Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(13)

He shrugged indifferently. “Happens all the time.”

“But it wasn’t enough for him,” Sara said. “He continued to gamble, certain that with each roll of the dice he would regain what he had lost. He gambled away his home, his horses and possessions, what was left of his money…He became the disgrace of Greenwood Corners. It made me wonder what had driven him to such behavior. I asked him about it, and he said he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was reduced to tears as he told me that after he had lost everything at Craven’s, he sold his boots to someone on the street and played cards barefoot at a local gaming hell. Naturally this made me wonder about the other lives that have been ruined by cards and dice. The fortunes that are lost nightly at the hazard table could be used for much nobler purposes than lining your pockets.”

She sensed his sardonic smile. “I agree, Miss Fielding. But one piddling book won’t stop anyone from gambling. Anything you write will only make them do it more.”

“That’s not true,” she said stiffly.

“Did Mathilda stop anyone from visiting whores?”

“I believe it made the public regard prostitutes in a more sympathetic light—”

“Whores will always spread their legs for a price,” he said evenly, “and people will always put their money on a bet. Publish your book about gambling, and see how much good it does. See if it keeps anyone on the straight-and-narrow. I’d sooner expect a dead man to fart.”

Sara flushed. “Doesn’t it ever bother you to see the broken men walking from your club, with no money, no hope, no future? Don’t you feel responsible in any way?”

“They’re not brought in at gunpoint. They come to Craven’s to gamble. I give them what they want. And I make a fortune from it. If I didn’t, someone else would.”

“That is the most selfish, callous statement I’ve ever heard—”

“I was born in the rookery, Miss Fielding. Abandoned in the street, raised by whores, nursed on milk and gin. Those scrawny little bastards you’ve seen, the pickpockets and beggars and palmers…I was one of them. I saw fine carriages rattling down the street. I stared through tavern windows at all the fat old gentlemen eating and drinking until their bellies were full. I realized there was a world outside the rookery. I swore I’d do anything—anything—to get my share of it. That’s all I’ve ever cared about.” He laughed softly. “And you think I should give a damn about some young fop in satin breeches throwing his money away at my club?”

Sara’s heart hammered wildly. She had never been alone in the dark with a man. She wanted to escape—every instinct warned that she was in danger. But deeper still, there was a spark of unthinkable fascination…as if she were poised at the doorway of a forbidden world. “In my opinion,” she said, “you use your poor beginnings as a convenient excuse to…to discard all the ethics the rest of us must live by.”

“Ethics,” he sneered. “I couldn’t name one man, rich or poor, who wouldn’t discard them for the right price.”

“I wouldn’t,” she said steadily.

Derek fell silent. He was acutely aware of the small woman so close to him, buttoned and ruffled, cocooned in high-neck propriety. She smelled like starch and soap, like all the other spinsters he’d had the misfortune to meet…the governesses of his patrons’ aristocratic sons, and the maiden aunts who chaperoned untouchable young ladies, and the bluestockings who preferred a book in their hands to a man in their beds. “On the shelf” was what such women were called—objects that had lost their freshness and were stored away until they might serve some convenient purpose.

But there was a difference between her and the rest. She had shot a man last night. For him. His brows pulled together until his wound ached.

“I would like to leave now,” she said.

“Not yet.”

“Mr. Worthy will be looking for me.”

“I’m not finished talking with you.”

“Must it be here?”

“It’ll be anywhere I decide. I have something you want, Miss Fielding—permission to visit my club. What will you offer in return?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“I never give something for nothing.”

“What do you want me to offer?”

“You’re a writer, Miss Fielding,” he jeered. “Use your imagination.”

Sara bit her lip and considered the situation carefully. “If you truly believe the statement you made earlier,” she said slowly, “that the publication of my novel would serve to increase your profits…then it would be in your interest to allow me to do my research here. If your theory holds true, you stand to gain some money from my book.”

His white teeth flashed in a grin. “I like the sound of that.”

“Then…I have your permission to visit the club?”

He let a long moment pass before he answered. “All right.”

Sara felt a rush of relief. “Thank you. As source material, you and your club are peerless. I promise I will try not to be an annoyance.”

“You won’t be an annoyance,” he corrected. “Or you’ll leave.”

They were both startled as the secret door swung wide open. Worthy stood there, gazing inside the corridor. “Mr. Craven? I didn’t expect you to be up and about so soon.”