Devil's Cub (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 2)

‘My God, do we sit all night arguing?’ Bowling cried. ‘Let’s be done with this!’ He took up the dice-box, called a main and threw. Vidal pushed a little pile of guineas towards him, and the game went on.

Money passed backwards and forwards, but the bank was still an easy winner at the end of a couple of hours’ play. The Marquis was drinking steadily. So were several others, notably Mr Quarles, whose scowl deepened with each glass. On the Marquis the wine seemed to have little or no effect. His hand was steady enough, and there was only that glitter in his eyes to betray to one who knew him how much he had drunk.

My Lord Rupert, another heavy drinker, had reached the rollicking stage, and was sitting with his wig askew. Mr Fox had broached his second bottle, and seemed somnolent. My Lord Rupert won a little, lost again, and called up the table to his nephew: ‘Rot you, Vidal, this is poor sport! Quicken the game, my boy!’

‘Take the bank, Rupert?’

My lord pulled his pocket linings out, and began to count the guineas that lay before him. It was a difficult business. ‘I make it eleven,’ he announced with a hiccough. ‘Can’t start a bank on ’leven guineas, Vidal. Can’t start bank at Timothy’s on less than sixty guineas.’

The Marquis said recklessly: ‘Raise you to two hundred, gentlemen.’

Mr Fox nodded. Bowling pushed back his chair. ‘I’m out,’ he said. ‘That’s too deep for me, Vidal.’

‘Bank can’t win for ever,’ the Marquis replied. ‘Stay the course, Jack, the night’s young yet.’

Mr Bowling blinked at the clock on the far wall. ‘Young? I make it past four.’

‘That’s young, ain’t it?’ said Lord Rupert. ‘Four? Why, that’s devilish young!’

Mr Bowling laughed. ‘Oh, I protest! I’m a man of sedate habits. Do you mean to take your breakfast here? I’m for my bed.’

‘Sit it out!’ recommended Lord Cholmondley. ‘We’ll break Vidal yet. Vidal! Is that bay mare by Sunshine out of Mad Molly still in your stables? I’ll stake my Blue Lightning against the mare I break your bank before six.’

The Marquis poured more wine. ‘Make it five, and I’ll take you.’

Mr Fox opened his eyes. ‘What’s amiss? You for bed too?’

‘I don’t sit after five,’ the Marquis said. ‘I’m for Newmarket and back again.’

Lord Cholmondley gaped at him. ‘God save us all, it’s not the day of your race? Man, you’re crazy to think to drive to Newmarket! Damme, Vidal, you’re drunk. You can’t do it! And here’s me with a cool five hundred backing you!’

‘Be calm, my loved one,’ mocked Vidal. ‘I drive best when I’m drunk.’

‘But up all night – no, blister me, that’s too much. Get to bed, you madman!’

‘What, to save your stake for you? Be damned if I do! My coach calls for me at five. Does the bet stand? You’ll break my bank before five – your colt to my mare.’

‘I’ll do it!’ Cholmondley said, slapping the table with his open hand. ‘Got an hour, ha’n’t I? Time enough. Where’s the betting-book?’

The bet was duly entered. The waiter was about to remove the book when the Marquis drawled: ‘I’ll lay you a further five hundred I reach Newmarket under the given time, Cholmondley – play or pay.’

‘Done!’ said Cholmondley promptly. ‘Now I’m for you, my boy. Playing two hundred!’

‘Two hundred it is,’ the Marquis agreed, and put up his eyeglass to watch the throw of the dice.

Cholmondley called sixes. Lord Rupert looked solemnly at the dice as they fell on the table. ‘Deuce ace,’ he declared. ‘Bank can’t win for ever, eh, Vidal?’

Mr Quarles, who had been tapping an impatient foot, burst out: ‘I’d say my Lord Vidal can’t lose!’

The eyeglass dangled on its black ribbon from between my lord’s fingers. ‘Would you?’ said

the Marquis gently, and as though he waited for more.

‘Oh, stand out, Quarles, if you can’t stay the course!’ said Cholmondley impatiently.

It was evident that Mr Quarles had reached the quarrelsome stage. ‘I’ll stay the course well enough, sir, but the luck’s too damned uneven for my taste.’

Mr Fox took a mirror from his capacious pocket, and studied his reflection in it. With considerable care he straightened his toupet, and flicked a speck of snuff from the lapel of his coat. ‘Dominic,’ he said wearily.