Anthony took a seat opposite the desk and removed his hat. “Your ruffians came to call.”
Gideon glanced up. “The lads mentioned they saw you in Scotland.”
“And outside my parents’ home, just a few moments ago.”
“Clever.” Gideon leaned back in his chair. “I’ll have to increase their salaries.”
“Why are you doing this?” Anthony’s fingers clenched his hat. “I could have sworn we were friends.”
“I’d like to think we still are.” Gideon gazed back at him blandly. “However, I didn’t create your debts. You did. Their uncertain nature was causing mistrust and discontent in my gaming hell. I fixed it. Now you owe the debt to me.”
“I’m working on it.” Anthony tried to keep the desperation from his tone and manner. “I’ve managed to earn a percentage of what I owe, and could gather enough to repay at least a quarter of the balance by tomorrow. But it will take months to save this kind of blunt. Not four days.”
“You’re earning funds,” Gideon repeated with obvious interest. “And saving. How unlike you.”
“Twenty-five percent,” Anthony said. “I can give you twenty-five percent tomorrow, and another twenty-five percent…a month from now.”
Gideon nodded slowly. “What date did it have on the document my employees delivered?”
Anthony pulled the folded parchment from his waistcoat pocket with trembling fingers. “Monday.”
“Then I’ll see you on Monday.” Gideon returned his attention to the stacks of paper on his desk. “Bring one hundred percent.”
Chapter 20
Anthony stormed out of Gideon’s office and back into the gaming area. Instead of seeming as nostalgic and cheerful as they had moments ago, the candlelit card tables softened by cigar smoke and desperation were now darkly inviting.
He could never earn back the money in time doing anything respectable. But if he could only win one good wager…
“Fairfax,” rumbled a voice from the corner. “Still have time for that drink?”
“Lambley.” Anthony blinked. He had forgotten about the duke. The allure of the gambling tables had that effect on him. “I have never been in more dire need of strong wine and good company. But not here. I can’t…I have to get out.”
“Very well.” The duke rose to his feet. “I possess far better vintages in my own cellar.”
Anthony realized the marquess was no longer at the duke’s table—or even in the hell. “What happened to Hawkridge?”
“His heart has been stolen. Come.” Lambley strode toward the exit. “My coach is always at the ready.”
Anthony followed the duke out-of-doors.
Upon sight of the duke, a street urchin immediately took off running. Anthony turned to Lambley in surprise. “Was that boy’s reaction to your presence or mine?”
“I paid him to react swiftly. My coach will arrive at any moment.”
Before he had even finished his explanation, a stately black coach bearing the duke’s crest glided around the corner, pulled by a gorgeous set of matching grays. The postillion leaped down to open the door.
Anthony entered after Lambley and sat facing the rear.
“Shall we wait until we have wine in our goblets?” the duke asked. “Or would you like to tell me what the deuce could have you in such a state?”
“I owe Gideon money,” Anthony said dully.
Lambley’s gaze pierced him. “When haven’t you?”
“Wagonloads of money. More than I can pay.”
“I see.” Lambley leaned back. “What do you hope from me? A loan?”
Anthony rested his head against the back of the carriage wall and covered his face with his hands. Was this his best attempt at responsibility? Robbing Peter to pay Paul in an endless series of loans until he hadn’t a single friend left?
With four days to spare, it was perhaps the only option he had.
“I would need a way to pay you back,” he admitted. “I don’t have one. If you loan me money, I may only be delaying the inevitable.”
Lambley gave Anthony a considering stare. “Hmm.”
“Unless it wasn’t a loan, precisely. What if it were an advance against wages earned?” Anthony gave a crooked smile. “I don’t suppose your estate is in want of a new gardener?”
“Have you any skill at gardening?”
“I can’t tell a daisy from a dandelion,” Anthony admitted. “I’ve no skills at all. That’s the crux of the problem.”
The duke’s gaze was humorless. “Businessmen generally invest in individuals with either talent or knowledge. If you’ve no skills to speak of, perhaps you have expertise in something I might find useful?”
If only he did! Anthony rubbed his forehead and tried to think.
“I can’t say that I have great knowledge in any field not taught to all gentlemen who attended Eton.” He had paid for every penny of that hard-won education with windfalls at the gaming tables. “I speak the same amount of French, recall the same amount of history. The primary difference between myself and the average buck is that I’m fashionable enough to be a common guest amongst the beau monde, yet unfashionable enough to be just as recognizable amongst the fast set. And worse. There isn’t a gaming hell in London unacquainted with my name.”
Lambley steepled his fingers. “How familiar are you with Vigo’s work?”
“With—” Anthony stared at him, thrown off-guard by the abrupt change in subject. “What is Vigo’s work? He guards the threshold to the Cloven Hoof, granting entrance to those with the proper background or qualifications, and turns away anyone who oughtn’t to be let inside.”
“It seems like important work to me.”
“Well…yes, I suppose so.” Anthony smiled in self-deprecation. “Gideon can’t have riffraff like myself inciting discontent amongst his clients by promising debts I cannot pay.”
“That is one type of inappropriate guest,” Lambley agreed. “I should imagine there are many more. Vigo keeps out the street urchins, the penny harlots, the drunkards, any wayward fashionable ladies, the Prince Regent… It’s the Lord’s work, really.”
Anthony chuckled hollowly. “Are you suggesting I ask Gideon for employment? He’s made his position quite clear. I pay him, not the other way about.”
The carriage stopped in front of Lambley’s ducal estate.
Anthony followed him inside and into a sumptuous parlor, stocked with a dozen comfortable chairs and at least as many glass decanters.
The duke poured them each a glass, then took a seat. “What do you recall about my masquerade parties?”
Anthony blinked at the change in topic. The duke’s scandalous masked balls were desirable for their exclusivity and legendary because of their secret rooms for sensual pleasures. Lambley got away with such chicanery because he was a duke—and a handsome, wealthy bachelor.
No member of the ton with any hope of preserving their reputation could ever admit to being anywhere near such a fête. Yet when Anthony had attended one the previous year, such a crush of masked partiers had filled the rooms that dancing was all but impossible.
“I don’t think I’m overstating if I suggest your masquerades are scandalous,” Anthony said dryly. “Everyone in attendance risks far more than their Almack’s voucher just by walking in the door.”
Lambley’s eyes glinted. “You’re assuming my guests were ever eligible for Almack’s vouchers…or have a good reputation.”
Anthony burst out laughing. “You’re right. Having been to one of your masquerades, I can attest to having absolutely no idea who else was there. That’s the irresistible part: having the anonymity to do anything one desires. No one will ever know. The guests themselves don’t even know.”
“But I know.” Lambley’s tone was mild, but his eyes were serious. “Nothing is ever completely anonymous. Admission is by invitation only, because I must keep out anyone likely to disturb other guests’ comfort, either during the event or after. It also serves as insurance, should one guest complain about the behavior of another. Partygoers might see each other as Mr. Red Mask and Miss Blue Mask, but I must know their proper names in order to deal with each situation appropriately.”