The Last Rake in London...
From Chapter 2
Dan met her as soon as she stepped off the bottom step
and onto the marble floor of the entrance hall. Sally raised her brows at
the look on his face.
“Trouble?”
“Yes.” A frown wrinkled Dan’s broad forehead. “Mr
Kestrel is the Gold Salon. Said he wanted to play a few hands of baccarat.”
“And?” Sally kept a smile plastered on her face as a
noisy group of diners passed by and paused to compliment her on the quality
of the Blue Parrot’s service.
“And now the bank is down five thousand pounds.”
“Damnation!” Sally felt a twinge of real alarm. A
little while ago Jack Kestrel had threatened to ruin her business, but she
had not thought he would do so that very night by breaking the bank at her
own gaming tables.
“There’s worse,” Dan said in an undertone, taking her
arm and hurrying her along the corridor towards the casino. “The King is
here.”
“What?” For a moment Sally felt faint. “The
King? King Edward?”
“Himself.” Dan nodded in gloomy agreement. “Playing at
the same table as Mr Kestrel. And losing to him like everyone else.”
“Hell and the devil.” Sally’s heels clicked agitatedly
on the marble floor as she quickened her pace. Damn Jack Kestrel. She
thought she had contained the threat he posed, had imagined him sitting at
table harmlessly drinking her champagne and here he was beating the King at
baccarat and bankrupting her in the process. Matty was right. He was
dangerous. She should never have let him out of her sight.
“I wouldn’t like to say that he was cheating, now,” Dan
said, in his rich Irish brogue, “but…” There was puzzlement in his blue
eyes. “I’ve been watching him and either he is extraordinarily lucky or…” He
let the sentence hang.
Sally paused discreetly within the doorway so that she
could watch Jack Kestrel at the baccarat table without being observed
herself. He sprawled in his chair, a lock of dark hair falling across his
forehead, his cards held in one careless hand. He had discarded his jacket
and the pristine whiteness of his shirt looked stark against the darkness of
his tanned skin. Seeing him there, Sally thought once again of his rakish
forebears. There was something about him, something to do with his air of
lazy arrogance, the perfection of his tailoring, the casual grace with which
he wore it, that recalled the gamblers of a previous century, the rakes who
made and lost their fortunes in the London of the Regency, a time like the
present one that was full of the glitter and the lure of money and scandal.
“Miss Bowes?” Dan said with increased urgency, and
Sally’s attention snapped back.
“I’m thinking what best to do.”
“Better think quickly then,” Dan said grimly. “We’re
down ten thousand now.”
