Not that he cared. In fact, he was glad she hadn’t pestered him once in the past week. She hadn’t sent the translation of the letter like she’d said she would either. That didn’t bother him at all. And, apparently, her copy of Debrett’s was still at the bookbinder’s because she’d sent no word regarding the family name.
More than likely, the absentminded bluestocking had forgotten all about it and had moved on to something new. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to him. Wouldn’t be the last, he was sure.
Of course, if he were truly interested in knowing, he could always purchase his own copy of the book. It could be good for a laugh, if nothing else.
But, since none of it mattered, regardless, there wasn’t any point in wasting hard-earned money. He put the whole ordeal out of his mind and cracked his neck from one side to the other.
Stopping near the door of the hazard room, he cast an absent glance over the crowd at the green felt table. As usual, gents were shouting and raising fists stuffed with pound notes while sconcelight glanced off their sweaty pates.
He was familiar with most of the men who walked through Sterling’s doors. Knew their names, their secrets and indiscretions. Knew who’d lost their shirts at the tables and who’d begged for a loan from Reed Sterling. London, however, was a big city and he couldn’t know everyone. So, when a stranger walked in, Raven always noticed.
Though, lately, he’d become even more shrewd in his studies. He’d found himself taking careful note of the men in their middle years with gray or grizzled hair, and whether or not they were of a similar height and build to his own. He’d searched faces for resemblances—the shape of the eye, the cut of the chin, anything. And on more than one occasion, he’d caught himself wondering if any of the men had married a French woman who’d once needed an English tutor.
It was madness! And it was all Jane Pickerington’s fault.
So before he acted the fool and started sizing up this crowd, too, he stalked toward the faro tables. He wasn’t going to let one luckless encounter with a little debutante distract him any longer.
“You there, boy,” a man called out as he passed.
Raven felt the hair at his nape stand on end. He knew he was being hailed, but it had been years since anyone had dared call him boy.
Even as a lad it bristled him to hear the condescending sneer that forever accompanied it. But he’d never been cowed by it. He’d always been too proud.
At the orphanage, Mr. Mayhew had beaten him time and again and told him that his arrogance would be his downfall. Devil Devons at the workhouse had told him the same, right before he’d lock the door to the rat cupboard. But Raven, no matter how bloodied afterward, had continued to stand before them, straight-shouldered and staring them directly in the eye.
His competence and assuredness had gained the admiration of his fellow workers. And the majority of the patrons treated him with respect, or kept a wide berth.
Normally, he would turn and stare down any man who thought he was nothing more than muck on a pair of boots. Usually, that was all he needed to do.
But tonight, his temper was rough-edged, like a blade that begged to be sharpened. Deep in his gut roiled the upheaval and uncertainty of the past week, and he knew he wasn’t as self-possessed as he needed to be. So, he decided to ignore the pompous gent’s insult and walk on.
“I say, there . . . boy.”
Raven gritted his teeth but did not turn around. At least, not until the prig clamped a hand on his shoulder. Then he whipped around on a low growl.
The gent’s blue eyes widened with a start. A glare instantly followed, his heavy tawny brow furrowing above a hawklike nose. The man—older by about thirty years—regarded him with the chilly disdain that aristocrats must teach their young from the cradle. “Fetch me a whisky.”
Raven stiffened. Even worse than being called boy, he despised being treated like a dog and asked to fetch the master’s slippers.
Even so, he knew how to be diplomatic. He wouldn’t have gained this position if he hadn’t proved his ability to keep a cool head when dealing with pompous aristocrats. And since he’d never seen this gent in Sterling’s before, he granted him a little leeway. A very little.
Maintaining an inscrutable expression, Raven cleared his throat, preparing to politely inform the gent that all he had to do was give a nod to Tom. After all, the usher was standing only six feet away with a complimentary whisky tray in hand. Any beef-headed buzzard could have discerned as much.
But then the man spoke again.
“Be quick about it and there’ll be a shilling in it for you.”
Raven tried to shrug off the provocation. But, damn it all, this had been a shite week and he’d had enough. The rough edge of his temper sliced through his composure just enough to break the surface. “A whole shilling?”
The man squinted, jaw ticking. “Are you mocking me?”
Raven signaled Tom, offering the gent a mere passing glance. “Of course not. I would have to be of superior birth to condescend to the likes of you. And wouldn’t you know it, seems I’ve forgotten my crown at home.” When Tom approached, Raven reached out and took the whole tray. Then he pushed it toward the gent, all the while knowing that reflex would force any man to take hold. And when he did, Raven flashed a cold grin. “Your whisky, sir.”
He sketched a proper bow and stalked into the faro room.
Of course, that wasn’t the end of it.
A quarter hour later, as he was taking a stack of profits to the safe, he saw that self-entitled arse standing in front of Reed Sterling in the main card room, his beak sniffing with effrontery.
Spotting Raven, the gent pointed with a hard sweep of his arm, the silver buttons on his cuffs winking as they caught the light.
Sterling followed the gesture, his unreadable gaze raking over him. And even though no discernable reaction flickered over the former prizefighter’s famously calm exterior, Raven knew they’d soon be having a chat.
So, at the end of the night and with the accounting ledgers in hand, Raven went to Sterling’s office as usual.
Inside the paneled room, Reed Sterling was standing at the window behind his desk, staring across the street at the white stone town house where he lived with his wife and her uncle.
Raven laid down the ledger on the desk and eyed his employer, taking note of the set of his square jaw. The dark-headed man was an imposing figure, especially when he had his arms crossed over his chest, with the sconcelight silhouetting his form. Years of pugilism had given him broad shoulders, a burly build, and a right hook that could fell a tree.
Without turning around, Sterling said, “I trust that whatever issue you’ve been having with the clientele this week, you’ll remedy by tomorrow.”
Hmm . . . Apparently, this wasn’t the only night he’d unleashed a small portion of irritability on the high-society nobs. But he was tired of looking at gents of a certain age and wondering if any of them had left a child to nearly freeze to death on a cold January night, discarding him like refuse in the gutter.
“Done and over,” he said, but made the mistake of shrugging. The action caused his shirt to catch that blasted scab left over from Ruthersby’s cane—right above the mark—and his words came out sharper than he’d intended.
Sterling turned, a dubious smirk lifting the nick on his upper lip. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a rumor I heard about a certain man—and one who strangely matches your description—having been involved in a brawl at Moll Dawson’s, would it?”