Never Romance a Rake Read Online Free PDF Page B

glass and forced himself to relax. For the next hour he drank more than he played, refusing to press his luck with another mediocre hand. Calvert wisely withdrew, but remained at the table nursing a glass of port. Sir Ralph was too deep in his cups to pose a threat.
    Over the next dozen hands, the play rose to a fevered pitch. If the comte had played like a madman from the start, he apparently meant to end it like a lunatic, all but shoving his money at them. His desperation—and his purpose in hosting this debacle—were starting to show. The chap must be but steps from the sponging house.
    Suddenly, Valigny made a grievous error, drawing an eight to the queen of spades and the five of hearts. Lord Enders swept up the winnings—two thousand on the one hand.
    â€œAlas, my dark queen has failed me!” said the comte. “Women are fickle creatures, are they not, Lord Rothewell? Play on, messieurs !”
    The next was dealt, everyone taking an extra card. But within moments, Sir Ralph, who had drawn first, was running a finger round his collar as if his cravat was about to choke him. It was the move of a rank amateur. Valigny caught the gesture and pounced like a cat, pushing up the wager again.
    Sir Ralph belched and glanced at his down cards.
    â€œRalph?” the comte prodded. “Do you stand?”
    â€œBugger all!” said Ralph, flipping over his cards. “Overdrawn! Should have said so lasht round, eh?” He jerked awkwardly from his chair. “Think I’d besht say g’night, lads. Not feeling quite the thing.”
    Rothewell glanced over. Ralph did indeed hold twenty-three, and looked green enough to cast up his accounts. Valigny shrugged good-naturedly, then hastened his staggering guest in the general direction of the front door before Ralph could surrender to his collywobbles on the carpet.
    Ralph aside, Rothewell did not miss the fine sheen of sweat on the comte’s face as he passed. The air of desperation in the room had heightened. Yes, Valigny needed money, and rather urgently. But playing with Enders—or even with Rothewell himself—was a foolish way to go about it. They were amongst the most hardened gamesters in London. They would likely have the comte beggared within the hour—yet the knowledge brought Rothewell no satisfaction.
    The entire evening had been unsatisfactory, really. He was wasting his time—though, in a way, that was the very point of iniquity, wasn’t it? To satiate oneself with revelry—liquor or sex or a hundred other wicked pursuits—which might numb a man to the truth of what his life had become.
    But if he were honest, he would have to admit that the pursuit of wickedness no longer hid from him who or what he was to even the smallest degree—and drink, he was beginning to fear, no longer numbed him.
    Had it begun with Xanthia’s going away? No, not precisely. But after that, everything had simply gone to hell in a thousand little ways.
    In any case, there was no point in lingering here. Since sin wasn’t working, there was always gunpowder. If a man wished to hasten God’s will, it might be less painful simply to go home and put a pistol to his head rather than remain here listening to Enders and Valigny pecking at one another.
    The comte returned to the table, an expression of amused chagrin upon his face. “Alas, messieurs, Madame Fortune has forsaken me tonight, n’est-ce pas ?”
    â€œAnd Sir Ralph cannot bloody count.” Rothewell began to push away from the table. “Gentlemen, let’s retract our wagers and call it a night.”
    â€œNon!” Something which might have been fear sketched across Valigny’s face. He urged Rothewell back into his chair, his smile returning. “I feel Madame Fortune returning to me, perhaps. May I not have a gentleman’s chance to win back what I have lost?”
    â€œWith what stakes?” challenged Enders. “Look