Page 1 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

“ L et’s go to Hazards.” Marcus Holcomb clinked the coins in his pocket impatiently, something a well-bred gentleman shouldn’t do.

Well-bred gentleman shouldn’t be in danger of losing their entire way of life after a few hands of whist, either, but there he was.

“Oh, not Hazards. That place isn’t really for our sort.” Barty Entwhistle sniffed disdainfully and rapped on the wall of the hackney coach. “Driver! To Whites.”

Marcus shifted in his seat. Barty wasn’t one of his close associates, or the spoiled third and youngest son of a viscount would have known that Marcus wasn’t allowed at Whites any longer. Bad debts and a poorly thought out incident where he had “mistakenly” taken another gentleman’s winnings after a late, inebriated game of bridge had seen him banned from the comfortable halls and parlors of Whites—and half a dozen other establishments in St. James.

“Whites is a little stiff. Port and claret. Bridge and whist. It’s all a bit samey, Barty,” Marcus tried to sound bored and hoped Entwhistle would rise to the bait. The sheltered son of a notoriously conservative member of the aristocracy enjoyed his minor acts of rebellion—gambling, drinking, and looking lustfully at the female staff at Breckridge’s. But Entwhistle would never go to an opium den or do more than look at an attractive woman.

Barty leaned forward. “I’ve never been to Hazards. Father says it’s a gambling hell and that he’ll cut me off without a cent if my losses ever amount to more than a fraction of my allowance. I’m surprised you’d risk it, Holcomb.” The little swot put his nose in the air with an attitude of lofty disdain. “Your uncle must be quite forgiving. Didn’t you lose a hefty sum only last week?”

Marcus replied with contrived airiness, sweat starting to prickle on his back. “Oh, nothing ventured, nothing gained. My uncle is an industrialist. Speculation plays a huge part of going into business for oneself. Not that you’d know.”

Entwhistle bristled like an irritated cat. The young aristocrat disliked being nettled by the “commoners” who had earned enough money to send their sons to Eton and Cambridge and enough favor to get into Her Majesty’s good graces.

Marcus pressed this advantage a little more. “Uncle Horace expects to receive a baronetcy before long. Hazards might even become fashionable for the well-to-do man about town.”

With a sudden swing of his ebony walking stick, Entwhistle swatted the door of the coach again. “To Hazards.”

“I knew you’d see it my way in the end.” Thank heavens. I have to raise at least fifty pounds tonight, or Uncle Horace will have to know, and I’ll lose my flat in London. And then— then the threats will start from creditors, and there will be lectures from Uncle Horace—as if he needs to begrudge a few hundred pounds per year. My father left him several thousand to manage in my name...

Marcus tugged his collar and leaned back, rubbing his forehead, trying to look careless as a fearsome weight settled on his shoulders. “Have you got a flask?” he asked suddenly.

“What? No. Don’t they have drinks at this hellish establishment?”

Marcus smothered a groan and pulled out his own flask. “I’m sure they do.” But they charge—and I didn’t want to use my own whiskey if someone else was willing to share.

Entwhistle gave his companion a disapproving look. “You ought to leave the spirit alone, Holcomb. Keep your wits about you when you play.”

“I play better when suitably lubricated,” Marcus retorted and swallowed several burning gulps in quick succession.

“COME BACK AGAIN, AND we’ll blacken your other eye—and worse!”

“Argh!” With a shout, Marcus found himself flying through the rear door of Hazards into a rather dank, foul-smelling alley where kitchen refuse was strewn. Rats scurried away as he landed on his hands and knees, palms skidding on cobbles slimy with damp.

Holding his eye and staggering to his feet, Marcus leaned against the wall, then ran before the patrons decided to join the management in their show of disapproval.

“Three hundred pounds. Three hundred pounds!” He moaned as he searched in his pockets for a few coins.

None left after the violent shaking he’d received. No point waiting for Entwhistle, either. He’d left hours ago—when Marcus thought he was winning.

Luck is a cruel mistress—even for an unmarried man.

Marcus walked toward his flat, resigned to a long, damp journey marred by the limp he’d just gained from crashing to the cobblestones and made worse by the throbbing in his swollen eye. His head was pounding from a brief thrashing, a headlong fall, and too much alcohol.

But this plight is nothing compared to what Uncle Horace will do to me when he hears that I’ve spent all of this year’s allowance and some of next, that I'm in arrears in my rent, and I’m banned from every decent club in the city.

Marcus groaned, not from the pain in his face, but from the verbal hiding he knew was coming. If his uncle were a little younger and frequented London more often, he’d already know of the scandal.

I have to keep Uncle Horace from coming here—or at least finding me here.

Even though this evening had cemented the fact that he should not be a betting man, Marcus would lay odds at a thousand to one that his uncle would be up from Lancashire in a matter of days to haul his dissolute carcass back to his recently purchased country estate—and then the real suffering would begin.

Unless he could find some other means of supporting himself. Not work, no, although he had the brains for it. Work had killed too many a decent gentleman, starting with his own father, and he wasn’t inclined to risk it.

But marriage... Marriage to a nice, wealthy sort of woman might suit him nicely. Of course, Uncle Horace would have to approve of the girl—and his approval ought to come along with a silver fish slice, a toast rack, and a fat cheque.

Now, let’s see. What sort of woman would Uncle Horace give the nod to, and thus save poor Marcus from a slow burial behind a desk?