Held by eyes as black as Harrow's intentions, his distant neighbor grew bold with drink. The confidence of a bellyful of ale, and the farmer swaggered, certain he was invincible as his pile of coin grew with every throw of the dice. With such large winnings, he wagered aggressively with his funds, much to the excitement of his friends, and the cheering of the room.
Another win bolstered the farmer's faith that he was the master of chance, drawing him into a bet that even his companions warned against. It had always astounded Harrow how quickly a simpleton could lose a fortune, and how speedily those willing to do what had to be done could earn one. So he watched as the diceman handed over the cup, the farmer shaking it, risking a massive sum on a single bet. The clatter of the cubed wood fell and a cold sweat broke out upon a face that had been so full of delight only a moment ago.
The farmer had lost.
Desperation led to another reckless bet, the farmer gathering up the dice in the cup. One last throw and everything was forfeit, all his profits from his crop squandered.
“That's ten pound, Keith.” The diceman grinned, his mouth a curl of perfect satisfaction. “Due me now, if you please.”
Working to hide his horror, Keith patted his pockets. He pulled all he had from his coat, slid it to the diceman, hoping the foreigner might not notice he stood two pounds short.
The wiry limbed diceman snatched at the notes, clicking his tongue. “Betting money you ain't got is not a sign of a gentleman.”
Panting, Keith looked for the friends who egged him on, who'd drank and cheered. But they stood distant and averted their eyes. “I'm sure we could work something out...”
The quick handed Irishman smirked. “Either you find me coin or you be payin’ another way.”
Sweating, hands pressed to a protruding belly, Keith grew desperate. Those he asked for a loan outright denied him; the few gentlemen in the room ignored him, save one. Mr. Harrow met his frantic eyes and held them.
Keith's paunch expanded in a steadying breath. He wiped a hand over a fleshy face, and stood. “Sir.”
“Sir?” Harrow answered back in parrot of Keith's thick accent. “I don't recall you ever calling me that before.”
No. He had not. There was another name Keith far preferred. A title that had earned the last man who’d spoken it to Harrow's face a grave.
Everyone knew the dark haired bastard had no true right to the name Harrow or the lands he'd taken. Standing there needy before the softly smiling object of his antagonism ate through Keith’s drunken bravado. Eyeballing the largeness of the lounging man, still seeing the scrawny boy he'd hated, the farmer couldn't understand how Gregory Harrow had grown in size and wealth while pureblood men like him had only sunk lower. “I have little ones to feed...”
Harrow offered a leer, drawing the bumbling drunkard nearer with soft speech. “Then a loan of thirty pounds should see you through.”
“Thirty pounds?” Keith could hardly believe his ears. That was ten pounds more than he had started with—a true fortune. Rising from the bench, stumbling, the sudden would-be comrade grinned and nodded, holding out his hand to shake. “If it pleases you, sir.”
“More than I can express...” Warm welcome oozed from the villain. “Shall we drink to it?” Harrow waved over a nearby barmaid, demanding a pour of porter.
The drink came and the men raised their glasses, Harrow smiling all the while. Before the gulp was fully swallowed, Keith’s bloodshot eyes darted back towards the gaming table—back to where men once again gathered to shout and cheer. With a belch, the farmer took his thirty pound, ready to show his neighbors his worth.
Harrow made no move to stop him, but silent laughter shook his shoulders as he watched the small fortune he had lent the fool dwindle until Keith had lost every single penny... again.
Belligerently drunk, Keith began to sputter and weep, unsure where he had gone so wrong. He’d felt it. The money had been his... he had been winning. Then, little by little it all just slipped away.
When the man became a blubbering mess, Mr. Harrow rose from his chair, crossing the distance to the gaming table. The quick-eyed diceman reached out to pull his winnings towards his belly, Keith, hiccupping between sobs, sagged to the tabletop in a heap of filthy wool and sweat.
In pure disgust, Harrow shoved Keith from seat to floor, and with a flourish of his cutaway, claimed the vacant position. He looked to the Irishman, smiling like a crocodile. Harrow tapped the table with his finger. “Now dice has never been my game. The odds are just too unpredictable.”
Across the worn table, the diceman straightened. The Irishman was willing to play into Harrow’s brand of conversation. “Then what’s yer game?”
Harrow tutted. “My game is the sort requiring determined patience.” Black eyes rolled down to where Keith lay balled up on the floor crying like a babe. “And an attentive eye...”
The diceman pinched his mouth, lips tucked back tightly against crooked teeth. “Aye.”
Flourishing his fingers, Mr. Harrow pulled out two twenty pound notes, sliding them on the table between them. He gathered the dice in his palm. “And, as you must understand, a wise man never plays unless he knows he will win.”
The dice were shaken, Harrow's numbers called, and the wooden cubes cast... every single one landing in favor of the man who'd thrown them.
“Perhaps I spoke falsely.” Harrow’s grin was a nasty thing. Teeth bared, he reached forward and gathered every last coin from the diceman's pile—reaching to take from the Irishman’s breast pocket until the debt was fully settled. “Dice indeed seems to be my game.”
Mr. Harrow tossed five pounds down, all pretense of pleasure replaced with darkness. “For the hours of gratuitous amusement.”
* * *