In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 14

April 1804

12 years earlier

Before Henry's journey to Suffolk, England

Henry was  soused.

The worst part? A drunkard was inevitably aware of his state, seeing as how his stomach churned, and his tumbler of liquid shimmied forever just out of reach. The problem at hand, however, was that Henry didn't much care to be sober. On this night, Henry discovered he hadn't had nearly enough.

"I don't give a farthing if you're the bloody king himself, Hen-, er Lord Crowley now, isn't it?" The man didn't wait for Henry to confirm before he continued speaking across the card table. "Are you folding this hand or wagering? We don't have all bloody night."

Henry cast a scowl in Lord Melbourne's direction. It lost its ferocity, however, when Melbourne's head swam in his vision, his features distorted as the world shifted on its ear.  "Hold still, will you? I can't rightfully concentrate with you floundering about."

When Melbourne's form continued to waver about, Henry shut his eyes tight, wishing the surroundings would become stasis once more.

He was ensconced at Tanner's - a reputable club on the end of St. James's street. He knew the stakes for hazard would be high this late in the evening, the company ripe with the upper echelons of London. Which was fine with him seeing as how Henry had become one of its members not hours before.

This was where he had come first after he learned he was now the new Marquess of Crowley. His brother, William, and his wife, Arabella, had both...perished. Henry could see the black embossed carriage as it must have rounded a corner too fast or rattled from a bump in the road. It had gone careening, they said, flipping onto its side. 

Henry's throat thickened, and he banished the images, the cries and pleas that must have sounded when the clattering wheels had rumbled, wobbled, before releasing the tenuous hold on the dirt road.

Reaching for his timepiece, Henry wondered how long it had, in fact, been. He fumbled with the dratted thing, the clock face getting stuck in his waistcoat. The delicate brass chain slipped from his grip, and Henry gave up. Had his fingers become thick-nubbed? 

Henry shifted his gaze to his cards. He brought them close to his nose, squinting. Was that a two of hearts, he wondered, or a three of diamonds?

He shrugged, biting his lower lip as he pulled a few pound notes and placing them within the middle of the table. It was littered with coins and jewelry,  their surfaces glinting in the soft glow of candles. 

As play continued on, Henry coughed, the cloying cigar smoke making his eyes water. The stale scent of liquor and body sweat permeated the room. He glanced about at the dark green walls, the heavy upholstery on the chairs and the flickering fire in the corner. It offered its clientele their desired secrecy, a place to discover their favorite vices.

He shifted his arm, causing the remaining coins of his purse to scatter along the tabletop. His pile had dwindled significantly throughout the night. Most of which, he realized, taken by the man across from him.

Mr. Robert Moreland was a quiet man. He scrutinized each player's face. The various twitches of one's hand or the tick of another's jaw. He pondered why a gentleman folded his hand or gave up a card. How often some would call a higher wager, assured that his hand was best.

He tried not to meet the man's intense gaze, as he scanned the table's other occupants. Lord Melbourne was on his left, giving him a look askance, as if any minute Henry would fall flat on his face or cast up his accounts. Each likely, as his vision swum and he had to place a hand to his head, wiping the dampened skin with the palm of his hand.