Her amusement lasted a few minutes, then contrition set in. It had been extremely rude of her to bait him like that, and—if she was honest with herself—it had also been completely unfair.
If she’d had the upbringing her parents had intended, she would be just like everyone else in this ballroom: she’d believe herself superior by virtue of her birth—and she’d be as insulted as St. Just had been if anyone suggested otherwise.
Her conduct had been vulgar and wholly unjustified. It wasn’t St. Just’s fault that waltzing with him made her feel so uncomfortable.
Arabella pulled a face. I owe him an apology.
A LIGHT DRIZZLE was falling, but Adam barely noticed. He ignored the offer of a hackney and strode down Clarges Street. Fury vibrated inside him. How dared Arabella Knightley imply that he—a St. Just—was no better than a crossing-sweeper!
The walk did nothing to improve his temper. The doorman at White’s took one look at his face and confined his welcome to a mere, “Good evening, sir.”
Adam strode into the card room. “Brandy,” he said curtly, stripping off his gloves. “A bottle.”
The hour was early and only a few tables were occupied. Lord Alvanley and a number of gentlemen were seated at a green baize faro table lit by a branching candelabrum. “St. Just!” Alvanley called out, waving his hand expansively. “Join us.”
Adam drew up a chair and grunted in response to the greetings. Alvanley was holding the bank; a pile of gold coins, banknotes, and vowels lay scattered before him. “The stakes?”
It wasn’t until his third glass of brandy that Adam began to relax. To his annoyance, his luck was in. He imagined the satisfaction it would give him to tell Miss Knightley tomorrow that he’d lost several thousand pounds at faro.
Revelstoke joined the table an hour later. “You left the ball early,” he said, pulling up a chair.
Adam grunted.
“How was your waltz with the delectable Miss Knightley?”
Adam glanced at him. “If you value our friendship,” he said flatly, “you won’t ever do that to me again.”
Jeremy blinked. For once he didn’t offer a joke in reply. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
Adam grunted again.
As if the marquis’s arrival had signaled a change, his luck turned. He began to lose steadily.
Alvanley tallied up the losses at two o’clock. “Three hundred guineas,” he said, glancing at him.
Adam could almost hear Miss Knightley’s voice in his ear: I wonder how many families you could feed with that money, Mr. St. Just?
He gritted his teeth, poured himself another glass of brandy, and settled more deeply into his chair, determined to enjoy himself. But he found that he couldn’t. Each turn of the cards represented money. Families’ worth of money.
At three o’clock, with another hundred guineas lost, he pushed back his chair in disgust. “That’s me for the night.”
His announcement was greeted by startled expressions. “So soon?” Alvanley said.
“Are you all right?” Jeremy asked quietly.
“Fine,” Adam said, pulling on his gloves. That damned girl has merely ruined any pleasure I might have in playing faro.
The drizzle had become a light rain. “Shall I order a hackney, sir?” the doorman asked.
“No.” The walk, the rain, would clear his head.
Adam scowled as he strode down St. James’s Street. It was his own money, damn it. Why shouldn’t he throw it away on the turn of a card?
“Light your way, guv’nor?” a shrill voice cried behind him. He heard the soft patter of feet and turned his head. A linkboy.
Adam opened his mouth to refuse, but a glance at the boy’s face—thin, eager—made him bite back the words. “I’m going to Berkeley Square,” he said instead.
He walked along St. James’s Street with the linkboy trotting ahead, the torch casting a flickering light. The boy’s feet were bare and filthy, his clothing ragged. Damp hair clung to his skull.
The devil take Arabella Knightley! If it wasn’t for her he’d still be at White’s, deep in a game of faro. Instead he was looking at a linkboy’s bare feet and feeling guilty.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked curtly.
The linkboy glanced back at him, his eyes large in a too-thin face. “Sir?”
“Your name?”
“Ned.”
Adam walked another block in silence, then he asked, “How old are you, Ned?”
The boy shrugged. “I dunno, guv’nor.”
About nine years old, Adam guessed. Perhaps ten. The same age as his cousin the Duke of Frew’s son, Gervase. For a moment he saw Gervase in his mind’s eye: sturdy and fair-haired.
Gervase was touring the continent with his parents; Ned was running barefoot through wet London streets. Better, or merely luckier? Arabella Knightley’s voice asked him.
He knew what answer his father would have given, what answer the Duke of Frew would give: Better.
Ned was an unprepossessing child, skinny and grubby, his accent straight from the slums—but would Gervase be any better under the same circumstances? Duke’s son or not, without regular meals and clean clothes, Gervase would be just as thin, just as dirty, and his language would be as coarse as Ned’s.
It was past three o’clock in the morning. It was raining. The boy’s torch was in danger of guttering. He should be tucked up in bed, warm and dry, not trying to earn a farthing or two.
They turned into Berkeley Square. “Which ’ouse, guv’nor?”
“The one on the corner,” Adam said. He’d lost four hundred guineas at faro. What would that money have meant to Ned? Food, a warm bed, dry clothes. Not for one day or one week, or even a month—but for years.
Ned took him to the foot of the steps. A lamp hung beside the door. Rain fell steadily into the bright circle of light.
The boy waited, shivering, while Adam felt in his pocket. It was almost empty. He found a couple of ha’pennies, a farthing, and a guinea. “Go home, Ned,” he said gruffly, holding out the guinea.
Ned’s face lit with awe. “A yellow boy? Thank you, guv’nor!”
“Buy yourself some food—” Adam started to say, but the boy was already running back in the direction of St. James’s Street. “And some
