Lord Ashford's Wager

“Good evening, my Lord.”

“Good evening, Jeremiah.” Tony Varden, Lord Ashford, gave the man leaning over the half-door at 75 St. James Street one of his most charming smiles.

“Go right up, my lord, and good luck to you.”

Tony bounded up one flight of stairs and waited for a moment on the top step as he was surveyed from the spyhole in the second door. The retainer in charge of this door was always silent, and far from being the one-eyed giant the spy-hole brought to mind, he had to stand on tiptoes to peer out. But his vision was perfect and no one ever made it through who didn’t belong.

One more door, and Tony was admitted into the inner sanctum, which was everything the antechambers were not. Brilliant chandeliers hung from the ceiling and fragrant shrubs lined the walls. Immaculately dressed waiters circulated unobtrusively, offering the finest brandies and clarets and guiding patrons to the supper room where refreshments rivaled those at the most fashionable soirees.

Lord Ashford headed straight for the altar of this temple, a large oblong table covered in green cloth. Some few of those standing around it greeted him quietly, but most were interested in the hands of the dealers rapidly laying down cards.

Black was first, as always. Ten, jack, five…eight. “Three,” called the dealer. Then, without a second’s pause, the red: six, ace, two, king, three…ten.

‘Two,” called the second croupier.

A collective slumping of shoulders on the black side of the table, a noticeable eagerness on the red side as the dealers raked in the house profit and distributed the winnings.

Lord Ashford gently pushed his way through to the black side, and drawing a few guineas out of his pocket, placed them on the table.

“Four,” called the black dealer.

“Two again on the red.”

No change on Lord Ashford’s face, except for a fleeting smile at the waiter who offered him a whiskey and soda. He set the glass down in front of him on the edge of the table and fished out two more guineas, murmuring,
“Sur le noir,”
as he placed them on the black oval painted on the table.

“Two.”

“Deux sur le noir,”
murmured Lord Ashford with a short sigh of relief.

“One.”

“Un sur le rouge,”
he whispered in the same even tone, without a flicker of disappointment on his face.

Another two guineas went down on the black.

“One.”

“One
après.”

Merde,
thought Lord Ashford.

This time, however, his luck had changed. On the deciding deal, it was thirty-three on the black, thirty-five on the red. And so his two guineas came back to him.

He stepped back from the table as a young man pushed his way through. It was James Colter, Viscount Lindsay, looking drunk and feverish. The next two deals were in favor of black and Tony quietly pocketed his guineas, watching young Lindsay out of the corner of his eye. The boy, for that was all he was, could not govern his emotions, and slapped the table in delight as he won. Then the deals began to go to the red. In the next two hours, Lord Ashford won and lost, won and lost, but the sums remained small. Not young Lindsay, however. He played a total of seven hundred guineas and lost it all. As the dealer raked back his last shillings, Lindsay stood there looking lost, reaching deep into his pockets for anything, anything to lay down. He was not cast down, Lord Ashford realized, because he had lost such a sum, but because he could not go on playing.

The boy finally stumbled backward, looking down at his watchless waist, his pinless cravat, his ringless hands. Tony was sure that had there been a business in little fingers, Lindsay would have sold his to get back in the game. As it was, he suddenly let out a laugh, turned, and pushing past patrons and waiters, ran down the stairs.

“A Johnny Newcome, Boniface?” Ashford asked the man next to him.

“Nah, ‘e ain’t no punter, but
‘e
be a regular patient of ours,” replied the blackleg with a wink. “ ‘E gets werry ‘ighblooded at times, and for ‘is own ‘ealth, we got to flea-botomize ‘im, as it were. ‘Ow are you doing tonight, m’lord?”

“Not badly, Boniface. Keeping afloat.”

“You might want to play the red for a while, my lord.”

“I’ll stick to the black,” replied Tony, placing another guinea on the table. On the next five deals he won and played his winnings. He was just pocketing sixty guineas when he heard someone running up the stairs. The room became utterly silent as all eyes turned to the door, wondering if a constable had somehow gotten past the watchdogs. But it was just young Lindsay, a grin on his face, with his coat buttoned up to his cravat. He pushed into the crowd on the other side of the table and lay down eight shillings.

“There. On the red.” And the red won. Not every time, but again and again, even on the
après
deals. When he had won back one hundred pounds, the boy looked up and unbuttoned his coat, exposing his naked, hairless chest.

“Went to a pawnbroker on Jermyn Street,” he crowed. “Best thing I ever did.” He lay down twenty pounds. “Here, waiter, champagne all around!”

Ashford shook his head. Lindsay might not be a Johnny Newcome, but he was acting like one. He, the Earl of Ashford, prided himself on not letting on to anyone, anyone, how he was faring. Oh, they knew. Of course they knew, the blacklegs and the dealers. But they would never know from his face, his laughter, his groans. That satisfaction he wouldn’t give them.

* * * *

It was five a.m. before he pocketed his money and went home. All in all it had been a good evening. He had come with twenty guineas and left with forty-two. And back in his room he had a leather drawstring bag with one hundred guineas, which was untouchable. He prided himself on that fact. His pockets were not to let, nor would he ever have to sell his shirt to play. And of course he had Ashford.

Ashford was the only reason he was spending his nights in gaming hells, he would tell himself. It was the need to save his inheritance and provide for his mother that drove him out, night after night.

Ashford was a moderate-size property in Kent. It had been in the hands of the Varden family from the time of Henry VIII, as had the earldom. And although the Vardens had never been fabulously wealthy, they had been comfortable for generations. Until the present earl’s father, in an attempt to
become
fabulously wealthy, had almost impoverished the family. Having put his faith and his money into government bonds, he lost both when the rumors of Wellington’s defeat at Waterloo started coming across the channel. He sold when the price was lowest and awoke the next morning to realize that if he had just held on for a day or two, he would indeed have tripled the family fortune. As it was, he was left as metaphorically shirtless as young Lindsay had been literally.

The earl suffered a stroke within two days and died without regaining consciousness. Lady Ashford walked around saying to anyone who would listen, “It was a blessing, really. He could not have borne being helpless,” all the while tears running down her face at the sudden loss of her husband. Her younger son, Anthony, was a captain in Wellington’s army and did not return home for the funeral. Indeed, he did not even hear of his father’s death until his return in August.

Her older son, Edward, upon assuming the title, made it clear that he would spare no effort in restoring the estate. He closed the London townhouse, closeted himself with his manager and the family solicitor and presented his wife and mother with a detailed plan for economizing.

Neither woman resented it. In fact, both admired Ned for his seriousness and sense of responsibility. They only worried about him, for he physically exhausted himself during the day and stayed up late at night going over the accounts, trying to find more ways to strengthen their finances.

Captain Varden was transferred to the War Office staff in London, a virtual sinecure now that the war was over. He visited Kent on the holidays, but spent most of his time attending every social function to which he was invited. He did no more drinking and gaming than many of his contemporaries. Which was to say: a lot, but never to excess.

He admired his brother’s sense of duty, but was grateful that he was the youngest. He had never envied Ned the earldom, unlike some younger sons. He knew he did not have the temperament for the responsibilities. On his occasional visits, he would look at his brother’s drawn face and wonder what choices he would have made had he been handed such a burden.

“Why don’t you sell, Ned?” he asked on one of his visits, after the women had gone to bed.

“Sell Ashford! It has been in the family for three hundred years. Of course I couldn’t sell. I must preserve it for the heir, whether that be a son Charlotte and I have, or you.”

“At the rate you are driving yourself, there will be no heir,” said Tony, who was only half joking.

“No, no, you will see. One or two more years of this economizing and we will be on our way out of the woods.”

But Ned did not have even one year. He caught a cold that March, but insisted on supervising the planting himself. The weather was raw that spring, and his cold quickly became an inflammation of the lungs. Within two weeks he was gone, and Captain Anthony Varden was the new Earl of Ashford.

It was too much for all of them. The countess collapsed in the churchyard and was confined to her room for months. Her daughter-in-law, who was very fond of Ned’s mother, stayed on with them until she was sure that the dowager would recover. And a week after his brother’s death Tony, trying to feel close to Ned, sat down at his brother’s desk and rifled through the papers Ned had been working on. When he came to the last account entry, made in an obviously shaky hand, he could hold back his own grief no longer, and spent one night in hell, crying for “Ned, Ned,” as he had when he was a boy and had fallen off his pony or gotten tangled in his own fishing line.

He left the next day, intending, as he told his mother, to speak with the family solicitor and become better acquainted with Ashford affairs. But one morning in old Farley’s office convinced him that he was not meant to be an earl. Or at least not one cut out of the same cloth as his brother. Things seemed hopeless. He couldn’t imagine how Ned had thought they’d begin to come about in two years. It seemed as if it would take twenty. Of course, crop rotation and small investments were not Tony Varden’s forte. His talents were for leading men on the battlefield. His mind was made for military strategies, not financial tactics.

And so he began frequenting the hells. Oh, at first it was only to drop a few guineas, drink more than he should, and thereby keep his mind off his overwhelming burden. But gradually his play became deeper and his bank drafts larger and his losses more frequent.

He had made one decision: to lease the townhouse, which at least brought in some steady income. But instead of turning any of the money over to Ashford, he drew on it to fund his play.

He owed money all over town, for he kept up appearances. His valet had become quite expert at turning away his creditors. But it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him.

The one thing he had not done—yet—was to borrow against Ashford. He would have railed against anyone who suggested it. Ashford was not at all in jeopardy. He was doing all this to
save
it. He would never do anything to endanger his mother’s security. But the estate seemed to hang around his neck like the ancient mariner’s albatross. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, ever sell, for that would make Ned’s death meaningless. But if only, somehow, he could be relieved of this heavy burden…

“I am very worried about Tony Varden,” said Lord Thomas Barrand, peering over his newspaper at his wife and daughter.

“Why is that, Father?” asked Lady Joanna.

“I had thought his frequenting the hells this past year merely a temporary reaction to Ned’s death, but it has been months now. And word in the clubs is that he is badly dipped.”

Joanna, who had been watching her old friend and neighbor for weeks and suspected that things were going badly, tried to keep her voice expressionless as she asked: “Do you think he is in any real danger?”

“If by that you mean losing Ashford, yes. For it seems it is almost all he has left.”

“I am very glad that nothing ever came of your
tendre
for him, dear,” said Lady Barrand to her daughter. “It would be a terrible thing to break off a betrothal, but that is what we would have had to do.”

“There was never any chance of a betrothal anyway, Mother,” replied Joanna lightly. “Tony only kindly paid his attentions to a former companion in mischief, and that was two years ago.”

“Tony was never a bad lad,” said Lord Barrand. “Just not cut out for the earldom. Such a shame Ned didn’t live. Tony would never have gotten himself into such a coil otherwise, I am sure. He was always a lightweight compared to Ned, but he has a good heart underneath.”