refine my portrayal of a drunken lout. Rather too much personal experience and lived in the full glare of the public too,” he added ruefully, gesturing to his rumpled appearance. He’d not shaved that morning and put on the previous day’s wrinkled clothes, much to Barnes’ distress, who took his dishevelled appearance as a personal affront. He’d deliberately got soap in his eyes to make them bloodshot, which had stung like the devil, and then rubbed glycerine into his face to make it look sweaty. To cap it all, he’d then doused himself liberally with whisky before filling the empty bottle with cold tea.

Leo stared at him and then gave a bark of laughter, returning to his seat. “You’re going to make him think you’re bidding recklessly because you’re foxed,” he said, admiration in his eyes now. “Nice. Very nice indeed, and I tell you now, it couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow. I want that devil out of the club tonight and never to return.”

“Charming chap, is he?” Larkin asked, feeling anger rise in his chest as Leo pulled a face in answer. Larkin remembered the bastard’s audacity, the revelation that he had goaded a drunk and desperate man into playing too recklessly and could not wait to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Not only had he fleeced a man on the edge of his sanity of all he owned but had tried to force the grieving family’s beautiful young daughter to marry him. Oh, he was going to enjoy tonight and make certain Mr Jenkins rued the day he’d tangled with the Merrivale family. His family, he thought, with a sudden swell of protectiveness. For that was what they were now, as far as he was concerned. Aunt Connie might have found love and the protection only a husband could offer, but he knew Maggie. He knew she would not feel comfortable for long living on her aunt and uncle’s charity, no matter how pleased they were to offer it.

No. Maggie and Gideon were his to protect and love now, supposing they would allow him that privilege, and Caro too if that’s what she preferred. Somehow, Larkin suspected Aunt Connie would throw herself into fashion and the theatre and the excitement of her new world, which would probably appeal to the young lady, having been sheltered for all her life. He did not think that prospect would appeal to Maggie, though. All she wanted was to return to her beloved manor and bring up her son in the place she missed so desperately. Larkin meant to give her that chance, whether or not she wished to live that life with him. At least then, she would be free to choose.

A knock at the door revealed one of the staff who told them Mr Jenkins had arrived and was waiting for them. The game was on.

Larkin waited in the room next door as his friends filed in and greeted Mr Jenkins, congratulating him on winning the chance to play the owners of the Sons of Hades. They explained that membership was as rare as hen’s teeth but, if he beat them all, they would give him that privilege. A privilege it was too, for not only did one need to be fabulously wealthy to gain entry, but to meet a set of criteria that no one in the ton had yet to fathom. For the sons did not judge upon breeding and who you knew, but upon whether they deemed any man decent, honourable, and a person with whom they would willingly sit down and spend a couple of hours in company. Entry to their elite world would open doors at which Jenkins could not even guess.

Larkin listened, lip curling, as Mr Jenkins tried to ingratiate himself to Jules. As the Marquess of Blackstone, he was the highest ranking of them all, and Larkin did not doubt that Jenkins had done his homework, discovering who was who, and might be of use to him. It was nothing new, of course, and how their world worked, but his toadying only made Larkin itch to get this night over with.

“But we’re one short, aren’t we?” Jenkins asked. “Mr Weston is still one of you, is he not? Won’t he be joining us?”

Larkin smiled as he imagined the worried glances the men were exchanging.

“I believe he will be joining us shortly,” Pip drawled, and Larkin heard the sound of a chair being pulled back. “But we may as well start without him, or we might wait all night.”

“Ah, yes. I heard he’s rather a wild young fellow. Likes a drink, don’t he? Comes of hanging about with all those artistic types, I imagine,” Jenkins said, his tone amused.

“No doubt,” Pip replied dryly. “We’re playing Pharo, five hundred guineas a counter. I trust that suits you?”

If it didn’t, Jenkins was in no position to complain, though the staggering sum for one counter had to give him pause. He’d won a considerable sum over the past games, according to Larkin’s friends, but not enough that he could view bids like that with equanimity. Larkin heard no reply, so assumed the fellow had nodded. Play began and silence reigned for a while, the only sound the occasional chink of the ivory counters and the players making their bets.

Larkin bided his time, though he was climbing the walls with impatience.

“I’m out,” Pip said, three games later, during which he’d had managed to lose an eye-watering sum to Jenkins. This was Larkin’s cue, so he picked up his bottle, this one a quarter full with actual whisky, took a deep breath, and went out to the corridor.

“Evening, chums,” he said, lurching in through the door and allowing the bottle to slip from his fingers. It clattered to the floor, spilling its contents and filling the room with alcohol fumes.

“Bloody hell, Lars!” Pip remonstrated, surging to his feet. “What did we tell you about turning up tap hackled?”

Larkin looked bemusedly at the bottle on the floor and then squinted blearily up at Pip, blinking hard as he pretended to struggle to focus. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” Pip said wearily, tugging on the bellpull to rouse someone to come and clear up. “Come along, you’re in no fit state to play tonight,” he told Larkin, taking hold of his arm.

“Gerroff!” Larkin objected, tugging free. “I can play. I wanna play. Not my mother, damn you.”

“Pip’s right,” Leo said, a warning note to his voice. “We told you the rules.”

“Bugger your rules,” Larkin replied, pulling out the chair Pip had vacated and thudding down into it. “I’m playing.”

“Oh, can we not let Mr Weston play?” Jenkins said with apparent good nature, though Larkin did not miss the shrewd glint in his eyes. “I was told I had won the opportunity to play all the Sons. I would be sorely disappointed not to test my mettle against all of you after such a promise.”

“S’true!” Larkin said at once. “He won. S’not fair.”

“Oh, fine. It’s your funeral,” Jules said in disgust, apparently having had enough. “Bloody well deal, Leo. I came to play cards, not watch Larkin play the fool. Though if you cast up your accounts again, I’m banning you for life,” Jules added savagely, glaring at Larkin.

Larkin winced, wishing Jules had not said that, for it made him recall a particularly awful evening. Well, not that he did recall it, having no memory of the night whatsoever, but his friends had filled in the details with excruciating detail, much to his shame.

“Fine, fine,” he said, waving a hand and gesturing for Leo, who was banker, to proceed.

A servant hurried in and began mopping up the whisky. Pip ordered a large pot of coffee for Larkin and then bade them a good evening. Larkin made a rude gesture at the door once Pip had gone through it and grinned at Jenkins.

“Bloody old woman,” he muttered.

Jenkins laughed indulgently, and they proceeded to play.

Larkin lost extravagantly on the first three rounds, more moderately on the next, all the time watching Jenkins as he played, certain he was cheating. Still, he had to give the man his due, he did it with such skill, it was difficult to be certain. However, Jules and Leo especially were very fine players, yet Jenkins had all the luck tonight, winning time and again until Jules threw down his cards.

“I’m out,” he said with a sigh. “Are you satisfied, Mr Jenkins?” he asked, making Larkin look sharply at his friend, furious for giving him an out. Yet Jules had gambled and won this time, for Jenkins shook his head, despite the vast stack of counters at his side. Avarice lit his expression, the fever that gambling could alight blazing in his eyes.

“Oh, no. I’m a long way from done,” he said, eyeing Larkin with a speculative smile. “What say you, Mr Weston?”

“Play on,” Larkin said dismissively, and then peered owlishly at the diminished stack at his own elbow. “Say, Leo? Loan me, will you?”

Leo pulled a face. “Stow it, Lars. You’re done.”

“ I ain’t! Loan me, damn you. Ten thousand. Pa will settle it, you know he will,” he said, though this was so far from the truth Leo’s lips twitched. If Larkin had really lost that much gambling, his father would have murdered him.

Leo looked revolted but relented. The deal was done, with Larkin signing his vowel with an erratic slash of the pen that purported to be his signature.

“What do you say to a thousand pounds a counter?” Jenkins suggested smoothly, looking at Larkin, not Leo.

“Certainly,” Larkin said before Leo could object. “Get on with it, Leo.”

Leo complied but looked deeply unhappy about it, whilst Jules ordered more coffee, for Larkin had refused the first pot, ordering whisky instead.

“Drink the damned coffee, or I’ll pour it down your throat myself,” Jules told him.

“Why are you all so boooring ?” Larkin complained bitterly, but took the cup from Jules and drank it, privately glad to do so. His nerves were jangling now, for not only did he need to beat a fine player, but a cheat too.

Leo began turning up cards, one on the right for the bank, one on the left for the players.

Jenkins lost the next round in spectacular fashion, finding himself five thousand pounds the poorer. Sweating but undaunted, for he still had a hefty stack of counters, he played on.

The next round was a near thing, but Larkin prevailed. Leo sent him a level look that warned him he had best up his game or they might not come out of this in the manner they hoped. Jenkins, however, seemed rattled, perhaps as much by the fact that Jules was no longer playing but watching him with an intensity that would not allow the man to attempt to cheat. Any accusation of foul play by a man like the Marquess of Blackstone would ruin what little reputation Jenkins might lay claim to and could land him in serious trouble. Not being a gentleman in any sense of the word he was unlikely to blow his brains out, but if Jules pressed charges, things could go very wrong for Mr Jenkins. No one would doubt the word of the heir to a dukedom.

With his usual tricks out of his hands, Jenkins began to lose steadily and with speed. He was grey with strain and fatigue by the time Larkin decided enough was enough. Only a few scattered counters lay at Jenkins’ elbow, everything else piled beside Larkin. He needed a big win to stay in the game.

“I tell you what,” Larkin said, as if suddenly struck by an idea. “Aren’t you the fellow old Merrivale blew his brains out for?”

Jenkins stiffened, what little colour remained in his cheeks draining away. “That was no fault of mine. It was a fair game,” he said at once, his gaze darting from Larkin to Jules and Leo, who stared back, expressionless.

“Yes, yes,” Larkin said dismissively, waving this away as a mere nothing when all he wanted to do was throttle the bastard with his bare hands. “But you won a very tidy little property, didn’t you? In Norfolk? It just so happens I have a pretty little lady friend in Norfolk. Could do with a snug little place there. Play you for it,” he said with a grin, sliding all his counters across the table.

Jenkins stared at the fortune in counters, looking as though he could hardly believe his luck.

“You want Merrivale’s manor?” he said, the relief in his voice audible.

“Said so, didn’t I?” Larkin said impatiently. “Are you taking the wager, or no?”

“I am,” Jenkins said decisively. “Write me out a vowel. I’ll sign it.”

Pip came in at that moment. “Ah, I see things are getting interesting,” he said with a grin. “Mind if I watch?”

Without waiting for an answer, he sat himself down opposite Mr Jenkins, lounging back in his chair beside Jules, both men turning their attention to the perspiring Jenkins as he laid his vowel on top of the vast stack of counters.

“Proceed,” Larkin said to Leo as the cards continued to turn up in his favour, grinning at an increasingly alarmed Jenkins

“Trente à la va!” Larkin said, seeing panic flickering in Jenkin’s eyes. This was the tipping point, Larkin knew. If Jenkins had any sense, he would cut his losses, but no.

“Paix,” Jenkins said, demanding to continue upon the same course.

The silence rang in Larkin’s ears as Leo turned the cards, both Jules and Pip unmoving beside him.

It was Jules who shouted first, a bellow of triumph that made Larkin jump out of his skin, such was his agitation. But there it was, the winning card. His card. He’d done it.

“I want to play again,” Jenkins said, almost breathless, gazing in disbelief as Larkin pulled the counters and the note for Merrivale Manor towards him.

“Sorry, old man,” Larkin said, yawning broadly. “Feeling a trifle bosky, and Jules here forbade me from puking on the cards again. Best call it a night. No hard feelings, eh?”

He got to his feet, allowing Jules to sweep his winnings into his hat. He grinned at his friend, flushed with triumph. “Call me a cab, Jules, there’s a good fellow.”

“You’re a cab,” Jules said, for the Marquess of Blackstone was no one's lackey.

“You’re a damned cheat!”

The words rang out in the room and the silence was absolute as the four men turned to gaze at Jenkins in appalled astonishment. All of them knew Jenkins was a Captain Sharp and, despite Larkin’s ruse, he’d played fair and square, as had everyone else. The only thing they’d done was lose when they needn’t have. If Jenkins hadn’t been so greedy, he might have left with a considerable fortune in his pocket.

“What did you say?” Larkin spoke softly, mingled fury and delight bursting together in his chest. As much as the accusation made him wild with anger, it gave him the opportunity he wanted. He was not about to meet the bastard at some godforsaken hour of the morning and risk his own neck, but he was very certainly going to break his nose.

“Shouldn't have said that, old man,” Leo said, shaking his head sadly. “I should take it back.”

Despite this sensible advice, Jenkins squared his shoulders. “You heard.”

“So I did,” Larkin said mildly, knowing Jenkins thought he’d fall over he was so far gone. Poor fool.

“Come here,” Larkin said. “And say that again.”

Jenkins did so, but before he could say more than ‘You’re—’ Larkin punched him in the guts. Jenkins doubled up but was swift to strike back. The man was faster than Larkin had expected, and the blow knocked him back a pace, but in his darkest days Larkin had gained a fair bit of experience at barroom brawling, so it hardly registered. The fight was swift and vicious, each man delivering a series of violent blows as Larkin’s friends tried to move furniture out of the way with little joy, for the room was not a large one. Jenkins threw a punch that might have broken Larkin’s nose, but he dodged back at the last second, the blow only grazing his cheekbone instead. He retaliated with a right hook that connected with Jenkin’s nose and almost certainly broke it. The blow sent Jenkins windmilling backwards onto the card table. It was a fine, elegant thing, rather old, and could not withstand the assault, for Jenkins was no lightweight. His heavy frame crashed onto the table, and it split in two, with Jenkins landing heavily on the floor, surrounded by splintered wood. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, dazed, but Larkin reached down and grasped hold of his shirt, pulling him back to his feet.

Larkin drew back his fist, but Pip intervened, holding him back.

“Leave off, Lars, the fellow’s done for,” he said, watching as blood dripped steadily from Jenkins’ nose as the man swayed and then fell to his knees, groaning.

Larkin let out a breath, annoyed to be interrupted when he had a good deal left to explain to Mr Jenkins about his personal feelings, but Pip was quite correct. It was done. Jenkins was done, and Larkin had won back the manor for Maggie and Gideon. The truth of that suddenly expanded inside him, joy at the gift he could offer the woman who had come to mean the entire world to him, and the little boy who had wormed his way into his heart and made Larkin love him.

He was suddenly full of gratitude towards Elmira, for being strong enough not to allow him to persuade her into a future that would have been wrong for them both. It seemed so obvious now that he had Maggie and Gideon, and he might have missed out if not for her courage. He'd heard from Thorn, who had written to congratulate him, and told him Elmira was walking out with a gentleman farmer who lived close to Gillmont. He had been kind to the women upon discovering what manner of house it was and had offered his services if ever they were needed. They’d been courting for some months now, and Thorn expected an announcement any day. Larkin had been relieved to discover he felt nothing but happiness for Elmira, who deserved everything good in life, and he hoped she would be as happy as he intended to be.

“Well done,” Leo said, patting him on the back. Larkin grinned at him. “Leave the clearing up to us. We’ll get Jenkins off the premises and escort him home. Don’t worry, we won’t let him out of our sight until we have the deeds to the manor. You’d best get Barnes to find some steak for that eye. It’s going to be a beauty,” he said appreciatively.

Larkin laughed, wincing as he touched a finger to the swelling flesh, realising Leo was quite correct. “Thanks, Leo, and you two as well,” he added, nodding to Jules and Pip. “Once again, I’m in your debt. I owe you, and I shan’t forget it.”

“Stow it,” Jules said with a snort, winking at Larkin before looking down at Jenkins, his lip curling with distaste. “Come along Leo, held me take out the refuse. We don’t want Pip sullying his pretty hands.”

“I should think not,” Pip replied, apparently having no qualms with this observation. “I’m far too high in the instep for such menial labour, but I shall watch with pleasure,” he added, his eyes twinkling.

Laughing, Larkin left them to their bickering. Now it was done he was weary to his bones, his eye, his ribs and his jaw had all begun throbbing in concert, and all he wanted was to have a quiet drink while Barnes attended to his injuries, and then to fall into bed. No, he amended, all he wanted was to see Maggie, to hold her in his arms and explain that everything was going to be all right, but he could not rouse her at this ungodly hour of the morning, and certainly not while he was in this state.

So, with that option out the window, he hailed a cab and made his way home.