A Roll of the Dice

Chapter 1St. James’ Street, London, 1764 Joshua was positioned with his back against the wall of the main reception room. He stood up straight, his lean athletic frame impassive and invisible as he could manage. The night passed on around him under the glitter of the chandeliers while the gambling hell filled up with the impossibly rich and titled, chattering among themselves and squandering vast fortunes merely to pass the time. The Season, during the springtime, was the signal for the gentry to return from their country estates to the bustle of the metropolis. Their sole aim was to find entertainment and ways to spend their money, so this was always the most profitable time for the club. A good night for easy pickings, Joshua thought with satisfaction, since the busier the exclusive den became, the more generous the patrons would be with tips for the waiters. The neat wigs and cream livery that all the serving men wore were designed to make them both noticeable yet invisible among the peacock colors of the crowds of gentlemen at the tables. However, the rich chocolate of his skin made a striking contrast to the pale fabric and made him uncomfortably obvious if he were to fumble, drop a glass or heaven forbid, even a tray of drinks. There would be hell to pay from the major domo who ran a tight ship. Mind you, it did help that he was a relative, not that any quarter would be given if he slipped up too badly. Joshua was employed here, especially when extra hands were needed because he was good at his job, nephew or no. On the periphery of his vision, he could see his Uncle Samuel directing operations with an all-seeing eye, his dark face set in forbidding lines. He was unrecognizable as the smiling, easy-going man who sat by the kitchen table at home with a glass of ale as his family milled around him, all talking over each other. As if sensing the direction of his nephew’s thoughts, his uncle looked at him directly and gave him a nod. Well-trained as he was, Joshua knew that it was his signal to take drinks to one of the private back rooms where, after disporting themselves at balls and soirées until well after midnight, the heavy gamblers gathered. Collecting the laden tray from the kitchens, he swiftly followed the passageway to the elite recess of the building, taking his place against another wall, until he was required. The room was well-lit with candles, which together with the smoke from pipes or cigarillos of the gentlemen, made Joshua blink. It was much quieter here, with fewer tables, the tight space reserved for serious gaming only. With his artist’s eye, the tableau looked for all the world like a scene from Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress, but Joshua had worked here long enough to know that this was no salutary tale with moral lessons learned. * * * * With ease of practice, he and his fellow waiter, Tom, did the rounds of the tables, topping up half-empty glasses with high-priced alcohol that added all the more to the cost of the evening. Many of the gentlemen were regulars, so he and Tom could anticipate their needs and pour their drinks without a word needing to be said. So, it was a slightly jarring moment when one of the men at the table waved away Tom’s wine decanter with a flick of his fingers, saying, “Brandy.” Taking his cue, Joshua stepped up and started to pour a measure of the amber liquid into the proffered glass. He was taken aback when a large hand closed on his bare wrist, stopping him from pulling away. Heavy-lidded gray eyes met his. They reminded Joshua of the tone of the vast sky in his painting master’s Welsh landscapes. “Don’t stop,” the gentleman said with a glint of amusement. “I know Samuel waters down the drinks.” Joshua held back a grin as he filled the glass almost to the brim before returning to his post. He resisted rubbing his arm where he could still feel the man’s touch, hot on his skin. Despite being a gentleman, his hand was not plump or pampered but hardened and distinctly masculine. Joshua repressed a shiver at the thought of those strong fingers elsewhere on his body. The gentleman had hovered around the tables for several nights in a row. Joshua reckoned him to be in his late thirties or perhaps forty, around twenty years his senior. Although the man gave the appearance of joining in the drinking and gaming, he neither won nor lost greatly, nor ever appeared drunk and insensible. He seemed more interested that the club gave him discreet access to those Joshua knew to be in government circles. Usually, after playing a round or two of cards, he and another politico or two would retire to one of the quiet corners to chat privately about matters of state. When Joshua had asked about him in passing, his uncle had shrugged, “You mean Mr. Bartlett? He’s one of those diplomatic types,” he said. “He’s been coming here off and on for years. Decent enough cove. Pays his reckoning promptly without a qualm and never causes any trouble,” which was as near a compliment as Uncle Samuel gave about his clientele. As was his habit, when the game ended, Mr. Bartlett rose and took back his stake, which was more or less intact. An older man, a large and florid courtier, was prompted to take his leave from his fellow gamers. Mr. Bartlett came directly up to Joshua, holding out his glass for a refill. Although Joshua was tall, the man towered over him, his physical presence emphasized by the breadth of his shoulders. He wore no wig, and his dark hair was free from pomade, simply tied back in a queue. His sober clothes suited his muscular physique and Joshua tried not to gaze at him in admiration as he carefully poured the drink without spilling a drop. “You’re Samuel’s nephew, are you not?” The man said, his question forcing Joshua to meet that lazy, amused gray gaze. “Yes, sir,” he replied politely. “And do you have a name?” His lips curved in a smile, asking Joshua to join in with the joke. “I do, sir,” he replied promptly. The gentleman arched an eyebrow, still smiling. “It’s Jones, sir. Joshua Jones.” “Joshua,” Mr. Bartlett repeated, drawing out the syllables of the word as though recording it to memory. At the same time, with a broad fingertip, he reached out to trace the line of Joshua’s cheekbone, causing him to start, his eyes widening in response. Then the older gentleman joined them and Mr. Bartlett bestowed his whole attention on him as they left the room together, which gave Joshua the chance to regain his composure.