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“And you are informing me of Mr. Eatwell’s misfortunes because?”

“He is in his cups, deeply, and has made mention several times of a certain young lady, I believe his daughter, who was recently left scarred and blinded by the smallpox. He laments that he will never be able to marry her off to anyone but, and I believe I am quoting him accurately to say, a ‘raw faced squib or doddering ancient.’”

Rowden locked the cubbyhole with the small key attached to the fob at his waistcoat. “So instead of staying home to console his daughter and Mrs. Eatwell in their respective misfortunes, this good gentleman is here at the Albion to lose his head.”

“His hope, if I have understood it correctly, is to win enough to substantially increase the dowry for his daughter. But if he has communicated his intentions accurately to his fellow players, who are sympathetic to his plight but more than happy to collect his coin, if he finds himself destitute he will feel obliged to install the daughter in an institution that can accommodate her disability. He believes there are several such in London and has been pursuing inquiries in that vein.”

Rowden swore as he rose. “He’d find a sight better accommodations for his daughter did he keep his wits and his purse in one place.”

“So he may be doing, sir, but their locale is, regrettably, not about his person at this time.” Bosley stepped back as Rowden shrugged into his coat of ciselé velvet and buttoned it over his chest. The former sea captain was tall, but Rowden was taller.

“You’re saying it’s time to intervene.” Rowden swiped up his walking stick, an accessory for which he had become somewhat known in certain circles.

“It merely occurred to me, sir, that you might wish to be informed. I am aware that Mr. Atwood and Mr. Pearse are less inclined to concern themselves about such matters.”

His partners, who had invited Rowden to buy a stake in the Albion and all its assets and concerns, would take several thousand pounds from a bereaved father and not turn a hair at the news that a well-bred girl whose fortunes had suddenly taken a disastrous turn would be left to institutional care for the remainder of her natural life. Men entertained the faculty of reason, and if they exercised that faculty in a way that led to the destitution of themselves and the enrichment of the Albion, then Atwood and Pearse were not inclined to trouble their thoughts with any other consequences for the loser.

Only Rowden entertained such qualms, and in his line of work, they were damned inconvenient.

“Find me a casekeep, and bring the shoe,” Rowden said. “I will invite Mr. Eatwell into some private play. You might inform him he has caught the eye of a gentleman who believes he will be a worthy challenge, but the game is faro, and the stakes are high. I assume my private table will be available.”

“Of course, sir.” Bosley bowed slightly as Rowden passed him at the door, and the courteous gesture made him uncomfortable. Giles was the member of the family that people bowed and scraped to. Not Rowden—feckless, reckless, bare-knuckle Rowden.

They descended the narrow stairs, which were wooden and uncarpeted on the second landing, to the first floor, where the floors basked in thick rugs and velvet draperies lined the tall windows. “Have you noted any of Grenville’s undersecretaries or agents about?” Rowden asked. “I might as well make use of my time while I deal with Mr. Eatwell.”

“I believe I have seen Mr. Foster in the dining parlor this evening. I will inquire whether he is disposed to play a hand or two with you.” Bosley inclined his head again and exited.

Atwood and Pearse enjoyed obsequiousness, but Rowden disliked it. He wasn’t better than any other man on these premises simply because his father had been born to a baron and his mother had been born to a titled family.

He’d seen too much of the world to believe that blood left any imprint on character. A man’s actions indicated his worth, and as that belief made him a revolutionary in the current political climate of Britain, Rowden kept those thoughts to himself.

He paused to survey the action in the grand saloon of the Albion while Bosley’s underlings readied Rowden’s private table, which sat in an alcove where he could observe the room but not become an object of scrutiny in return. The gaming tables were filled to capacity tonight, and he’d seen earlier that the dining room and smaller parlors were well-occupied. That should mean a pleasantly round number entered in the ledger for the evening’s receipts, when all was accounted for.

The Albion had established itself as a gentleman’s club providing decent food and respectable entertainment, but it distinguished itself by being eclectic. Where clubs like White’s or Brooks’s kept a strict membership roster that catered to one political party or the other, the Albion entertained members of both parties and their guests, with a prohibition on any discussions or arguments that might come to blows or duels the next morning. Unlike the Beefsteak Club, where activity centered on the consuming of beef and the conducting of revelries, the Albion’s staff encouraged patrons toward private parlors when their behavior exhibited an excess of hilarity.

And the Albion permitted women, though they had a separate entrance, separate gaming rooms, and separate dining parlors. Only staff were permitted to circulate through both realms, or gentlemen with the express invitation of the ladies.

The gentlemen were given to believe that the division was maintained to preserve the more delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex, but Rowden had observed that the women’s rooms could become quite as merry and licentious as the men’s when they lacked menfolk to reprove or correct them. The separation was in place to allow the ladies their recreation without being importuned by eager men seeking companionship or castigated by expressions of disapproval.

Across the room, Bosley caught Rowden’s eye and nodded at the three chairs set around the oval table with the green wool baize laid atop. Rowden made a circuit of the parlor, inclining his head to acquaintances, swapping jokes and insults with friends. A strange restlessness plagued him.

Once, the sight of the gaming tables thronged with earnest players had filled him with satisfaction. He’d reveled in the thick scent of tobacco smoke and many blends of snuff, in part because they covered up the less savory odors of unwashed wool, male bodies, and the too-liberal application of cologne. He still liked to see members in earnest conversation around the dining tables or settled in the deep armchairs, a lamp shining on one of the many daily papers or journals that the Albion subscribed to. Laughter from the billiards room, which could be reserved by male or female guests, always made him smile.

Once, a stake in the Albion had been just what Rowden needed to settle his restless nature and give him a focus for his energy. Running the Albion had replaced his endless roaming, and making money gave him great satisfaction. Or once had. Now the restlessness was back, and he couldn’t say why. He only knew this wasn’t enough anymore.

He wanted to do something more than make money. He wanted to build something that he could see take shape before his eyes. Something that would last.

Eatwell was the picture of an English squire as captured by William Hogarth, with a round, pale face, bedraggled wig a decade out of fashion, and a waistcoat that suggested he had prepared for his London sojourn by patronizing a tailor who had little conversation with the current mode. Rowden, in solidarity with other young radicals, had upon imposition of the hair tax promptly stopped wearing a wig and allowed his natural hair to grow. This made him a member of the so-called Crop Club, but at least he wasn’t one of the guinea pigs who paid the tax and kept their wig.

“Mr. Eatwell.” Rowden made a small bow of courtesy. Eatwell, red in the face and flustered, bowed back, then looked unsure whether this was the correct response, as he didn’t know Rowden’s station or birth.

“Thank you for letting me join you,” Rowden said. “I have heard you are a gentleman of deep play and high ambition.”

Eatwell nodded, but his smile was a grimace, and his skin looked sallow beneath the flush of drink. An awareness of the consequences of his behavior thus far this evening was bearing down upon his consciousness. Four thousand pounds was likely a year’s income for his estate, if not the sum of his entire fortune.

For a moment, Rowden entertained the impulse to turn the man out and send him back to his lodging several thousand pounds poorer, obliging him to explain to his family and household what he had done. But the consequences would fall upon his afflicted daughter, and in the man’s current state, he was likely to do something yet even more foolish, like progress down the street to another club and attempt to recoup his losses, or take himself down to the Thames and throw himself into the river in an effort to obliterate his remorse altogether.

“Do you mind if my friend Foster joins us?” Rowden went on, forcing his voice to blandness though he felt a sudden boiling anger at the foolish squire. “Mr. Thomas Foster, currently affiliated with the Office of Foreign Affairs. Mr. Foster, this is Mr. Eatwell of…”