LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

      Three weeks later

      James blinked across the table at his opponent. ‘I make that a thousand pounds, Hensleigh. Time to settle up, don’t you think?’ He spoke with extra precision, as if without care his speech might have slurred. With seeming clumsiness, he knocked his glass of burgundy. ‘Oops,’ he said absently.

      Hensleigh smiled broadly as he righted the glass. ‘Oh, come now, Cambourne! I’m no faint heart. The merest reverse! You must give me at least a chance to recoup my losses. Double or nothing on the next hand? Winner take all?’

      James would have preferred to end this farce right there and then, walking out with his winnings, or at least Hensleigh’s vowels. Frankly he thought he’d spent enough time in the Cockpit.

      Finding the hell had been easy. Getting in had been trickier, even with the password Nick had given him, but a crown to the doorman had worked a minor miracle. He’d noted Hensleigh on his first visit, a tall, bluff, open-faced sort, with thinning ginger hair, but hadn’t approached him. Instead he’d played dice at another table, careful not to win or lose too heavily, once he’d worked out how the dice were weighted. He’d dressed carefully, making sure he looked and behaved like a well-heeled squire fresh from the country—a pigeon ready for plucking. He’d also introduced himself as plain Mr Cambourne. In this situation his title would be a hindrance. He’d watched the card play, come to the conclusion that Hensleigh was far from the only Captain Sharp in the room, and planned accordingly.

      Sure enough, the first time he’d played whist, he’d been allowed to win. Easily. Afterwards, when Hensleigh had come up to congratulate him, he’d grumbled that his opponent wasn’t skilled enough to make it entertaining. The second time he’d lost a little, but won more, swaggering away two hundred pounds to the good. Tonight Hensleigh had approached him, all “hail, fellow, well met” and “care for a hand or two?” Apparently tonight was plucking time.

      James considered. Double or nothing would end the affair and he wanted it over. The dingy, smoky hell, with its complement of the desperate and the dangerous, bored him. Several women, their profession—and assets—very obvious, prowled the room, only too ready to relieve a man of his winnings if the professional card sharps at the tables failed to do it. Occasionally a woman would leave with one or more of the players. It could not be said that they slipped away. Nothing so discreet. A few times James had heard the price agreed on.

      He veiled his contempt with a bleary stare. ‘Double or nothing?’ he said. ‘That would make your losses two thousand pounds, Hensleigh.’

      The fellow smirked. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, with another broad smile, ‘What’s life without a little risk? Shall we have a new deck for it, eh?’

      James raised his brows. ‘Why not?’ He sat back as Hensleigh signalled.

      ‘A new deck here, my man,’ Hensleigh said to the servant who came over. ‘And a cloth for this mess. Mr Cambourne and I have agreed to double or nothing. Winner take all.’

      The servant’s gaze sharpened. ‘Aye, Cap’n.’ He scurried away.

      ‘Another glass of wine, Cambourne?’ Hensleigh suggested, his hand hovering by the bottle.

      ‘Why not?’ James plastered a vacuous grin to his face. Hensleigh had been pouring glass after glass of wine for him with a fine appearance of generosity. No doubt he assumed James was at least verging on foxed, if not well beyond it. In fact, most of the wine had been surreptitiously poured on to the carpet.

      James lounged back to wait, as another servant wiped the table.

      The first servant brought the new deck and glanced at Hensleigh, who held out his hand. ‘Thank you, my man.’ He cut the deck.

      James waited until he began to shuffle, straightened and said quietly, with no trace of impairment, ‘It’s my turn to deal, Hensleigh.’

      Several cards slipped from the man’s hands, as his gaze flew to James’s face. ‘Is it? I am sure you must be mistaken.’

      James raised his brows. ‘No, Hensleigh, I am not.’

      Hensleigh’s eyes narrowed, flickered to the glass of wine.

      James smiled. And shook his head. He reached out, swept up the fallen cards without taking his eyes from Hensleigh’s face, and waited.

      After a moment, expressionless, Hensleigh handed over the rest of the pack.

      ‘Thank you,’ said James, shuffling with an expertise he hadn’t used earlier. Hensleigh’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. James ignored him, continuing the shuffle with unconcerned ease. Carefully he tilted the cards just so, as they ran through his fingers, catching the light. He didn’t really need to see, but he wanted Hensleigh to sweat.

      The man’s eyes widened.

      ‘Is this what they cashiered you for, Hensleigh?’ James asked.

      Hensleigh swallowed. ‘The devil you say?’

      ‘The army,’ James said.

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