The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting Read online

“And it makes no sense at all in terms of probability, because the fall of the ball, or the dice, is not affected by what came before.”

  Robin blinked. “You might have to explain that.”

  “Say you roll a die six times, and the first five times it comes up one. Do you think it’s more likely to come up a six on the next throw?”

  “It’s probably Greeked. I’d ask for new dice.”

  She gave him a look. “All right, say it has been rolled ten times and everything except a six has come up. Would you wager on it being a six on the next roll?”

  Robin thought about it. “Ten times? Probably. A six is due.”

  “But it isn’t due. The die has no memory of what was rolled before, any more than a pack of cards remembers the last deal. Perhaps a six hasn’t been rolled in ten tries or even a hundred, but the odds of a six remain what they always were: one in six.”

  “After a hundred?”

  “Or a thousand. I grant you, if a die didn’t roll a six in a thousand rolls it might be—what did you say?”

  “Greeked.”

  “Greeked,” she repeated, with relish. “Assuming a fair die, though, it’s just a long string of chances.”

  “But surely—”

  They walked and talked for the next hour, Alice as animated as he’d ever seen her, eyes bright, not resting until she had persuaded him of d’Alembert’s fallacy, and then delving into the mathematics of other games of chance. Robin had good card sense and a long practical acquaintance with what he might expect in a game: he would not have expected an eighteen-year-old girl to dismiss his experience so confidently, but he found himself forced to listen as she chided him for superstition.

  “But it doesn’t feel right,” he protested at one point. “Surely if the cards have been running badly for me, my luck—”

  “Does not exist.” Alice had spoken strongly on the subject of luck.

  “My chances will improve. A series of bad hands is bound to be followed by a good one.”

  “Over time, of course. Over time, a fair die will come up on each side equally. But ‘over time’ is—oh, years, not an evening. Runs of cards, or dice, are inevitable, but a winning or losing streak is an illusion.”

  “Then I’ve won a lot of money on things that don’t exist.”

  “I expect you have. I’m not saying you can’t roll a six ten times in a row. I’m saying that when you do it’s simply a series of individual one in six chances.”

  “But ten sixes isn’t a one in six chance, is it?” Robin said, attempting to work that in his head. “It can’t be.”

  “No, of course not. It’s one-sixth multiplied by one-sixth multiplied by one-sixth and so on, ten times.”

  “Wouldn’t that be very large?”

  Alice gave him a kindly smile. “No, it would be very small. Fractions multiplied by other fractions become smaller. So it would be a very small chance indeed, but what you have to remember is that any specific outcome is just as unlikely. Suppose you rolled a die ten times and it came up three, one, four, one, five, nine, two, six, five, three. Would you see that as a streak?”

  “How would I roll a nine?”

  Alice waved a hand. “You’re using a ten-sided die. It’s an illustration. Answer the question.”

  “I have never seen such a thing. And of course it isn’t a streak. It’s random numbers.”

  “Actually, it’s pi.”

  “It’s what?”

  “Pi. Archimedes’ constant? The ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter? Surely you studied geometry at school.”

  She looked genuinely puzzled, as if Robin ought to know who Archimedes was or why he was constant. “I didn’t always pay my tutor his due attention, I fear,” he lied smoothly. “What have circles to do with dice?”

  “Nothing. All I meant to say is, as a matter of probability, it is exactly as likely, or as unlikely, that you should roll three, one, four, one, five, nine, two, six, five, three in that order as it is that you should roll ten sixes. Each combination is as unique and surprising and impossible to predict as the other.”

  Robin attempted to grasp her point. “So Archimedes’ constant is as rare as ten sixes—”

  “And so is any ten numbers in a specific order. Whatever combination of results you get is unique, and absurdly improbable once you consider all the other possibilities. It’s just that people don’t notice if they aren’t showy.”

  Her voice was passionate, as though she truly cared about the injustice to a string of numbers. Robin turned to examine her face. She gave a little shrug.

  “I’m going to be thinking about this for days,” he said. “I had no idea you were so clever.”

  Alice blushed, this time seeming pleased rather than embarrassed. “Please don’t mention it to Mama. I’m not really supposed to talk about mathematics to—as part of my Season.”

  To men, she probably meant. The devil with that. Robin had a sudden fantastical vision of them as husband and wife, she developing foolproof mathematics to give him the edge at the card table, he turning her dowry into hundreds of thousands. He cleared his throat, wondering if it was time to put his luck—his chances—to the test.

  “Oh, there’s Florence waving at me,” Alice said. “Goodness, is it noon already? I had no idea we’d talked so long, I’m probably late. I’m so sorry for running on.”

  “I’ll walk you over.” Robin steered her in Miss Jocelyn’s direction. “And that was without question the most interesting conversation I’ve had since we arrived in London.”

  Alice stopped to look at him. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She smiled. It was a smile full of happiness and relief and even joy, exactly the sort of smile he ought to be eliciting from a girl with twenty thousand pounds, and it hit him like a punch to the heart.

  He left her with her friends and walked back through the park in an aimless sort of way. Marianne was out for a carriage-ride with the Marquess of Tachbrook and would, with luck, not be back for some time. That was a shame. If he told her that Alice had confided in him against her mother’s wishes, that her eyes had lit and she’d blushed and smiled, Marianne would have cheered, and encouraged him to strike while the iron was hot, and he wouldn’t have dared say anything such as I think she likes me, and I truly like her, and I feel like a swine.

  Wouldn’t it be better for Alice to marry a man who enjoyed her company, rather than some other and entirely heartless fortune hunter? Might they not be as happy as any married pair might reasonably hope? Admittedly she might be expecting a love-match, because he might have led her to significantly overestimate his feelings for her; but if he had some feelings—affection and respect and every intention of maintaining amicable relations—was that really so bad?

  There were worse men than himself. The Upper Ten Thousand sold women into marriages with cruel, greedy, brutal men every day for social or financial advantage, and that was acceptable because they had birth and upbringing. Robin was sure Alice would rather have a good friend.

  He told himself that over again, glowering at the grey water of the Round Pond and the red brick of Kensington Palace, until his hands were so cold he had to go home, but he still didn’t feel any better.

  Chapter Seven

  They were to attend Mrs. Verney’s soiree that evening. She was Giles Verney’s brother’s wife, and though the invitation had come from her, Robin had little doubt who had asked for it. He’d seen the way Verney looked at Marianne.

  “Why are we going?” he asked her as they dressed. Marianne wore a very simple gown that showed off her magnificent figure, with a plain string of pearls that had cost Robin an entire evening’s winnings and her hair dressed au naturel. She looked stunning, more than she did in the most elaborate toilettes. Robin suspected it was because she was happier.

  “Why would we not? Mrs. Verney is wonderfully respectable.” Marianne held a pearl drop to her ear, considering. “This or the little string of seed pearls?”
r />   “The drop. It looks much more artless.”

  Marianne smiled into the mirror. “You’ve no idea how hard I work to be artless.”

  “Is Tachbrook going?”

  “I hope not.”

  Robin was mid-cravat and, not having a stack of fresh linens to hand, he couldn’t afford to get this wrong. He lowered his chin carefully to press the creases into place, squinted in the mirror, decided he was satisfied, and said, “Really?”

  “Christ, Rob, do you want to listen to him? Neither do I.”

  “You’ll have to listen to him if you marry him.”

  “If I marry him I’ll be paid to listen to him.” The light had gone from her face. “Meanwhile, I shall take every opportunity I have not to.”

  “And you don’t want to look like you’re living in his pocket,” Robin said, in lieu of asking if she was going to listen to Giles Verney instead.

  “No indeed. In fact, I intend to be busy for several days. Absence might concentrate Tachbrook’s mind.”

  “Might he not take offence?”

  “If he takes offence I won’t get him anyway.” Marianne inserted the ear-bob’s wire. “He needs to court me, chase me, win me. He won’t be satisfied else.”

  She was sitting with her back to him as he spoke, but he could see her face in the mirror. Her eyes met his in the glass, a long, silent look, then she went on to the other earring. “Is Alice coming?”

  “No. She’s going to Grimaldi’s pantomime.”

  “You should have taken her to that.”

  “I walked with her in the park for two hours, talking,” Robin said. “She told me about...her interests.” He felt as though Alice’s mathematics might be private, somehow. “We got on wonderfully.”

  “Excellent. Are you going to propose soon?”

  Robin searched for a reply, but there was only one, really. They’d left too many angry people and unpaid debts behind them; they’d invested too much money and effort into their targets here. They were in too deep to stop.

  “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “I wish you would.” Marianne tweaked a ringlet. “You will be good to her, won’t you, Rob?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “I like her. She’s clever.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “And she’s kind. She deserves a good husband.”

  “Then why do you want to saddle her with me?”

  That came out of his mouth unplanned. Marianne’s eyes widened. She rose swiftly and turned to take his hand. “What’s that about? You won’t hurt her, will you?”

  “I won’t love her either. You know I don’t feel that way.”

  “You can love someone without tupping them. You can be kind and patient and friendly—”

  “Is that what you want out of a marriage? Kind and patient and friendly?”

  Marianne dropped his hand and stepped back. Her voice was several degrees chillier when she said, “What I want out of a marriage is the title of marchioness and eighteen thousand a year. Kindness and patience won’t come into it. Still less whatever romantic notions you may be harbouring which, if I may say so, are absurd for a man of your tastes. How much kindness do you find on your knees in a dark alley?”

  “Maybe I’d like a little more kindness than that.”

  “Maybe we all would.” Marianne returned to her mirror. “The world isn’t kind. Are you ready?”

  They barely spoke on the way to the party. Marianne was silent in the way that usually suggested simmering rage. Since her rage was aimed at, or at least near, Robin, he felt it best to keep his mouth shut. He’d spoiled her pleasure quite enough for one evening.

  As if things weren’t sufficiently dismal, the first person he saw as he entered was Sir John Hartlebury.

  He couldn’t help noticing the man. It wasn’t his size—he was broadly built, but not particularly tall—or even his severe appearance, with the eyebrows and the plain clothing. It was just his solid, bristling presence, like a mastiff in a room of bright birds.

  Hartlebury was part of a crowd that included Giles Verney and two men who were clearly his brothers, plus an older man in the purple plumage of an archbishop who resembled them all. They were talking with noise and animation, Hartlebury among them, laughing unguardedly. He seemed comfortable and at home, and the unaccustomed expression made him look completely different. Robin had never seen the man look relaxed before.

  “Stop staring,” said Marianne under her breath, and swept forwards to greet Verney.

  Robin greeted people, exchanged frostily civil bows with Hartlebury, and made himself scarce. The least he could do for Marianne was to not start a fight.

  He probably wouldn’t have played cards anyway, as potentially provocative, but there was no card table. Of course not. The Verneys were far too high sticklers for cards, with their patriarch the archbishop and his bevy of well-married, well-behaved children, and their impeccable respectability. You could choke on the gentility round here.

  Instead, the entertainment on offer was a chamber orchestra. Wonderful. Robin sat and listened to music for several hours, and was disappointed to learn that only forty minutes had passed on the clock. He found a drink, and made pleasant conversation with highly respectable people in a modest, friendly, charming way; he sat for supper at which he was pleasant and modest and did some more friendly charming, and finally he went out into the garden with a vague idea of finding a fishpond and drowning himself, because if he had one more vapid interaction in the name of society, he might scream.

  It was dark outside, and very cold, but that was welcome after the heat of a crowded house. He smelled smoke as he went down the garden and saw a dark form that could have been a statue except for the glowing end of his cigar. Robin swallowed down his justified annoyance at bloody people everywhere and said, “Good evening.”

  The figure turned, his profile catching the light spilling from the house, and Robin bit back a groan. Of course it was him. Of course.

  “After fresh air?” Hartlebury enquired.

  “And a little cool.” And some silence, and an absence of people, and not seeing Marianne’s bright eyes as she laughed with Giles Verney.

  “I’ll finish my cigar and leave you to your solitude.”

  Evidently Hartlebury no more wanted to be in the garden with Robin than vice versa. That thought made him respond, perversely, “Not on my account.”

  Hartlebury didn’t reply to that. He simply stood, smoking. Robin looked away to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and saw there was indeed a fishpond, and a stone bench near it. He tested the bench with his hand for dampness, sat down, and inhaled sharply.

  “Cold?” Hartlebury enquired.

  “A little bracing, yes.”

  Pause.

  “Alice told me she walked in the park with you today.”

  “She did. We had a very interesting conversation.”

  “She has more than once said she has interesting conversations with you, yet I have rarely had anything but pleasantries, platitudes, and speeches,” Hartlebury said. “I wonder, why is that?”

  Robin shrugged in the dark. “I find it equally improbable when she tells me she has enjoyable conversations with you.”

  There was a brief silence, then a snort. “That was plain speaking.”

  “Is that not what you wanted?”

  “Indeed it is; I just didn’t think I’d get it. I’d be very pleased to learn your inmost thoughts.”

  “Bet you wouldn’t,” Robin said, instantly and with feeling.

  “Do you know, that’s the third honest thing you’ve said to me? You should be careful. It might become a habit.”

  Robin sighed. “Whereas I have lost count of the offensive things you’ve said to me.”

  “But at least I mean what I say.”

  “I can’t imagine why you pride yourself on that. Any fool can say what he means and mean what he says. That’s why we invented manners, as a way to stop society descending into a
brawl.”

  Hartlebury tossed the stub of his cigar into the pond. It fell like a star and hissed as the water extinguished its brief brightness. “Where are you from?”

  “Nottinghamshire.”

  “What village?”

  “Are you hunting for information on me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why should I help you?”

  “I’d think you’d want to establish your name, if you had one.”

  “To be good enough for you?”

  “For Alice.”

  Robin folded his arms to stuff his achingly cold fingertips under his armpits. He was not going to leave the garden first. “If Alice wants to know anything of me, she is welcome to ask.”

  “Mouthy under cover of darkness, aren’t you?”

  “You complain about me being courteous, you complain about me being frank. Do you ever stop complaining?”

  Hartlebury chuckled, a ghost of a sound. They both fell silent for a moment, as the music and chatter floated out from the Verneys’ house.

  “What do you want?” he asked at last.

  “A cushion.”

  “What?”

  “This seat is very hard, and extremely cold.”

  “That was surely predictable when you sat on it,” Hartlebury pointed out. “I didn’t mean at this moment.”

  “I know what you meant. Why do you ask?”

  “I want to know.”

  “I want what everyone wants,” Robin said. “I want to be happy. I want the people for whom I care to be happy. I want to be reasonably secure in that happiness.”

  “Secure?” Hartlebury repeated, and the fact it sounded like a real question took Robin’s breath away.

  “Secure. Yes. You know the word? Or have you never lacked for it, that you ask why someone might want it?”

  “My sister was happily married to a loving husband,” Hartlebury said. “A blood vessel burst in his brain and he dropped dead without warning. There’s no security against fate.”

  “I’m not talking about fate. We all die, you won’t win betting against that. I want—”

  He wanted to wake up in the certainty that there was enough food in the house for the week, every single day of the rest of his life. He wanted to have enough money that he never again had to pawn his clothes and sit wrapped in a blanket. He wanted to be so used to having a roof over his head that he never, ever thought about it, and not to have arguments over the spending of sixpence. He wanted to be able to fuck on a bed, in his own home, without the constant fear of discovery. He wanted something better and brighter and, yes, kinder than damp knees in a dark alley with one ear cocked for the avenging law.