it, that’s fortunate. The very man I want!”
“How much, Pelham?” inquired his lordship wearily.
“As a matter of fact I was looking for someone who might lend me some money,” said the Viscount. “But how you rumbled it beats me!”
“Intuition, Pelham, just intuition.”
“Well, lend me fifty pounds and you shall have it back tomorrow. My luck’s going to turn.”
“What makes you think so?” Rule asked, handing over a bill.
The Viscount pocketed it. “Much obliged to you. I’ll swear you’re a good fellow. Why, I’ve been throwing out for the last hour, and a man can’t go on throwing out for ever. Which reminds me, Rule, I’ve something to say to you. Nothing of moment, you understand, but you know what women are, rabbit ’em!”
“None better,” said his lordship. “So you may safely leave the matter in my hands, my dear Pelham.”
“Blister it, you seem to know what I’m going to say before I’ve said it!” complained the Viscount. “Mind you, I warned Horry he was dangerous at the outset. But then, women are such fools!”
“Not only women,” murmured Rule. “Will you do me a favour, Pelham?”
“Anything in the world!” replied the Viscount promptly. “Pleasure!”
“It is quite a small thing,” Rule said. “But I shall stand greatly in your debt if you would refrain in future from—er—warning Horry.”
The Viscount stared. “Just as you say, of course, but I don’t care to see that fellow Lethbridge dancing attendance on my sister, and so I tell you!”
“Ah, Pelham!” The Viscount, who had turned to go back into the card-room, checked, and looked over his shoulder. “Nor do I,” said Rule pensively.
“Oh!” said the Viscount. He had a flash of insight. “Don’t want me to meddle, eh?”
“You see, my dear boy,” said his lordship apologetically, “I am not really such a fool as you think me.”
The Viscount grinned, promised that there should be no meddling and went back to make up for lost time in the card-room. True to his word, he arrived in Grosvenor Square next morning and impressively planked fifty pounds in bills down on the table before Rule. His luck, it seemed, had turned.
Never one to neglect opportunity, he spent a week riotously following his rare good fortune. No less than five bets of his making were entered in the book at White’s; he won four thousand in a night at Pharaoh, lost six at quinze on Wednesday, recovered and arose a winner on Thursday, on Friday walked into the hazard-room at Almack’s and took his seat at the fifty-guinea table.
“What, Pel, I thought you was done up!” exclaimed Sir Roland Pommeroy, who had been present on the disastrous Wednesday.
“Done up? Devil a bit!” replied the Viscount. “My luck’s in.” He proceeded to fix two pieces of leather round his wrist to protect his ruffles. “Laid Finch a pony on Tuesday Sally Danvers would be the lighter of a boy by Monday.”
“Ecod, you’re mad, Pel!” said Mr Fox. “She’s had four girls already!”
“Mad be damned!” quoth the Viscount. “I had the news on the way here. I’ve won.”
“What, she’s never given Danvers an heir at last?” cried Mr Boulby.
“An heir?” said the Viscount scornfully. “Two of ’em! She’s had twins!”
After this amazing intelligence no one could doubt that the signs were extremely propitious for the Viscount. In fact one cautious gentleman removed himself to the quinze-room, where a number of gamesters sat round tables in silence, with masks on their faces to conceal any betraying emotion, and rouleaus of guineas in front of them.
As the night wore on the Viscount’s luck, which had begun by fluctuating in an uncertain fashion, steadied down. He started the evening by twice throwing out three times in succession, a circumstance which induced Mr Fox to remark that the gull-gropers, or money-lenders, who waited in what he called the Jerusalem chamber for him to rise, would find instead a client in his lordship. However, the Viscount soon remedied this set-back by stripping off his coat and putting it on again inside out, a change that answered splendidly, for no sooner was it made than he recklessly pushed three rouleaus into the centre of the table, called a main of five, and nicked it. By midnight his winnings, in the form of rouleaus, bills and several vowels, or notes of hand, fairly littered the stand at his elbow, and Mr Fox, a heavy loser, called for his third bottle.
There were two tables in the hazard-room, both round, and large enough to accommodate upwards of twenty persons. At the one every player was bound by rule to keep not less than fifty guineas before him, at the other the amount was fixed more moderately at twenty guineas. A small stand stood beside each player with a large rim to hold his glass or his teacup and a wooden bowl for the rouleaus. The room was lit by candles in pendent chandeliers, and so bright was the glare that quite a number of gamesters, the Viscount amongst them, wore leather guards bound round their foreheads to protect their eyes. Others, notably Mr Drelincourt, who was feverishly laying and staking odds at the twenty-guinea table, affected straw hats with very broad brims, which served the double purpose of shading their eyes and preventing their wigs from becoming tumbled. Mr Drelincourt’s hat was adorned with flowers and ribands and was held by several other Macaronis to be a vastly pretty affair. He had put a frieze greatcoat in place of his own blue creation, and presented an astonishing picture as he sat alternately sipping his tea and casting the dice. However, as it was quite the thing to wear frieze coats and straw hats at the gaming table, not even his severest critics found anything in his appearance worthy of remark.
For the most part silence broken only by the rattle of the dice and the monotonous drone of the groom- porters’ voices calling the odds brooded over the room, but from time to time snatches of desultory talk broke out. Shortly after one o’clock quite a burst of conversation proceeded from the twenty-guinea table, one of the gamesters having taken it into his head to call the dice in the hope of changing his luck. Someone, while they waited for a fresh bale, had started an interesting topic of scandal and a shout of laughter most unpleasantly assailing the ears of Lord Cheston, a rather nervous gambler, caused him to deliver the dice at the other table with a jerk that upset his luck.
“Five-to-seven, and three-to-two against!” intoned the groom-porter dispassionately.
The laying and staking of bets shut out the noise of the other table, but as silence fell again and Lord Cheston picked up the box, Mr Drelincourt’s voice floated over to the fifty-guinea table with disastrous clarity.
“Oh, my lord, I protest; for my part I would lay you odds rather on my Lord Lethbridge’s success with my cousin’s stammering bride!” said Mr Drelincourt with a giggle.
The Viscount, already somewhat flushed with wine, was in the act of raising his glass to his lips when this unfortunate remark was wafted to his ears. His cerulean blue eyes, slightly clouded but remarkably intelligent still, flamed with the light of murder, and with a spluttered growl of “Hell and damnation!” he lunged up out of his chair before anyone could stop him.
Sir Roland Pommeroy made a grab at his arm. “Pel, I say, Pel! Steady!”
“Lord, he’s three parts drunk!” said Mr Boulby. “Here’s a pretty scandal! Pelham, for God’s sake think what you’re doing!”
But the Viscount, having shaken Pommeroy off, was already striding purposefully over to the other table, and seemed to have not the least doubt of what he was doing. Mr Drelincourt, looking round, startled to see who was bearing down upon him, let his jaw drop in ludicrous dismay, and received the contents of his lordship’s glass full in his face. “You damned little rat, take that!” roared the Viscount.
There was a moment’s shocked silence, while Mr Drelincourt sat with the wine dripping off the end of his nose, and staring at the incensed Viscount as one bemused.
Mr Fox, coming over from the other table, grasped Lord Winwood by the elbow, and addressed Mr Drelincourt with severity. “You’d best apologize, Crosby,” he said. “Pelham, do recollect! This won’t do, really it won’t!”
“Recollect?” said the Viscount fiercely. “You heard what he said, Charles! D’you think I’ll sit by and let a foul-mouthed—”
“My lord!” interrupted Mr Drelincourt, rising and dabbing at his face with a rather unsteady hand. “I—I apprehend the cause of your annoyance. I assure your lordship you have me wrong! If I said anything that—that seemed—”
Mr Fox whispered urgently: “Let it alone now, Pel! You can’t fight over your sister’s name without starting a scandal.”
“Be damned to you, Charles!” said the Viscount. “I’ll manage it my way. I don’t like the fellow’s hat!”
Mr Drelincourt fell back a pace; someone gave a snort of laughter, and Sir Roland said wisely: “That’s
