Free The Lodestone by Charlene Keel Page B

Cleome as well as for himself. If her grandfather had so little respect for his property and so little affection for his family that he would risk everything in a game of chance, then Cleome and her mother needed someone to protect them. He would let the old man sweat it out through the night—what was left of it—in order to teach him a lesson. In the morning, Drake would ask him to stay on for board and wages and continue to run the inn. Everything could remain as it was and perhaps in time, he would even allow Desmond to win back part of his estate. With Drake’s aptitude as a dealer, that could be arranged.
    He emptied his pipe on the grate of the cold fireplace and cursed his unnatural ability that others called luck. It was not luck. It was some freak of nature that had made him come to certain realizations when scarcely more than a child. In the infamous Temple Bar section of London, watching rooks and whores cheat the bored gentlemen from the fashionable West End, he’d learned to compute the odds in various games of chance that required a quick mind to work out the math. Rich gentlemen were easy prey for it wasn’t an exercise of the brain they were after, but the thrill of uncertainty. Understanding odds was simply beyond their grasp.
    As a child, Drake had watched the games on his way to the docks every morning to bumaree fish, and on his way home from school as well—until the shrew who’d been married to his father decided school was a waste of time for a fishmonger’s bastard. He could read and he could do his sums. And that, she proclaimed, was all the education he needed. That had been the straw that had broken a back already scarred from her beatings. He had run away when but a lad of fourteen, scarcely a month after his father died. Drake was a big youth, and no one questioned his age when he’d signed on with the army.
    His soldier’s pay wasn’t much, but he was able to establish a small bank for himself; and he discovered early that he had the proper temperament to make a professional gambler. Accessing the skill of his opponents was easy, and he had infinite patience and the common sense never to bet on anything if the odds were against him. This ability, called luck, had enabled him to amass a considerable purse; and when the war was over, he had plunged into the reckless, sensual salons of Paris. By then, he was a man; and in France, he had further improved his skills in many delightful areas.
    Owning what was to be the largest, most opulent gaming house in London had opened a doorway into society for him even if his pedigree did not. Entry into that exclusive circle was crucial, for it guaranteed him more profit for his club and more contacts for his shipping business. It would be considerably nicer conquering that decadent world with the beautiful Cleome at his side.
    He drained his glass and wondered what was keeping the confounded maid. Suddenly he was overcome with exhaustion. He’d hardly slept since he’d left his flat in Monte Carlo, and the insatiable Lady Easton had kept him awake most of the night before. Any refreshment gleaned from the brief afternoon nap had been cancelled out by the accursed cribbage game, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Without bothering to undress, he stumbled to his bed and collapsed.
    **
    He didn’t hear the door open, nor did he stir when Fanny slipped inside and silently placed the bottle of brandy on the table.
    “’Ere now, sir,” she scolded softly as she approached the bed. “Ye cannot get a decent night’s rest with yer boots on.”
    She was not particularly gentle when she pulled his boots off; and when he made no protest, she was encouraged to continue. Getting his breeches off was impossible, for he was such a big man; so she had to content herself with merely undoing his lacings. She was gratified to see that he was big indeed—everywhere. She wrapped her long, thin fingers around his manhood and was delighted to see it triple in