But if I chose the wrong card… I would lose everything.
Charles appeared at my shoulder, whispered in my ear. ‘Tom, for God’s sake, come away.’ He reached for the five pounds and began drawing it across the table. ‘You will need every last penny of this in gaol.’
I stopped his hand, slid the coins across the table. ‘One last turn. Five pounds for the queen. God bless her.’
The dealer smiled. Charles covered his face. ‘You’ll lose it all, he groaned.’
‘Or double it,’ I said. ‘Have faith, Mr Buckley.’
The other players placed their bets. The dealer touched a finger to the pile and slid two cards free. My heart hammered against my chest. My God, how I loved this – the thrilling sensation of hope and fear bound together in one single moment. Waiting for the revelation, good or ill. The dealer turned the first, losing card. The five of hearts. The gambler sitting next to me gave a low curse.
And now for the winning card. I held my breath.The dealer flipped the card over on the table.
The queen of diamonds.
I breathed out, then laughed in relief. I was saved.
Betty returned with our coffee and behind her came our good hostess Moll King herself, carrying a small bowl of punch. The sign carved above the door said this was Tom King’s coffeehouse, but it was Moll who ran the place. She supplied the girls, fenced the goods, sold the secrets and even – once in a while – poured the coffee.
She waved Betty away then settled herself close to me on the bench, kissing my cheek as her thief’s fingers slid up my thigh. Charles, sitting across the table, watched her open-mouthed. With her wide, square face, long nose and sallow complexion, Moll was not a great beauty, and at thirty her jawline had begun to soften and sag. But she had a sharp wit and clever, dark eyes that could read a man’s thoughts in a heartbeat. I loved her – when I could afford to.
‘I hear you won at cards tonight,’ she murmured. ‘Let me help you spend it…’
Another night I might have played along, but not tonight. I needed the money in that purse. I pulled away, with some reluctance. Moll’s hand was back above the bench in a flash. ‘And who’s this?’ she asked, tipping her chin across the table.
‘This,’ I said with a flourish, ‘is the Reverend Charles Buckley.’
‘Honoured,’ Moll said, taking in his well-tailored black coat and crisp white cravat. An empty pocket, though – I could have told her that. ‘Tom often speaks of you.’
