Affair of Pretense

Nine

London
Two Months Later

Mr Collin Dresdenham had spent the better part of his evening in a discreet gentleman's establishment off St. James's, wishing, half of the time, that he had not let himself be easily persuaded. Since he had the lamentable tendency of playing deep in every game he had amused himself in, and most of the time losing more than winning, the aftermath would be a good trimming from his sire, should he ever get wind of it. Which he often did, thought Collin broodingly, as he signed yet another IOU. This was already the fourth and another sitting would surely spell ruin. But since his mind was already muddled with the wine that was steadily supplied at his elbow, and the rest of the gentlemen at the table coaxing and encouraging him for yet another round, it was too much for Collin, a natural gambler, to say no.

"You might redeem yourself yet, Dresdenham," said one of the gentlemen.

Collin chortled. "Lord, I hope so! I'm proper cleaned out!" And the game resumed. His friend, Mr Bertram Darvey, who was observing the game in dissatisfaction beside him, clucked his tongue. "You sure, my boy?"

"Of course I am! Damme if I wouldn't try my luck!"

"You've been trying your luck these past two hours, and with no results," Mr Darvey, more practical than his friend, pointed out, and leaned closer. "Just sit out, Collin!" he whispered urgently. "Lord, but the play's getting deep: you might find yourself in a sponging house soon. No good, my boy! No good at all!"

Collin favoured him a glance of annoyance. "Oh, do shut up, Bertie! I'm already on it, so I might as well get on with it, you see?"

Bertie shook his head again. "All I see is that you are foxed! Properly shot in the neck, begad! You ain't stubborn when sober: it's the wine. Very devilish!"

"Of course it's the wine! What else have I been drinking?"

Bertie pursed his lips and contemplated in silence the follies of not listening to a wiser voice, and the pitfalls that were lurking ahead for his friend. He heard the door at the far end of the hall opened; a tall gentleman in a resplendent maroon evening coat emerged and paid a perfunctory glance around the room, then disappeared to an adjoining room. Bertie turned to his friend. "Collin, it's your cousin!" he said urgently.

"Eh? Which one?" Collin looked up and quickly scanned the room. "Well, it don't signify: don't want to deal with any of 'em right now."

"It's that cousin of yours," amended Bertie portentously, his voice pregnant with meaning.

"Who?" demanded Collin roundly. "I'll tell you what Bertie: you're bored. That's it! Go amuse yourself somewhere else, and don't bug me anymore! "

"But it's—!"

"Ah, jackanapes, playing deep again, are we?" said a new voice.

Collin looked up, and found himself under the ruthless scrutiny of Denver's quizzing glass. His scowling face, which was already flushed with alcohol, suddenly lit up. "Thunder an' turf, it's my cousin!" he exclaimed in accents of great delight.

"Told you, my boy!" put in Mr Bertram, triumphantly.

"Dash it, you didn't tell me it's him!"

Mr Bertram begged his pardon, and explained that the Marquis was already here before he could have had told him that it was his favourite cousin that came.

"Where have you been Eve? Lord, aren't you popping in and out of town again? No — don't touch the wine: it's devilish! They've been pouring me steadily, and I'm losing every game!"

Denver put the glass of wine back on the servant's tray. He said sardonically: "Never say you're blaming the wine for your bad luck, cousin?"

"I told him to sit out, my lord, but he wouldn't listen to me," interposed Bertie, shaking his head.