Opening an eye, he blinked repeatedly and tried to ignore the anvil that was being pounded rhythmically inside his head. When he felt his chest, he discovered that someone had removed his coat and considerately opened the neck of his shirt. His shoes had also been taken off. It took him several minutes to realise that a servant must have carried him upstairs and eased him onto his bed. Knowing that he was safe and well, he felt the urge to drift back into a restorative slumber but a question prodded him like the prongs of a toasting fork. How much had he lost?
More often than not, he was lucky in love but unlucky when he turned to gambling and he’d often left Jermyn Street in debt, having been forced to borrow from others when his own funds ran out. To have drunk himself into such a state of paralysis, he must have been even more reckless than usual. The normal safeguards he applied when betting on something would no longer function. Instead of restricting himself to fairly modest amounts, he could easily have ventured huge bets on cards he was too blurred even to see. When they saw him so vulnerable, others wouldn’t hesitate to coax every penny out of his purse. Is that what had happened? Was he going to put his hand in his coat pocket and find that he’d gambled away his house? It had happened before to others. Was Paul the latest fool to do so?
Rolling off the bed, he landed on the floor with a thud and increased the rate of strike on the anvil. It was not just the pain that tormented him; it was the fact that his body seemed to be filled with solid iron. He crawled on his hands and knees to the chair over the back of which his coat had been placed. Paul had to gather up all his strength before he was able to reach into one of the pockets. Every slight movement caused a separate agony. His head weighed a ton, putting intense pressure on his neck. Yet he eventually got his hand on something. Pausing before pulling it out, he sent up a fervent prayer that he’d not lost his house. In that eventuality, he just wouldn’t know how to face Peter and Charlotte. Not for the first time, they’d be disgusted with him and so would Gully Ackford and Jem Huckvale.
Yet he had to know the truth. It took great courage to extract the contents of his pocket. Braced for the worst, however, he was instead blessed by a minor miracle. What he was holding was a fistful of banknotes, adding up to an amount that was far in excess of the money he’d had beforehand. The second pocket was equally full of unexpected plunder. The night in Jermyn Street had somehow been an unqualified success. Hannah might have spurned him but he had ample compensation for her loss. All of a sudden, he was rich. With a huge effort, he tossed the money into the air and fell asleep under a blizzard of fluttering banknotes.
When she let herself into the shooting gallery, Charlotte was in time to see a woman descending the stairs. She realised that it must be Jane Holdstock, leaving the premises after another archery lesson.
‘Good day to you,’ she said with a smile.
‘How do you do?’ said Jane, sizing her up at a glance. ‘I didn’t expect to find someone like you here.’
‘I might say the same about you, Mrs Holdstock. That is your name, I believe.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘This gallery is a male paradise. I am the exception to the rule. Ladies rarely come for instruction though one or two have learnt how to shoot a pistol here. Mr Ackford tells me that you’re an archer.’
‘I’m hardly that,’ said Jane, modestly, ‘and I’m not really here for my own benefit. I’ve a young nephew with a passion for stories about Robin Hood. He’s been begging his parents to buy him a bow and arrow. Since his father is never there to teach him how to use it, I volunteered to do so. First, of course, I had to become proficient myself.’
‘I hear that you’re a dedicated pupil.’
‘One likes to do things properly.’
Charlotte warmed to her immediately and wanted to continue the conversation. Surrounded by men at the shooting gallery, she found it a refreshing change to meet another woman, especially one as pleasant and well spoken as Jane Holdstock. But the visitor didn’t linger. After a polite farewell, she took her leave and let herself out of the building. Standing at the open door, Charlotte was still looking after her when Gully Ackford came down the stairs.
‘Hello,’ he said, affably.
‘I’ve just met Mrs Holdstock for the first time.’
‘She’s an interesting lady, isn’t she?’
‘I wish that I’d had an aunt who’d taught me exciting things like how to use a bow and arrow. When I was young,’ said Charlotte, ‘the only things my aunts taught me were how to sew a fine seam and recite nursery rhymes. Mrs Holdstock is going to turn her nephew into Robin Hood.’