Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(60)

“Imagine the gentry who’ll attend,” Katie said, examining the letter. “I must show this to the Hodges—they’ll scarcely believe their ears when I tell them my daughter has befriended a countess!”

“No difference between a countess and a milkmaid in God’s eyes,” Isaac pointed out, bending to stir up the coals in the grate.

“Lady Raiford is a unique woman,” Sara mused. “She is lively, kind, and very generous.”

“A woman of her means can afford to be generous,” her father remarked, his eyes twinkling.

“I imagine there will be a colorful assortment of people at her home,” Sara continued. “Perhaps even…” She bit her lip and tried to quiet the sudden chaos of her thoughts. It was possible Derek Craven would be there. He was a close friend of the Raifords. All the more reason not to go, she told herself…but her heart whispered a different message.

Hours later, when her parents were toasting their feet before the fire and reading passages from the Bible, Sara sat with a lapdesk and a leaf of her best letter paper. Carefully she clipped a pen into a tiny pot of ink and began to write. Her hand shook a little, but somehow she was able to keep the words even and neatly formed.

My Dear Lady Raiford,

It is with pleasure that I accept your gracious invitation to the forthcoming weekend at Raiford Park…

The astringent smell of gin permeated the air of the apartments above the gambling club. Despite the maids’ best efforts to keep the place as immaculate as always, they could do little to repair the destruction Derek had wrought over the past weeks. The thick velvet drapes and elaborate carpets were ruined by liquor stains and cigar burns. A table encrusted with semi-precious stones had been marked by boot heels resting casually on its fragile surface. Litter and discarded clothing were strewn across the floor. The windows were covered to keep out any light.

Cautiously Worthy ventured deeper into the apartment, having the vague sensation of intruding into the cave of an ill-tempered beast. He found Derek sprawled on his stomach across an unmade bed. Long legs and bare feet dangled well over the edge of the mattress. There was an empty gin bottle on the floor, drained over several hours of steady drinking.

Derek’s back tensed beneath the thick ocher silk of his robe as he became aware of the visitor. “You took your bloody time,” he sneered without looking up. “Bring it here.”

“Bring what, sir?”

The rumpled black head lifted. Derek fastened a bleary glare on the factotum. His mouth was bracketed with deep lines. The pallid color of his skin made the scar on his face more noticeable than usual. “Don’t play games with me. You know I sent for another bottle.”

“Sir, won’t you have a tray from the kitchen instead? You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning…and you despise gin.”

“It’s mother’s milk to me. Get me what I asked for, or you’ll find your interfering arse on the streets.”

Having been threatened with dismissal nearly every day for the past month, Worthy dared to ignore the remark. “Mr. Craven, I’ve never known you to behave this way. You haven’t been yourself since—”

“Since when?” Derek prompted, suddenly looking like a panther tensed to strike. The effect was spoiled by an inebriated burp, and he lowered his head to the wrinkled counterpane once more.

“It’s clear to everyone that something is wrong,” Worthy persisted. “My regard for you prompts me to speak frankly, even if it means losing my position at Craven’s.”

Derek’s voice was muffled in the covers. “I’m not listening.”

“You are a better man than you know, sir. I will never forget that you saved my life. Oh, I know you forbade me ever to mention it, but it is true, nonetheless. I was a stranger to you, and yet you took it upon yourself to spare me from the hangman’s noose.”

Years ago Worthy had been the under-butler of an aristocratic household in London. He had been in love with one of the parlormaids, who had stolen a pearl and ruby necklace from the mistress of the house. Rather than allow his love to be arrested and hanged for the theft, Worthy had claimed responsibility. He had been held at Newgate for execution. Hearing the story of Worthy’s plight through one of the servants at the club, Derek had approached a local magistrate as well as a prison official, using equal parts of bribery and coercion to free the under-butler. It was said in London that Craven could talk the hind leg off a horse. Only he could have plucked a hapless convict right from the bowels of Newgate.

The first time Worthy had ever seen Derek Craven was at the door of his prison cell, wearing an expression of sardonic amusement. “So you’re the fool what’s going to ’ang for some light-fingered bitch?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Worthy stuttered, watching as Derek handed a wad of money to the prison guard.

“More loyalty than wits,” Derek had observed with a grin. “Just as I ’oped. Well, little gallows-bird, I could use you as a factotum for my club. Unless you’d rather let the ’angman string you up tomorrow?”

Worthy had done everything short of kissing his feet in gratitude, and had served him faithfully ever since. Now, as he saw the state to which his strong-willed, prosperous employer had fallen, he was at a loss to know how to help him. “Mr. Craven,” he said tentatively, “I understand why you’re doing this to yourself.” A spasm of pain crossed his face. “I was in love once.”