Henry, “but in your case we would be very happy to make an exception.”
Henry nodded at the groom to open the door and stepped out of the carriage. He followed Tait to the front door, and the doorman stood aside to let them pass.
Inside, Sharp’s was gleaming and new-looking. The main gaming room was all dark green and gold. Gold-striped wall hangings and heavy, bottle-green velvet curtains. Dark-green leather upholstered armchairs and baize-topped walnut card tables.
Most of the chairs were occupied, and the play looked to be serious. The conversation was relatively muted, and there were no lightskirts patrolling in search of customers.
“Do you wish me to have a new table set up for you, your grace?” Tait asked.
“Let me do a circuit of the room first, to see if there is anyone I know here whose table I might join.”
“Very good, your grace. Would you care for some refreshment? Some champagne, perhaps?”
“That would do very well,” Henry agreed. “Thank you.”
The man nodded and disappeared, and Henry began to slowly make his way around the room.
He recognised almost no one. Having been gone from town nearly two decades, he had relatively few acquaintances in society circles. There were a few faces he thought he recognised, but only one he could positively identify: the elderly Viscount Linton. Linton had been ancient when Henry was a boy and appeared not to have changed so much as a hair in the last eighteen years. He frowned in Henry’s direction as though trying to work out who he was.
The other men in the room glanced at Henry less obviously, mildly curious but mostly hiding their interest. As for Henry, he smoothly wove his way between the tables, stopping every now and again to watch play for a while before moving on.
He finally found Freddy in a small, private room off the main chamber. There was no croupier dealing the cards or observing the play in here. Just the players at the table.
Henry stood, unnoticed, in the doorway for a few moments. Despite having claimed he would be taking no part in the game, Freddy was indeed one of players.
Henry glanced around the table. He immediately recognised Lionel Skelton, who was around the same age as Henry. The younger son of some minor baron, Skelton had been a wastrel when Henry had first known him, and Henry could see that nothing had changed. Back then, Skelton had been a big, strapping fellow, but he had not aged well. Now his face was bloated from drink, his features coarse, his small eyes bleary.
Henry took a little longer to recognise the man sitting beside Skelton, but finally placed him: Nigel Tavestock. Eighteen years ago, Tavestock had been an unremarkable, quiet young man with mousy hair, always in the shadow of the larger, more assertive Skelton. Now, Tavestock was bald as a coot, thick in the waist, and had a florid complexion that made him look rather flustered, an impression that was not improved by his dishevelled cravat and wrongly buttoned waistcoat.
Beside Tavestock was another of Skelton’s old cronies, Cecil Hammond. Where Skelton and Tavestock had swollen with age, Hammond had shrunk. He was a weedy, thin-mouthed fellow with a weak chin and watery eyes.
It seemed these three birds still flocked together… and were still seeking to take advantage of pigeons. Pigeons like Freddy, who was not—as he had suggested earlier this evening—merely watching the game but was fully engaged in it, and was presently studying his cards in complete ignorance of Henry’s arrival.
Henry felt an odd combination of helpless love and frustrated anger as he watched Freddy. He may be two-and-twenty, but Henry would always see the little boy in him. The sturdy, adventurous little boy, who used to lead his more careful elder siblings into scrapes that Henry would inevitably have to rescue them from—like George from that tree.
Just then, Freddy looked up, as though sensing Henry's attention, and his eyes widened with horror. “Father,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
The other men around the table all looked up at that.
“Avesbury?” Tavestock said, sounding surprised.
Henry nodded. “Good evening, Tavestock,” he said. “You don’t mind if I join you.” It wasn’t a question—he pulled out an unoccupied chair and sat down. Tavestock blinked and shot a panicked glance at Skelton, who pressed his lips tightly together but voiced no objection.
Hammond kept his cool a little better, merely nodding at Henry, who returned the gesture politely.
The final member of the party, who looked to be a few