Had Priscilla closed her eyes she would have known the moment the players entered the room. The hot, smoky air thrummed with nervous tension. Slow, baritone hums of conversation increased in speed and pitch. Excitement grew progressively louder as each man fought for the right to be heard.
Matthew pulled her through the crowd, squeezing her hand so tight her fingers were numb, no doubt a deathly shade of blue.
While The Diamond Club was a place for degenerates, most gentlemen stepped aside to allow her to pass, years of aristocratic breeding prevailing over the recently learnt manners of a rake.
In the crush, Matthew failed to infiltrate the first row of spectators gathered around the large rectangular table, and they had to make do with standing in the second row.
“It’s not only the men at the table who gamble on the outcome of this game,” Matthew whispered. The throng had quietened while waiting for the players to make their way to their seats. “Most of those in front of us have placed a wager too.”
Priscilla scanned the row of eager faces opposite. For some, the wide eyes and toothy grins would diminish with the outcome of each hand. “I wonder if their wives know they’re gambling away the family fortune?” The slight bitterness in her tone revealed her own frustration at Uncle Henry’s duplicity.
Matthew shuffled closer until his arm brushed against hers. “Those who gamble at this level are renowned for living a hedonistic lifestyle, openly boast about their wins and losses. Those men who are secretive about their pursuits are the ones who cause devastation for their family.”
The words carried a hint of disdain. Of course, he hated lies. Deceitfulness was a trait she despised, too.
“Like my uncle you mean.” An odd puffing sound left her lips. Uncle Henry enjoyed risking everything he owned on the turn of the cards or the roll of the dice. “I’ve spent years thinking his stingy habits stemmed from a need to protect his family. Now I know he needed every spare penny to keep the wolves from the door.”
Matthew turned to face her fully. “I know your uncle has disappointed you. I understand what it’s like to have everything you believed to be true ripped from you in one enlightening moment.”
One did not need to have mystical powers to know he spoke of the secret pain that had hardened his heart. On the way home, she would use the time alone in the carriage to delve deeper. She had promised to compensate him for bringing her to the gaming hell, to offer the physical affection he craved. She hungered for his touch too — not because it meant losing herself in the dizzy heights of pleasure but because the intimacy of the moment brought her ever closer to him.
A boisterous cheer disturbed her reverie.
“The players are about to take their seats,” Matthew said. “Let us pray my information is correct and the sharps are playing tonight.”
The lively throng parted to make way for the approaching players. Craning her neck, she caught the first glimpse of the four gentlemen as they sauntered to their seats at the card table. Various members of the crowd stepped forward to give their favourite a slap on the back, tried not to stumble into them as they offered a slurred wish of luck or encouragement.
Priscilla cast Matthew a sidelong glance. His dark gaze lingered on the man with wiry red hair, bushy side whiskers and a bulbous nose.
“Well?” she asked leaning closer. “Are we in luck?”
“The one with the flame-coloured hair is Mr Parker-Brown. The gentleman taking the seat opposite is his partner in whist, Lord Boden.”
With a jutting chin, puffed chest and a look that radiated superiority, it was obvious no one thought more highly of Lord Boden than he did himself. His rigid posture and probing stare were enough to deter anyone from challenging his opinion.
“Boden looks as though he hates to lose,” she said.
“The fellow has expensive tastes and looks for any way to fund his habits. He owns the fastest racehorse, the most extravagant phaeton. The gossips say he keeps three mistresses though there are always ladies vying for his attention.”
Priscilla considered the gentleman’s pretentious demeanour. His pale blue eyes were as cold and as desolate as the sea in Brighton on a winter’s morning. There was nothing remotely handsome about his countenance, but then money was considered the most attractive quality by many.
“Pompous lords do nothing for me. I fail to see the appeal.”
“I’m glad to hear it. May I remind you no one but me will ever claim a place on your dance card.” The mischievous glint in his eyes held a wealth of promise though the fingers grazing over her hip sent irritating prickles up her side and across her shoulders.
Disgust made her stomach flip when she realised it couldn’t be her husband’s hand. She glanced over her shoulder to see Mr Mullworth hovering behind.
“Excuse me, my dear, I was trying to push to the front.”
Not wanting to cause a scene, Priscilla offered a weak smile. “I fear it is rather a crush in here tonight. Everyone is keen to witness the game.” Inclining her head to the leech, she turned to Matthew. “Can I stand in front of you?”
A frown marred her husband’s brow as he scanned her face. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Mr Mullworth wishes to have a better view of the card game,” she lowered her voice, “and a crowd provides an ideal opportunity for a fellow with wandering hands to partake in a little exploration.”
Matthew’s penetrating stare shot to a point over her shoulder. The muscles in his jaw firmed and twitched as his nostrils flared. “If that degenerate touches you again, he’ll lose more than the use of his blasted fingers.”
“Pay it no heed.” She placed a calming hand on his chest. The wild thump of his heart beating against her palm stirred hope in her breast. The need to protect surely stemmed from more than a sense of ownership. “The game is about to begin, and we need to keep our wits if we are to achieve what we came here to do.”