Page 109 of Rules for Ruin

“I love you,” she’d said.

I love you.

No. Gabriel didn’t go halves on something he cared about.

“I have a question to put to you,” he said to Haverford.

They were alone except for a handful of stable lads mucking out the loose boxes. The third race was running. Most everyone else was at the track to watch it. The noise filtered from the stands in a distant hum, punctuated by the sound of stamping hooves and horses contentedly munching their hay.

“I’m listening,” Haverford said.

“What would become of our plans to reform the slum if Lord Compton were no longer a component of them?” Gabriel asked.

“How do you mean? Is he unwilling to pen that editorial we discussed?”

“More than that. What if he withdrew his support completely?”

Lord Haverford’s smile vanished. A somber expression came to take its place. “Is that likely?”

“If it was?”

“Then I fear the other support you’ve managed to amass would swiftly follow suit.”

Gabriel had expected no less.

A soft breeze down the aisle of the stables stirred flurries of dust and hay. The fragrance was familiar—sun, turf, and sweetness. The perfume of a rich man’s sport. Men like Gabriel existed on the fringes of it. Trainers, grooms, jockeys, and bookmakers. Necessary appendages. But not equals.

It took money to compete against the gentry. Even more if one was to win. Gabriel had enough put by to sustain him. But without his betting shop, he would never grow any richer. He would be, like the Rookery, a dwindling concern. Rapidly decreasing in power until…

“If I may speak plainly,” Haverford said.

Gabriel saw little point in it at this stage. He’d already made up his mind. “By all means.”

“When we met at my club last week…After you left, concerns were raised about your background. Your betting enterprise, specifically. Several of the gentlemen confessed to having heard things about you. They mentioned your past associations, and the rumors of violence and intimidation attached to your name.”

“You knew I was a bookmaker.”

“Quite. But there are degrees of acceptability, even among those as liberal-minded as we are.” Haverford looked at him, frowning. “Tell me, just how egregious has your conduct been?”

Gabriel was quiet a moment before answering, reflecting on his past, on all the cruelties, insults, and indignities that had brought him to this point. A man of no birth, with nothing much to recommend him, except that he’d somehow managed to earn the love of a woman like Euphemia Flite.

It had changed him. It had changed everything.

“I have been brutal, it’s true,” he admitted. “I’ve also been a businessman. An unthinking brute wouldn’t get far running a betting shop that traffics with the aristocracy, nor would he have much success inspiring loyalty among his men. I’ve done both, and well. The unsavory aspects have less of a place in my world of late. You’ve seen for yourself. The people of the Rookery look to me for leadership. Once the slum is reformed, my position will be solidified.”

“The sons of the gentry still place wagers with you. Some of them are in debt to you for considerable sums.”

“Your associates would rather I call in those debts?”

“They’d rather your business weren’t so murky. It gives them pause.”

Gabriel gave a short, humorless chuckle. “But not enough to terminate our plans. Not so long as Compton is still lending them countenance.”

“I’m giving you the courtesy of candor,” Haverford said. “It isn’t I who is objecting to your character, after all. Not outright.”

“No,” Gabriel said with bitter humor. “Reform-minded people of your class enjoy a heartening tale of an impoverished street urchin who pulls himself up to a position of authority. It strengthens their arguments for charitable measures.”

Haverford didn’t dispute the fact. “So long as that street urchin hasn’t done anything too disagreeable.”