A Dangerous Fortune(47)
In the distance he saw lanterns twinkling, and steered toward the lights. They began to meet up with other couples going the same way. Hugh hoped there would be less chance of trouble with the police if they were in a group of obviously respectable and sober people.
As they approached the gate a troop of thirty or forty policemen entered. Fighting to get into the park against the flow of the crowd, the police started indiscriminately clubbing men and women. The crowd turned and began to run in the opposite direction.
Hugh thought fast. “Let me carry you,” he said to Maisie.
She looked puzzled but said: “All right.”
He stooped and picked her up, with one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. “Pretend you’ve fainted,” he said, and she closed her eyes and went limp. He walked forward, against the press of the crowd, shouting: “Make way, there! Make way!” in his most authoritative voice. Seeing an apparently sick woman, even the fleeing people tried to get out of the way. He came up against the advancing policemen, who were as panicky as the public. “Stand aside, constable! Let the lady through!” he shouted at one of them. The man looked hostile and for a moment he thought his bluff would be called. Then a sergeant shouted: “Let the gentleman pass!” He advanced through the line of police and suddenly found himself in the clear.
Maisie opened her eyes and he smiled at her. He liked holding her this way and he was in no hurry to lay down his burden. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. She seemed tearful. “Put me down.”
He put her down gently and hugged her. “I say, don’t cry,” he said. “It’s all over now.”
She shook her head. “It’s not the riot,” she said. “I’ve seen fights before. But this is the first time anyone ever took care of me. All my life I’ve had to look after myself. It’s a new experience.”
He did not know what to say. All the girls he had ever met assumed that men would take care of them automatically. Being with Maisie was a constant revelation.
Hugh looked about for a cab. There were none to be seen. “I’m afraid we may have to walk.”
“When I was eleven years old I walked for four days to get to Newcastle,” she said. “I think I can make it from Chelsea to Soho.”
3
MICKY MIRANDA HAD BEGUN to cheat at cards while he was at Windfield School, to supplement the inadequate allowance he received from home. The methods he invented for himself had been crude, but good enough to fool schoolboys. Then, on the long transatlantic voyage home which he had taken between school and university, he had tried to fleece a fellow passenger who turned out to be a professional cardsharp. The older man had been amused, and had taken Micky under his wing, teaching him all the basic principles of the craft.
Cheating was most dangerous when the stakes were high. If people were playing for pennies it never occurred to them that someone would cheat. Suspicion mounted with the size of the bets.
If he were caught tonight it would not just mean the failure of his scheme to ruin Tonio. Cheating at cards was the worst crime a gentleman could commit in England. He would be asked to resign from his clubs, his friends would be “not at home” any time he called at their houses, and no one would speak to him in the street. The rare stories he had heard about Englishmen cheating always ended with the culprit’s leaving the country to make a fresh start in some untamed territory such as Malaya or Hudson Bay. Micky’s fate would be to go back to Cordova, endure the taunts of his older brother, and spend the rest of his life raising cattle. The thought made him feel ill.
But the rewards tonight were as dramatic as the risks.
He was not doing this just to please Augusta. That was important enough: she was his passport into the society of London’s wealthy and powerful people. But he also wanted Tonio’s job.
Papa had said Micky would have to earn his keep in London—there would be no more money from home. Tonio’s job was ideal. It would enable Micky to live like a gentleman while doing hardly any work. And it would also be a step on the ladder to a higher position. One day Micky might become the minister. And then he would be able to hold his head high in any company. Even his brother would not be able to sneer at that.
Micky, Edward, Solly and Tonio dined early at the Cowes, the club they all favored. By ten o’clock they were in the card room. They were joined at the baccarat table by two other club gamblers who had heard of the high stakes: Captain Carter and Viscount Montagne. Montagne was a fool, but Carter was a hardheaded type, and Micky would have to be wary of him.
There was a white line drawn around the table ten or twelve inches from the edge. Each of the players had a pile of gold sovereigns in front of him, outside the white square. Once money crossed the line into the square it was staked.
Micky had spent the day pretending to drink. At lunch he had wet his lips with champagne and surreptitiously poured it out on the grass. On the train back to London he had accepted the offer of Edward’s flask several times, but had always blocked the neck with his tongue while appearing to toss off a swig. At dinner he had poured himself a small glass of claret then added to it twice without ever drinking any. Now he quietly ordered ginger beer, which looked like brandy and soda. He had to be stone-cold sober to perform the delicate sleight-of-hand operations that would enable him to ruin Tonio Silva.
He licked his lips nervously, caught himself, and tried to relax.