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bit. Contrary to those who assumed he
was completely without grace or virtue, she might write, he concealed a secret love of beauty and
sought to possess
it in its infinite forms, as if to atone for-
All at once a powerful grip compressed her arm, and the wall seemed to open in a blur before her eyes.
She was pulled off her feet, dragged sideways, so quickly that all she could do was gasp in protest as the
unseen force yanked her from the gallery into
a place of stifling darkness ... a secret door ... a concealed corridor. Hands steadied her, one wrapped
around her wrist, one clamped her shoulder. Blinking in the darkness, Sara tried to talk and could only
make a fearful squeak. "Who ... who ..."
She heard a man's voice, as soft as frayed velvet. Or rather, she felt his voice, the heat of his breath
against her forehead.
She began to tremble violently.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Mr. Craven," she whispered shakily. "I-its very dark in here."
"I like the dark."
She fought to catch her breath. "Did you really f-find it necessary to give me such a start?"
"I didn't plan to. You walked right by me. I couldn't help myself."
Sara's fear gave way to indignation. He was not at all sorry he had frightened her ... He had intended to.
"You've been
following me," she accused. "You've been watching me all morning."
"I said last night I didn't want you here."
"Mr. Worthy said it was all right "
"I own the club, not Worthy."
Sara was tempted to tell him how ungrateful he was, after what she had done for him last night. But she
didn't think it wise to argue with him while she was trapped here. She began to inch backward, toward
the crack of light where the secret door had been left ajar. "You're right," she said in a subdued voice.
"You're absolutely right. I-I believe I'll go now."
But he didn't release his grip on her, and she was forced to stand still. "Tell me what made you decide to
write about gambling."
Blinking in the darkness, Sara tried to gather her wits. "Well ... there was a boy in my village. A very
nice, intelligent boy, who came into a small inheritance. It would have been enough to keep him
comfortable for many years. But he decided to try and increase his wealth, not by honest means, but by
gambling. He lost it all in one night. At your club, Mr. Craven."
He shrugged indifferently. "Happens all the time."
"But it wasn't enough for him," Sara said. "He continued to gamble, certain that with each roll of the dice
he would regain what
he had lost. He gambled away his home, his horses and possessions, what was left of his money ... He
became the disgrace of Greenwood Corners. It made me wonder what had driven him to such behavior.
I asked him about it, and he said he hadn't been able to stop himself. He was reduced to tears as he told
me that after he had lost everything at Craven's, he sold his boots to someone on the street and played
cards barefoot at a local gaming hell. Naturally this made me wonder about the other lives that have been
ruined by cards and dice. The fortunes that are lost nightly at the hazard table could be used for much
nobler purposes than lining your pockets."
She sensed his sardonic smile. "I agree, Miss Fielding. But one piddling book won't stop anyone from
gambling. Anything you
write will only make them do it more."
"That's not true," she said stiffly.
"Did Mathilda stop anyone from visiting whores?"
"I believe it made the public regard prostitutes in a more sympathetic light "
"Whores will always spread their legs for a price," he said evenly, "and people will always put their
money on a bet. Publish
your book about gambling, and see how much good it does. See if it keeps anyone on the
straight-and-narrow. I'd sooner expect
a dead man to fart."
Sara flushed. "Doesn't it ever bother you to see the broken men walking from your club, with no money,
no hope, no future?
Don't you feel responsible in any way?"
"They're not brought in at gunpoint. They come to Craven's to gamble. I give them what they want. And I
make a fortune
from it. If I didn't, someone else would."
"That is the most selfish, callous statement I've ever heard "
"I was born in the rookery, Miss Fielding. Abandoned in the street, raised by whores, nursed on milk and
gin. Those scrawny
little bastards you've seen, the pickpockets and beggars and palmers ... I was one of them. I saw fine
carriages rattling down
the street. I stared through tavern windows at all the fat old gentlemen eating and drinking until their
bellies were full. I realized there was a world outside the rookery. I swore I'd do anything anything
to get my share of it. That's all I've ever cared about." He laughed softly. "And you think I should give a
damn about some young fop in satin breeches throwing his money
away at my club?"
Sara's heart hammered wildly. She had never been alone in the dark with a man. She wanted to escape
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