LONDON 1890
Daniel held four eights, and had backed that fact with large stacks of money.
Mortimer thought he was bluffing. He’d been trying to convince Daniel that he’d drawn the straight, that he’d been given an ace from the young woman who dealt the cards at the head of the table.
The other gentlemen in the St. James’s gaming hell called the Nines had already folded in Mortimer’s favorite game of poker. They and the rest of the hell now lingered to see the battle of wits between twenty-four- year-old Daniel Mackenzie and Fenton Mortimer, ten years older than Daniel and a hardened gambler. So much cigar smoke hung in the air that any consumptive who’d dared walk in the door would have fallen dead on the spot.
The game of choice at this hell was whist, but Mortimer had recently introduced the American game of poker, which he’d learned during a yearlong stint in that country. Mortimer was very good at it, quickly relieving young Mayfair aristos of thousands of pounds. And still they came to him, eager to learn the game and try to beat him.
Ten gentlemen had started this round, dropping out one by one until only Daniel and Mortimer remained.
Daniel kept his cards facedown on the table so the nosy club fodder couldn’t telegraph his hand to Mortimer. He gathered up more of his paper bills and dropped them in front of his cards. “See you, and raise two hundred.”
Mortimer went slightly green but slid his money opposite Daniel’s, his fingers shaking a little. Daniel picked up another pile of notes and laid them on the already substantial stack.
“Raise you again,” Daniel said. “Can you cover?”
“I can.” Mortimer didn’t dig out any more notes or coin, but he obviously hoped he wouldn’t have to.
“Sure about that?”
Mortimer’s eyes narrowed. “What do you take me for? I can cover the bet. If you’d like to question my honor in a private room, I will be happy to answer.”
Daniel refrained from rolling his eyes. “Calm yourself, lad,” he said, making his Highland accent broad. He lifted a cigar from the holder beside him and sucked smoke into his mouth. “I believe you. What have you got?”
“Show yours first.”
Daniel picked up his cards and flipped them over with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. Four eights, one ace.
The men around him let out a collective groan, the lady dealer smiled at Daniel, and Mortimer went chalk white.
“Bloody hell. I didn’t think you had it.” Mortimer’s own cards fell faceup—a ten, jack, queen, seven, and three.
Daniel raked in his money and winked at the dealer. She really was lovely. “You can write me a vowel for the rest, Mortimer.”
Mortimer wet his lips. “Now, Mackenzie…”
He couldn’t cover the bet. What idiot wagered the last of his cash when he didn’t have a winning hand? Mortimer should have taken his loss several rounds ago and walked away.
But no, Mortimer had convinced himself he was expert at the bluffing part of the game, and would con the naive young Scotsman who’d unashamedly walked in here tonight in his kilt.
A hard-faced man on the other side of the room sent Mortimer a grim look. Daniel guessed that the ruffian had lent Mortimer cash for this night’s play and wasn’t pleased that he’d just lost it all.
“Never mind,” Daniel said. “Keep what you owe as a token of appreciation for a night of good play.”
Mortimer scowled. “I pay my debts, Mackenzie.”
Daniel glanced at the bone-breaker and lowered his voice. “You’ll pay more than that if ye don’t beat a hasty retreat, I’m thinking. How much do ye owe him?”
Mortimer’s eyes went cold. “None of your business.”
Daniel shrugged. “I don’t wish to see a man have his face removed just because I was lucky at cards. What do ye owe him? I’ll give ye that back. Ye can owe
“Be beholden to a Mackenzie?” Mortimer’s outrage rang from him.
Daniel filled his pockets with his winnings and took his greatcoat from the lady dealer. She ran her hand suggestively across Daniel’s shoulders as she helped him into it, and Daniel tucked a banknote into her bodice.
“Aye, well.” Daniel took his hat from the lady who gave him an even warmer smile. “Hope you can find tuppence for the ferryman at your funeral. Good night, man.”
He turned to leave and found Mortimer’s friends standing in front of him.
“Changed my mind,” Mortimer said. “The chaps reminded me I had something worth bargaining with. Say, for the last two thousand.”
“Oh aye? What is it? A motorcar?”
“Better. A lady.”
Daniel hid a sigh. “I don’t need a courtesan, Mortimer. I can find women on me own.”
Easily. Daniel looked at ladies, and they came to him. Part of his attraction was his wealth, part of it was the fact that he belonged to the great Mackenzie family and was nephew to a duke. He never argued about the ladies’ motives; he simply enjoyed.
“She’s not a courtesan,” Mortimer said quickly. “She’s special. You’ll see.”
An actress, perhaps. She’d give an indifferent performance of a Shakespearian soliloquy, and Daniel would be expected to smile and say she was worth every penny.
“Keep your money, pay your creditors,” Daniel said. “Give me a horse or your best servant in lieu—I’m not particular.”
Mortimer’s friends didn’t move. “I think I must insist,” Mortimer said.
Seven against one. If Daniel argued, he’d only end up with bruised knuckles. He didn’t particularly want to hurt his hands, because he had the fine-tuning of his engine to do, and he needed to be able to hold a spanner.
“Fair enough,” Daniel said. “But I assess the goods before I accept.”
Mortimer agreed. He clapped Daniel on the shoulder as he led him out, and Daniel stopped himself from shaking off his touch. Mortimer’s friends filed around them as though in a defensive flank as they made their way to Mortimer’s waiting landau.
Daniel noted as they pulled away from the Nines that the bone-breaker had slipped out the door behind them and followed.
Mortimer took Daniel through the misty city to a respectable neighborhood north of Oxford Street, stopping on a quiet lane near Portman Square.
The hour was two in the morning, and this street was quiet, the houses dark. Behind the windows lay respectable gentlemen who would rise in the early hours and trundle to the City for work, while their gentlewomen wives readied themselves for calls to other ladies of the neighborhood.
Daniel descended from the landau behind Mortimer. “She’ll be asleep. Leave it for tomorrow.”
“Nonsense,” Mortimer said loudly, with drink in his voice. “She sees me anytime I call.”
He walked to a black painted front door and rapped on it with his stick. Above them a light appeared and a curtain was drawn back. Mortimer looked up at the window and tapped on the door again.
The curtain dropped, and the light faded. Mortimer waited with ill-concealed impatience, letting his stick continue to tap lightly on the wood.
