The morning promised a productive day. The Blue Fairy ran smoothly, if crowded. This year had the largest gathering of unmarried young ladies, which led to the fathers and bachelors seeking peace and quiet in the clubs. Money rolled in, each nobleman not realizing they were being duped out of their money, with Rum pulling the strings.
One did not have to cheat to guarantee a solid win at cards. It was all about playing the person, not the game. Once the riddle of the opponent's mind had been solved, victory was assured. And Rum trained himself a master at manipulation.
His favorite victim, Sir Killian Jones, made a frequent visitor, eager to empty his pockets. The drunken sod also had a friend tag along with him most days. Sir French.
The man had far worse gambling habits. He lost more than he won, making outlandish bets that he was reluctant to pay. He was far from over his head, but if he kept at this rate, French was going to find himself deeply indebted to Rum.
Not a bad turn of events, if he thought about it…
"Dove," he plucked the bouncer seemingly out of thin air, the tall man moving swiftly and silently as death. "I want you to tell the dealers to set Sir French up for a big pot. Let him win today."
"Yes, sir." Dove was the perfect gentleman's gentleman, never questioning orders, nor offering comment, unlike the insolent Jefferson.
"And for Jones… take it all."
—-
—-
—-
Throughout his life, Rum had grown so used to going by unnoticed, that he turned it into a skill. With ludicrous ease, he was able to overhear the conversation between French and Jones at a table just by standing at the bar.
"A good turnout for me today, Jones," said French, meticulously stacking his chips. "If my luck presses on like this, I'll have a dowry large enough to see my daughter married in an hour."
"You're determined to get rid of your girl." Jones had been drinking, his words too loud and slurred for ten o'clock in the morning. However, he was not nearly as inebriated as his companion.
"On the contrary, my good man. I want her to be six years old forever. But, the way of the world as it is, she has to settle down with her own children. I'm trying to procure the best option."
There was a moment of silence, and Rum tapped his fingers impatiently, waiting to hear something of use. He knew that since her betrothed's death, Sir French had been shopping for a new suitor for his daughter. Belle still had the final say in who she married, but they needed the approval of her father to approach her.
Rum stood as the only man to circumvent that condition. Sir French never attended balls, his body no longer up to dancing, allowing sharks like the duke to freely interact with the innocent lady. A fact the older man planned to rectify after yesterday; he was personally escorting Belle to tomorrow night's masquerade. On any other night, that would have proven difficult for Rum, but he had the foresight to assign a dance ahead of time. He wondered if French knew.
That would make for an interesting evening.
"There's still always me, old chum," said Jones, hiccuping in his cup.
There was a short bark of laughter. "I would only resort to a rake like you when there's no one left."
Rum watched Jones grit his teeth when French looked away, nostrils flaring. He curtly ordered another drink, making another haphazard bet.
—-
—-
—-
Belle never considered herself an introvert, but why was it not socially acceptable for her to not have to talk to anyone?
"I am afraid I am otherwise engaged, Sir Killian."
She knew she brought it upon herself for having a picnic unaccompanied, save Mrs Lucas, but she assumed that her book open in her lap was a clear signal that she did not want to be disturbed.
She knew she could call on Mrs Lucas to get rid of Jones if she wished, but this was nothing she could not handle.
"You seem awfully lonely," he said.
"Oh, on the contrary. Edward Waverly is keeping me company."
She held up her book, discreetly covering her smile. Before she had returned to her reading, she caught his expression - the fellow thought her mad. Or silly. Not that she ever cared. Jones, a friend of her father's, regularly visited their home during the season, and his intentions could not be more clear.
She had let it be known that she was not interested in marrying him. The man was a rake, through and through. He did not plan to remain loyal to his wife, and she would never tolerate a philanderer. His feelings toward women notwithstanding, the man never read. He was a sailor, how did he not go mad during long months at sea without a book to fill the time? She did not want to imagine how he otherwise occupied himself.
Jones told her he found her beautiful, but he found many women beautiful, as many gossip rags claimed (not that she read that trash… often). That left her father's money as motivation to win her hand.
"Lady Belle, I was hoping you would permit me the honor of having the first dance at tomorrow night's masquerade."
The masquerade. Just thinking about it made her giddy. Belle did her best to not smile as she delivered the bad news.
"I am dreadfully sorry, but I have already promised the first dance."
"Pity, that. How about the second?"
She tried to pretend to read her book, but dropped it. Her first rule since first stepping out in to society was to never dance with Sir Killian. That was too much close contact with a man of wandering hands. Never too crude, just little touches, but that was enough to make her uncomfortable. Rather than ask him to stop, she avoided him altogether.
"Oh, hum, I'm afraid I'll be too tired for much dancing. I get a little too overexcited. Maybe next time."
Finding her page, she held up her book, closing the conversation from her end. Her dismissal, however could have served to be more curt, for he kept trying to engage her.
"How about it?" Jones asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The next ball? Might I have the first dance at the next ball?"
Belle panicked, her mind racing to think of an excuse. She almost gave in, unable to come up with anything polite, when her chaperone stepped in.
"All dance requests are to be submitted to me, Sir Killian," said Mrs Lucas. She had stepped in front of Belle, shielding the lady with her skirts. Jones held up his hands, that infamous smile making an appearance out of hopes to charm the old woman.
"My humble apologies, Mrs Lucas. I did not mean to overstep my bounds."
"Well, you did."
"Might I have the honor of the next first dance with Lady Belle?"
Mrs Lucas took a deep breath, puffing out her ample chest, forcing more distance between herself and the knight. "No, you may not. Now, off with you. My lady wants to be left alone."
—-
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—-
Jefferson had poured himself a cup of tea and relaxed in an armchair, believing he deserved a moment by the fire. Rum however, thought differently, and dropped a letter on his valet's lap.
"I know where to start with Jones."
Jefferson sighed, setting aside his tea. "I thought we would start with Whale."
"No," Rum made his own tea, "We will finish with Whale first, because he is the easier target. Jones, a more sophisticated adversary, will take longer."
The valet sank further in his seat, draping his legs over the side. He had been running errands for three days straight, and wanted just one day of rest. But, he made the mistake of pairing himself with a man obsessed. Meticulous planning and sleepless nights came with the territory.
Rum paced the room, gesticulating to the air, not really caring if Jefferson was listening.
"Jones earned his knighthood from the war. He received a small farm and a decent purse. Before the war, he was a simple sailor, shipping for a merchant."
"French, I presume."
"Correct. After Waterloo, with his new station, he could hardly return to the life of a laborer, but one thing I've learned in this world to be an eternal truth: You can take a man away from the sea, but you cannot take the sea away from him.
"He bought his ship, placing himself as captain."
Rum picked up the letter, prompting Jefferson to read it.
"What is interesting, is that he did not have the funds for such an extravagance, so he took a loan from a dear friend with deep pockets."
Jefferson sat up, now intrigued with the story. "Jones is indebted to French? Is that why they are such good friends? Keeping his enemies close, I imagine."
"Wrong, dearie. Before his death, Jones borrowed money from the former Duke of Kent."