Chapter Nineteen

They arrived in London a week later, the whole Severn party down to Eliza Beaumont, who had refused to be left in Leamington Spa even if she couldn't show her face in London for reasons of her safety. They also had the officially renamed John Martin, temporarily as Daizell's valet until Waters could be eased into the lavish retirement his age and devotion deserved. Martin had adopted the impossibly correct demeanour of a man determined to be the perfect valet. Cassian could only hope he calmed down a little before he turned into Waters the Second.

In any case, he could now be ticked off Cassian's list of Things Needing To Be Dealt With. It was a long list, which he suspected would only get longer. He had put enquiries in motion as to the stagecoach crash, with an eye to offering assistance to the injured or bereaved and mounting a prosecution against Tom Acaster, and had also composed a letter about Sir Benjamin's fitness to be a magistrate, for his lawyers to take up in the proper quarters.

Apparently the dutiful duke had always wanted to be a troublemaker. But he was still Severn, despite it all, so he was going to make trouble as only Severn could, for Daizell, and Martin, and Eliza Beaumont, and whoever else required it. It was what his position was for. The thought gave him a sense of steadiness, as if he'd settled into place.

He did not like the other thoughts that came with it, about Daizell's seven purposeless, wasted years and how they had scraped his self-esteem to the bone. Sir James Vier was accordingly at the very top of Things Needing To Be Dealt With, and Cassian steeled himself to the task.

So, that evening, he went to speak to Sir James.

There were a number of things he would have liked to say to the man, about slander and cheating and abuse of young women and kidnapping, but all those subjects had to be avoided. He was there only as Severn, and only to talk about his greys.

Sir James was not a member of White's; they found the fellow in the Cocoa-Tree instead. It was a hell frequented by the best people, Leo had assured him, which was to say it was a pit lit by wax candles instead of tallow, and where the dead-drunk men reeked of French brandy rather than London gin.

The Duke came to the door with Leo in tow, and was stopped by a smooth-faced maitre d' with a sly look. ‘Ah, Mr Crosse. Is your friend a member?'

‘This is my cousin,' Leo said. ‘Severn.'

The man's face changed. He bowed the Duke in with grovelling servility, and took his hat and stick, while movement and whispers up ahead indicated that the news of his arrival was spreading.

He considered the place as he walked in with Leo, ignoring the fuss. He had every intention of broadening his horizons and his circles – he had enjoyed those nights of companionship and stories at the Green Lion in Coventry more than he would have thought possible – but he wouldn't have cared to include this place even if Daizell had wanted to frequent a gambling den. It had a sordid, aggressive feel to it, the faces around him greedy and needy, and he was fairly certain that was informed judgement on his part rather than fear born of inexperience.

He walked through the groups of men, stopping to acknowledge some few acquaintances most of whom he disliked, and turning off remarks about his unexpected appearance and offers of play with a polite, faint smile, until they found Sir James Vier.

Sir James was a man aged about fifty, very well dressed in the plain style, with a lean, distinguished sort of look and thin lips set in a polite, faint smile of his own. Cassian made a mental note that polite, faint smiles were actually quite dislikeable, and therefore kept his own firmly in place.

‘Sir James,' he said.

‘Ah, Your Grace.' Sir James gave a little bow. ‘Good evening. I trust you are keeping well? I had the honour of meeting your cousin earlier today.'

‘That is why I am here,' the Duke said, his voice pitched a little louder than was his wont. He was normally soft-spoken to a fault, but people were listening and he wanted them to hear. ‘I understand he offered you my greys in lieu of vowels you hold, to the tune of a thousand pounds.'

Sir James raised a brow. ‘ Your greys? Mr Crosse assured me he had title to them.'

‘You're selling your greys, Severn?' asked a man named Mowbray who had been at Eton with him. ‘I wish you had mentioned it to me.'

‘I am not,' the Duke said, keeping his eyes on Vier. ‘Leo had my greys off me by a wager, Sir James. I do not care to lose them. You will oblige me by taking my note of hand for the sum.'

‘You propose to buy your greys back from me?' Sir James Vier's thin lips stretched. ‘But suppose I do not feel inclined to sell, Your Grace?'

‘My cousin acted precipitately.' The Duke allowed his dislike to creep into his expression and voice. ‘There was no need for him to use my horses to settle his debts. I do not wish them to go into – another man's ownership.' He didn't say yours ; he didn't have to. Everyone would remember the incident when he had rebuked Sir James in Hyde Park for his savage hand with the whip, and been sent packing under the lash of the older man's withering tongue.

Sir James certainly remembered, because his smile widened further. ‘Let me be sure I understand. Crosse informed me he had taken possession of the greys, and had every right to exchange them for his vowels. Was that the case?'

‘You will oblige me by not calling my cousin's word into doubt,' the Duke said tightly.

Sir James bowed. ‘In that case, my ownership is a matter of fact, Your Grace, whereas your wishes are – merely wishes.' He puffed airily at his fingertips, as if blowing thistledown away. ‘The horses are mine now. You may offer to buy them from me, and I may refuse to sell. I look forward to having them delivered to my house at your, or your cousin's, convenience.'

The Duke clenched his fists. They were at the centre of a group of listeners now; he could feel the interest and the amusement. ‘Sir James, the horses should not be in your ownership. You exchanged them merely for a debt—'

‘For your cousin's note of hand. Surely that is as good as gold. Or do you mean to imply his vowels are worthless?'

‘I do not care to play games with you. I will pay you fifteen hundred pounds for my greys.'

Sir James locked eyes with him. ‘No,' he said softly, tauntingly.

‘I do not haggle,' the Duke snapped. ‘Name your price and have done.'

‘Sev,' Leo said, sounding worried.

‘I said, name your price!'

‘I will not take a price,' Sir James said. ‘I have a fancy to keep the greys. My greys.'

‘Mine, and I want them back!' the Duke said, voice rising. ‘They should not have been offered to you, and a gentleman would acknowledge that and act accordingly!'

Several people inhaled. Sir James's face stiffened. ‘Your Grace is unjust,' he said, a bite in the words. ‘I accepted the greys from Crosse as payment for a debt I am owed. You do not dispute the debt, nor Crosse's ownership of the horses at the point he chose to exchange them with me. Therefore, they are mine. You cannot force me to sell them, any more than you can order me to sell you my house or my coat, or otherwise dictate what I, an Englishman with an Englishman's rights and liberties, do with my property. You exceed your authority, sir.'

The Duke could feel he'd gone red, between anger, profound embarrassment, and the heat of the room. He was making himself a spectacle, brawling in this sordid gentleman's hell, all but shouting demands he knew very well were utterly unreasonable. People would talk.

Which was exactly what they were supposed to do. They just needed to talk about the right thing.

‘What is this prating of rights?' he demanded in a conversational dog-leg modelled on his uncle. ‘I am speaking of horses . I am offering to pay you twice the worth of a pair you haven't even driven and I doubt are up to handling, and your refusal smacks of nothing but spite. Or do you hope to push up the price like a costermonger?'

That landed with the audience, he could tell. So could Sir James, because he retorted, ‘On the contrary. I will not sell them at any price: I have a great fancy to drive them, and in this matter my fancy trumps yours. If you did not wish to lose your horses, Your Grace, you should not have wagered them.'

‘Play for them,' Leo said suddenly.

‘Quiet,' the Duke snapped at his cousin.

‘No, listen, Sev. You must see Vier doesn't have to sell them to you – though I must say, fifteen hundred – but he's a sporting man. Let's make it a game. A return match, even. What do you say, Vier? A few rounds of whist, you and Plath against Severn and me, with the greys on the table, and there will be no question of who owns what.'

‘There is no question as to my ownership now,' Vier said, but his eyes were calculating. ‘A game, you say? I was not aware you play, Your Grace. And I play deep. Are you sure you can meet your cousin's expectations?'

‘I can certainly meet my obligations, whatever they may be,' the Duke said icily. ‘But as to gaming—'

‘Of course you shall play, Sev,' Leo said. ‘Come, now, if you want your greys back, what choice have you?'

The Duke looked round sharply at his cousin. Sir James Vier laughed, an unpleasant sound. ‘Quite, yes. In this particular circumstance, I fear His Grace has no choice at all. Shall we say two days hence?'

They were to meet for the game in Lady Wintour's hell: a public match after the public argument. Lady Wintour – a hostess from a faro den who had married well above her station – had run her establishment for some years. Its veneer of respectability was thinner than the sheerest of muslins, but at least it wasn't the Cocoa-Tree, and more importantly, Daizell was an old friend of the proprietress. He had gone for a chat with her a few days previously.

It was crowded when Cassian and Leo arrived. Apparently the word had got round that the Duke of Severn had lost his temper, forgotten his breeding, had a vulgar public argument, and would probably be losing a great deal of money to Sir James Vier.

Cassian knew several of those present, and didn't greatly care for any of them except Daizell, who was deep in conversation with Lady Wintour. He took a glass of brandy, watching the room, and realised his face had slipped once more into his usual public expression of that polite, faint, offputting smile. No wonder people didn't talk to him.

To blazes with that. He turned to the closest man who looked friendly, and said, ‘Good evening. I'm Severn. How's the play here?'

‘Deep but honest,' the man replied. ‘Lady Wintour takes a firm line, and Ned – the big one there whose hand looks incomplete without a cudgel – applies the line firmly, if you follow me. The brandy is drinkable but I wouldn't call for champagne, she watches the pennies too closely there. Loxleigh, by the way.' He gave Cassian a nod, paused, then said, ‘It has just occurred to me – when you said Severn, you didn't mean—'

‘Yes, but "Severn" will do very well, please.'

Loxleigh took a second to digest that, then opened his hands with a smile. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Severn. First time here?'

He proved to be as friendly as he looked, and the next few moments passed in enjoyably inconsequential chatter. The Duke had never been good at that before Daizell: he'd been taught that a duke's speech was always heavy with consequence. Now he managed a very satisfactory idle conversation with remarkable ease, since his companion was a fluent chatterer, and was almost distracted when Sir James Vier walked in.

Sir Francis Plath was behind him, a smooth sort of fellow. There were grunts of greeting from around the room, but Vier ignored them, approaching Cassian as Leo came to his side.

‘Your Grace. Crosse.' Vier nodded at Leo. ‘I thought you might have reconsidered, considering the sums you already owe me. I trust I may expect those in due course.'

Cassian felt Leo inhale, trod hard on his foot, and gave Vier a chilly look. ‘We have an appointment to play. Let us do that.'

‘Certainly. My dear Lady Wintour—' He turned, and saw Daizell. ‘What is he doing here?'

It was loud enough to attract attention. Daizell was still speaking to Lady Wintour; he entirely ignored Vier, who said, louder, ‘You, Charnage!'

Daizell looked around, keeping his poise though his cheeks were rather red. ‘Vier.'

‘What the devil are you doing among gentlemen? Lady Wintour, I am surprised at whom you let through your doors.'

Lady Wintour's nostrils flared. ‘If His Grace don't object to my friends, I dare say you can deign to tolerate 'em, Sir James.'

‘I am very happy with the company,' Cassian said. ‘Good evening, Charnage, I didn't see you there.'

‘Ah, Severn, good evening,' Daizell said with a cheery nod. ‘Hello, Crosse.'

Sir James looked between them, pantomiming surprise and disapproval. ‘You are acquainted? Really, Your Grace, I must venture to give you a little advice.'

‘Must you?' Cassian said. He said it very gently, in the manner of his more dangerous aunts, and noted that Loxleigh's eyes widened. Possibly he had aunts too.

‘Your Grace, that individual assisted his father in a notorious robbery that left my dear friend Haddon dead. His father is a murderer and he an accessory to murder. Deny it all you please,' Vier went on loudly over Daizell's response. ‘I have made it my business to warn Society of him, even if the law will take no action. Your Grace must consider your acquaintance better.'

‘I – beg – your – pardon,' the Duke said, and he put all the duke he had into each stony word.

Sir James's faint smile slipped a fraction. ‘Excuse me, Your Grace. I should have said "might".'

‘But you said must. To me.' He let that hang for a moment. ‘I would not venture to tell a gentleman what he "must" do, Sir James, so I will merely observe that there are laws pertaining to slander, and if Mr Charnage chooses to use them, he will have a number of witnesses, including myself. No, I will not hear any more of this,' he added sharply. ‘You know very well it is nonsense and I will not be an audience to untruth or spite.'

The room was absolutely silent now. Sir James's expression was vicious. ‘I beg Your Grace's pardon if I have offended you. However, the man Charnage—'

‘Has witnesses placing him in Vauxhall at the time of the robbery,' Leo said. ‘Which you know very well, Vier. If you really thought he was involved you'd have brought a prosecution.'

‘With his carefully picked "witnesses" prepared to swear an alibi?' Sir James flashed back, the quotation marks audible. ‘One can hardly trust to justice in such circumstances.'

‘Hoi!' A loud, gruff voice. Cassian turned to see a burly man with a remarkably Roman nose, and the look of a building thunderhead. He took a step towards Vier. ‘You, fellow. Did you just say the witnesses to Charnage's whereabouts swore false?'

‘I merely suggest—'

‘Be damned to your suggestions, and to your implications, and to you,' the man said, with force. ‘I am one of those witnesses. I was one of the party in Vauxhall that night, with Charnage, and said so at the time. What the devil do you mean prating about "carefully picked witnesses" in that tone?' He jabbed an aggressive finger at Sir James. ‘Are you calling me a liar?'

‘Hart,' Lady Wintour said, warning. ‘I won't have brawling in my house, thank you.'

‘I have no intention of brawling,' Sir James said, smoothing his cuffs.

‘Well, I do,' the man retorted. ‘Daizell Charnage was in Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens that night, and I was there with him till the small hours. I've said so whenever I've been asked, and I'll say so again, under oath, whenever you like. Understand?'

‘Who's he?' Cassian murmured to Leo.

‘Sir John Hartlebury. In trade, not the best ton, but a good fellow.'

Vier's mouth had tightened. Clearly this was the first time his implications had been overheard by one of the witnesses. ‘I hear your words, Sir John.'

Hartlebury took another step toward him. He wasn't tall but he was distinctly intimidating. ‘Is that a mealy-mouthed way of saying you don't accept them? I am telling you that I was with Charnage in Vauxhall while his father killed that fellow in Town. Do you refuse to accept that? Because if so, you will do it here and now, to my face, or you will shut your mouth on the subject for good. Well? '

Sir James's expression was poisonous but he didn't reply. Hartlebury waited a few seconds, then snorted. ‘Didn't think so. Keep it that way. Spiteful prick,' he added, not really under his breath at all. ‘Evening, Charnage. Not seen you in a while.'

‘Hart.' Daizell gave his usual cheery smile, but his eyes were gleaming bright.

‘I think that matter is now clear,' Cassian said. ‘Sir John Hartlebury, I believe? I'm Severn.'

‘ Duke ,' Loxleigh said, low and urgent.

Hartlebury visibly recoiled, then bowed with some self-consciousness, as was only fitting for a man who'd just picked a fight in the ducal presence. ‘Your Grace.'

Cassian inclined his head. ‘I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir John. I am engaged to play with Sir James now, but I hope we can speak later.'

‘Honoured, sir,' Hartlebury said, looking understandably baffled by this turn of events.

‘If that's all clear, shall we get on?' Leo said. ‘We did come to play.'

Lady Wintour indicated a table for four in the middle of the room, with decks of cards laid out and waiting, a decanter of brandy, four glasses. The Duke felt rather sick. For all the last week's practice, he would never be a good player.

They went over the stakes, playing for a pound a point, which was deep. Vier had a nasty look in his eyes. ‘I hope we have all brought funds, gentlemen. As I mentioned, I am reluctant to accept any more of Mr Crosse's vowels.'

Leo stiffened with wrath. Cassian said, icily, ‘What an extraordinary remark to make of my cousin.'

They began to play. As the first hand progressed, Daizell put a chair behind Leo, pulled out a sheaf of paper and his scissors, and began snipping.

Sir James didn't stop play. He did, however, stare incredulously over his cards, and at the end of the hand, he said, ‘What are you doing?'

‘Profiles,' Daizell said cheerfully. ‘I cut them. Well, you know that.'

‘I do know that. I wonder if everyone else in this room does.' His tone was heavy with meaning.

Daizell glanced around. ‘I should imagine they can all see.'

‘I refer to the type of profile you cut.'

‘What's that?' asked Loxleigh, drifting over with Hartlebury in tow.

‘Profiles,' Daizell said, glancing up. ‘Let me show you; I should think you'll find it interesting.'

Sir James looked around the room full of men, plus Lady Wintour, who looked like she'd enjoy a ripe profile as much as anyone, and changed tack. ‘If you are mumming for pennies, among gentlemen—'

‘Sir James, I came here to play,' the Duke said. ‘If you cannot give me your attention, you are at liberty to resign the game.'

‘For heaven's sake, Vier, let us get on,' Sir Francis added, which was the first time he'd spoken. He looked rather uncomfortable at being the centre of attention as they were.

Well, they would be. The open hostility, aided by Hartlebury's intervention; the fact that Severn was playing, and likely to be mulcted – everyone was fascinated when a very rich man lost a lot of money – and of course Daizell. He was doing hollow-cut profiles as they played with his usual speed, and handing out the sheets with a few murmurs. Soon quite a lot of people had pieces of paper in their hands, or were showing them to their friends with muffled exclamations.

Cassian couldn't afford to pay attention to that; he needed to give all his thought to the game. He and Leo needed to do their limited best to make this enough of a match that their opponents would be obliged to cheat.

They did have the advantage that Sir James's signals were known to them. If he said, ‘Let us commence, gentlemen,' he was strong in hearts and spades. Cassian did not find that as helpful as one might have hoped: certainly not as helpful as Plath.

He and Leo were soon badly down. The points were mounting against them; the candlelight was very bright; the smell of molten wax and sweaty male bodies and brandy overwhelming. He could afford the losses, he knew he could, but he did not want to lose and the tension thudded under his breastbone in a sick drumbeat.

Leo looked sick too. Cassian wondered how it had felt when he had lost three thousand that he could not in the slightest afford. He wondered how George Charnage had felt, and how many people Sir James and Sir Francis and Henry Haddon had rooked and ruined.

He wasn't paying attention, he realised. He played a high heart in a spirit of hope rather than confidence, and Vier gave a hiss of satisfaction. Damnation.

He bent his mind to the game. He had to do this: if he didn't make it a contest, Vier would take his money and keep his horses, and Daizell would go unavenged. The thought spurred him; he forced himself to attend, as he had to the many tedious lessons in his past. He and Leo won the next hand, then another. Vier glowered at Sir Francis. ‘Wake up, man.'

‘Eh? I'm very well.' Sir Francis shook himself as though tired. ‘Fact, it's time to raise the stakes. What about those horses?'

‘Ah, yes, the famous greys.' Vier's lips curved. ‘You do seem to have plunged a great deal recently, Your Grace. Let us add that stake to the outcome of the next rubber. Shall we say, the greys against . . . oh, five thousand pounds.'

The room had been mostly silent, with people clustered around them, but that stake caused a deal of exclamation. Cassian let it subside. ‘The greys and Leo's remaining vowels.'

‘Certainly,' Vier said, fished out a paper, and tossed it casually onto the table. ‘The addition makes little difference.'

Leo's face darkened at the implication. Cassian kicked him under the table: they needed to concentrate now, because Vier would not want to lose this rubber.

The entire room was watching now. Most of the spectators were gathered behind either Vier or Sir Francis's chairs, naturally enough since Cassian had the wall at his back, and Leo had Daizell at his, now standing to watch. There had to be twenty of them holding Daizell's sheets of paper with hollow-cut profiles, including Sir John Hartlebury. Cassian dreaded to think what Daizell had made of that impressively Roman nose.

The rubber began with hearts as trumps. Sir Francis murmured, ‘Very warm in here.' Strong in clubs .

‘A trifle so,' Sir James agreed. Diamonds.

Cassian concentrated furiously on his lessons. Return your partner's lead. Count trumps. Second player plays low. The maxims didn't feel like much protection, especially since Leo frequently ignored them. Possibly this was one reason he'd lost three thousand pounds.

Sir James was to lead next. ‘Come, your play,' Sir Francis murmured. Sir James played the queen of spades, Leo played the king, and Sir Francis the ace. He took the next round with the jack. There was a murmur from the watchers.

‘Quiet, please,' the Duke said. His hands were trembling with tension.

Sir James and Sir Francis took the game. The next hand was dealt; hearts were trumps again. The Duke looked at his cards and nearly dropped them: six hearts to the ace and king, and the aces of spades and diamonds.

With a hand like that he could not lose, and he did not. Sir James's face darkened as Cassian and Leo took all but one trick. One game each. Everything now rested on the third game that would make up the rubber.

Cassian and Leo were close to two thousand pounds down so far; if he lost now, Sir James would keep the greys and Cassian would owe him and Plath seven thousand pounds, since he had promised Leo he'd cover all the losses. He didn't want to pay the swine a penny.

Sir Francis dealt. Cassian took his cards and glanced up, meeting Daizell's eyes. Daizell gave him a smile, small, quick, but there, like a fleeting touch, a brushed kiss.

Trumps were cut as clubs. Sir Francis mopped his brow. ‘Really, it is most uncomfortably warm,' he remarked peevishly to the spectators. ‘Do move away a little.' Strong in clubs.

‘Yes, kindly let us concentrate,' Sir James agreed. Spades .

The Duke's hand was not so good this time: very few clubs but ace and queen of hearts and ace of spades, and a long string of diamonds. He and Leo collected the first three tricks; Sir James took the fourth with the king of spades. He considered his hand, then reached for his brandy, and frowned. ‘Is this cracked?'

‘Is it?' Lady Wintour came forward. ‘Where?'

‘My mistake. I thought I saw a crack.' He held it to the light, then gave a smiling shrug. ‘Merely a mark. My eyes fail me.'

Whatever part of that was their code didn't appear in Eliza's list. Cassian thought he could make a guess, though: Vier was asking for instruction in what to lead. And, indeed, Sir Francis said, ‘Allow me to refresh your glass, Severn.' Allow : the code for Play a diamond.

Sir James looked at his hand a moment longer, then led the six of diamonds. Leo played the ace. Sir Francis dropped the three of clubs on the table, trumping it.

‘Ha!' he said with the mild satisfaction of a fortunate man, and put out his hand to collect the trick.

Sir John Hartlebury leaned in and slapped his hand on Plath's arm, holding it to the table.

‘What—!'

‘That will do, I think,' Hartlebury said in a low, savage rumble. ‘Evangeline?'

‘It will undoubtedly do.' Lady Wintour's voice was edged like a razor. ‘Turn up your hands, gentlemen, Your Grace. I said, hands up .'

She turned over the trick on the table, showing the four cards. The Duke spread his remaining hand on the table, heart thudding. Leo did the same, as did Sir James, revealing a disappointing set of cards. His face was bland and unmoved but Cassian thought his skin looked rather waxy.

‘Sir James,' Lady Wintour said. ‘You had king, six, three in diamonds. Do you care to tell us why you led the six?'

‘Why should I not?'

‘Try again,' she said. ‘Now.'

His eyes narrowed. ‘Hearts and spades have both been played; clubs are trumps; I thought my poverty in diamonds might mean my partner's strength. A matter of probability. I took a chance.'

‘Probability, my arse. Posterior,' she amended with a glance at Cassian. ‘You underled a king!'

‘Should I have led the king instead, with the ace as yet unplayed?'

‘You shouldn't have led a diamond at all, with those cards,' she said. ‘But you did. And we all know why.'

She slapped a piece of paper on the table. It had a hollow-cut at the centre: Sir John Hartlebury's highly distinctive profile leapt to life, revealed by the white paper against dark wood. There were a couple of chuckles, but only a couple, because the paper was not otherwise blank. It also held quite a lot of neat writing, headed, in large letters: VIER AND PLATH CHEAT. READ THIS. KEEP SILENCE. DON'T SHOW THEM YOU KNOW.

Miss Beaumont had an excellent, very legible hand. She had written out the code some thirty laborious times, leaving a space at the centre of each sheet for Daizell to cut a profile. He'd been passing the sheets out to the spectators under Vier's nose all evening.

‘Allow': play a diamond. ‘Come': play a spade . . .

Sir James picked up the paper, frowning. ‘What does this mean?'

‘Don't waste my time,' Lady Wintour snapped. ‘We have all heard each of you use these words a dozen times this evening. We've all seen what you played in response.'

‘How long have you been doing this?' demanded a man named Tallant, a well-known gamester. ‘I lost two thousand to you not two months back!'

‘I lost three,' Leo said, and there were other comments to similar effect.

‘Their luck certainly has been in for a long time,' Lord Myers said. ‘How did you spot this, sir? Mr Charnage, is it? You have done gentlemen a great service with this.' He brandished another sheet of paper with its neat writing and hollow cut. ‘Most ingenious, I must say. Wouldn't have believed it otherwise.'

‘These are lies!' Vier snapped. ‘Charnage's lies! His father murdered my dear friend Haddon and robbed me—'

‘What has that to do with you cheating at cards?' the Duke asked.

‘He is a liar and a pornographer, a rogue and fortune hunter—'

‘You cheated my father!' Daizell shouted. ‘You and Henry Haddon took him for everything he had! The reason he robbed you and shot Haddon is that the pair of you had ruined him! And you didn't let Haddon's death stop you, did you? You merely acquired Plath as partner, and kept on cheating, and lying, and stealing, you wretched sharper!'

‘Haddon?' Hartlebury demanded. ‘Because I recall Vier and Haddon taking a great deal of money off Lord Arvon – Miles Carteret as was – some years ago, and if that is the case—'

‘You did that to Miles?' Loxleigh said, and his friendly face wasn't friendly any more. ‘You bastards .'

Sir James started a response to which neither Loxleigh nor Hartlebury listened. They were shouting in angry chorus, and they weren't the only ones. The outrage and expostulation rose deafeningly; one of Lady Wintour's house bullies shoved his way through the crowd in an ominous manner. Cassian wanted to call for control, but knew his own voice would be lost in the mayhem.

He took the clasp knife from his pocket, and started to tap it against the brandy decanter. The steady chinking cut through the noise, which dwindled as people turned and saw its source. He kept tapping as mouths closed until the room was completely quiet.

‘Thank you,' he said, folding the knife with a deliberate click and returning it to his pocket. ‘Gentlemen, Lady Wintour. Mr Charnage brought this matter to me when he learned that Sir James had rooked my cousin Leo for a very large sum at whist. Sir James has been attempting to destroy Mr Charnage's character for some years now, out of fear of this very exposure. I trust his slanders will receive no further credence.'

He paused there, looking around. Everyone stayed silent, but there were several nods. Daizell was scarlet-faced but bright-eyed.

‘Mr Charnage explained that Sir James and Sir Francis were cheating in this way,' the Duke went on. ‘We agreed that Leo and I would play, and he would expose them in this ingenious manner—'

‘Entrapment!' Sir Francis spluttered.

‘All you had to do was not cheat,' the Duke said, icing his voice. ‘As Lord Myers observed, Mr Charnage has done a great service to gentlemen tonight. I add my thanks to yours, my lord.' He inclined his head; Myers and Daizell bowed. ‘Vier, Plath: I will not be paying you your so-called winnings from this game, nor will you have my greys. Moreover, my cousin's debt of honour to you was not won honourably and is thus no debt. I will take his vowels.'

He reached out. Sir James snatched up the paper first; Hartlebury slapped his wrist down on the table with unnecessary force.

‘Thank you, Sir John,' the Duke said, part of him observing his own aplomb with astonishment. He plucked the IOU from Vier's pinned hand, held it up ceremonially, and tore it across. ‘I will fully support anyone who has lost money to you in declining to pay, or retrieving their losses. You are both unfit for the company of gentlemen, and I must decline your further acquaintance.'

‘ Whereas , me and my boys will be having a very long talk with this pair of tosspots,' Lady Wintour said, fizzing with wrath. ‘Cheating in my house! Get 'em, Ned.'

The oversized bully moved purposefully, grabbing Sir James's collar with a huge hand. The Duke held up his hand commandingly. ‘Stop. I cannot countenance violent retribution, Lady Wintour.'

‘Oh, come off it!' Loxleigh said furiously. ‘Uh, that is—'

‘No. I must decline to witness any such thing.' Cassian gave it a couple of seconds, as Sir Francis and Sir James shot him looks of desperate hope, and concluded, ‘So let me leave the room before you start.'