Chapter 29 - Twenty Nine
The air in the gambling ring was thick and heavy, a soupy mixture of cigar smoke, spilled wine, and noise. The low-ceilinged room was dimly lit by flickering oil lamps that cast long, dancing shadows on the walls. The only sharp sounds were the clinking of gold coins, the soft slap of cards on felt tables, and the low, constant murmur of voices, which buzzed like a nest of angry bees.
And today, the bees were buzzing around one person in particular: Lord George Pembroke.
He sat at a card table in the center of the room, though he wished he could melt into the shadows. Every time he looked up, he felt their eyes on him. Stares filled with pity, with scorn, with morbid curiosity. The rumors about his broken engagement with Delia Ellington had spread through the city’s underbelly like wildfire.
"Poor fellow," a man at a nearby table muttered to his companion, just loud enough for George to hear. "To be jilted so publicly. She must be a cold-hearted one."
"I heard he was the one at fault," another voice from a different direction whispered. "Neglected her for years. What did he expect?"
"Cheated, I’d wager," a third voice added with a mocking laugh. "They say he has a fondness for the other sister, the pretty one."
Each word was like a small, sharp needle pricking at George’s already frayed nerves. He tried to focus on the cards in his hand, but the voices kept intruding, twisting his thoughts into knots. He took a long gulp of strong, burning wine from the glass at his elbow, hoping it would dull the noise both outside and inside his head.
Then, a fresh piece of gossip flew in, landing at a table just behind him, delivered by a merchant who had just arrived. "Never mind the local drama," the man said, his voice full of excitement. "Have you heard the real news? The Duke of Elinburgh, Eric Carson himself, is courting someone!"
The words flew past George’s ear and struck him like a blow. His blood ran cold. He knew, with a sickening certainty, who they were talking about.