Chapter 52: Paying off Gambling debts

A Gambling Den in Southwark - Late Night

The room stank of sweat, spilled ale, and desperation. Dim candlelight flickered against the stained walls, casting crooked shadows over men hunched around tables, their fingers stained with smoke and fortune's dust. The laughter and curses of men blended with the clatter of dice and the rattle of coins. Inside The Silver Pit, one of London's more notorious underground gambling dens, desperation and delusion often walked hand in hand.

At one table, in the thickest part of the haze, Graham Ashcombe,hair tousled, face flushed with drink and self-importance, leaned forward with bloodshot eyes and a trembling hand.

"Damn it!" he hissed as the dealer calmly swept away his tokens again. "That's rigged. I know it is."

The men around him chuckled. "You've been saying that for two hours, Ashcombe," one jeered. "You're gonna crawl home penniless and pissed again."

Graham threw down another coin, then another, his fingers twitching with feverish anticipation.

"Hit me," he slurred, slapping a palm on the table, knocking over an empty tankard.

The dealer glanced at him, wary. "You sure about that, milord?"

"I said hit me!" Graham barked, chest heaving beneath a wine-stained cravat.

The card slid toward him. His eyes skimmed over it, and a silence fell.

Then

"Bloody hell!" he roared, shoving the chair back with a screech. "That's twice in a row! You stacked the deck, didn't you?!"

"Careful with your mouth, Lord Ashcombe," said a thin man across the table, lips curled with amusement. "It's not the cards that's the problem. It's you."

Mocking laughter followed.

Red-faced and sweating, Graham grabbed his drink and downed the last drop. "All of you...you think I'm some nobody, don't you? I'm the Duke of Wycliffe's brother-in-law!" he shouted. "Money's no bloody issue for me! I'll have it all back watch this."

His words drew little more than laughter and eye-rolls.

He turned to the man watching from behind the cage of the bar Gregor, the owner of the den. Tall, lean, with sunken eyes and a dagger always strapped to his hip.

"Another two hundred sovereigns," Graham demanded, lurching forward. "Put it on my tab."

Gregor raised a brow. "That's more than your entire tab already, Ashcombe. You're digging a hole deeper than your grave."

"I said put it on the tab! The Duke of Wycliffe won't let his wife's brother rot over a few coins, will he?" Graham smirked. "You'll get your money."

Gregor's lips twisted into a grin. "Two hundred it is. But lose again, and you'll pay it back one way or another."

Graham nodded eagerly, barely hearing the last part. He leaned in, cards dealt, eyes darting. With a scoff, Gregor nodded to one of his guards, who handed Graham a new stack of chips.

"I'm going to win it all back," Graham muttered, sitting back down.

But he didn't. Not even close.

With a final, dramatic sweep of the table, Graham shoved everything he had chips, coin, even the signet ring from his finger into the center of the table.

"Winner takes all."

The cards were dealt. The room quieted.

Graham's hand trembled as he turned the last card.

Silence.

"Everything," he said. "I'm winning this round."

He lost.

The table went silent for a beat before bursting into snickers. Graham blinked dumbly at the pile of coins that were now in the dealer's hands.

"No. Wait...no, let's go again. Just once more..." he began.

Gregor signaled. Two of his guards, thickset and unsmiling, stepped forward, unsheathing their swords with a sharp hiss.

Then the thin man smirked. "Better luck next life, milord."

Graham stared in horror. The laughter came again harsher this time, unkind.

"I...I can pay you," he stammered, turning to Gregor, who now approached with slow, heavy steps. "Just… give me some time. A week. A few days. I swear it."

Gregor didn't speak. One of his guards unsheathed his sword with a metallic hiss.

Graham paled. "Wait...no, please. Marston, I can get you the money. I swear. My sister...my sister married the Duke..."

"No one's coming," Gregor interrupted, tone final.

Graham stumbled back as the guards moved closer, swords glinting under the flickering chandelier. "Please! You can't...don't do this..." Beads of sweat covered his face as he trembled in fear.

"Time's up," Gregor said coldly. "No coin. No favor. You leave us with something else. Leg or arm, your choice."

"No! Wait...please!" Graham cried, falling to his knees, grabbing at the man's boot. "I beg you don't do this!"

"Take his left arm," one guard said, bored.

The second one stepped forward, blade gleaming in the candlelight.

"STOP."

A new voice cut through the air. Calm, deep, commanding.

All heads turned.

A man stood in the doorway, framed by the dim light from outside.

He walked in slowly, gloves in one hand, his coat sweeping behind him. His face was half-shadowed, but unmistakably patrician, angular, dark-haired, with a presence that quieted the room.

Gregor blinked. "You...?"

"Graham Ashcombe," the stranger drawled, voice deep and smooth. "Still making a fool of yourself, I see."

Graham blinked .

"Julian," Graham whispered, stunned. "Julian Hartmoor…?"

Julian Hartmoor stepped into the candlelight, unbothered by the stares. His face was older, sharper, yet unmistakably him, the same man Graham had known years ago. He stopped beside Gregor and coolly surveyed the scene.

Julian glanced at him half-pity, half-contempt.

"Seems like I arrived just in time," he said dryly.

"What's it to you?" Gregor demanded. "This man's debt...."

"How much?" he asked.

Gregor looked surprised, but answered. "Two hundred. He owes me that and more."

Julian tossed a leather pouch onto the table. It landed with a thud.

The weight of it silenced everyone.

Gregor opened it and his eyes widened. Solid gold coins.

"All of it," Julian said. "With interest."

Gregor gave a slow nod and stepped back. The guard lowered his blade.

Julian offered Graham a hand, expression unreadable.

"Get up."

Graham scrambled up, still dumbfounded, trailing behind Julian as they left the stunned silence of the den.

Outside, the cold air hit them like a slap. Graham wrapped his coat tighter and turned toward his rescuer.

"I...Julian, I...how...what..."

Julian didn't stop walking. "You're lucky I was nearby. And even luckier I still remembered your face."

Graham was panting to keep up. "Thank you. I swear...I didn't know what to do...I thought they were going to kill me..."

Julian halted and turned to him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"They still might, if you keep living like this."

Graham fell silent.

Julian stepped into the waiting carriage and gestured lazily. "Come. Let's talk somewhere with less stench."

Graham climbed in quickly, the door shutting behind them with a final thud as the carriage pulled into the street.