Valentine's Vow (Avenging Lords 3)

They entered with some caution.

It was a small room, painted entirely in moss green smudged with soot from the open fire. A strange scoreboard filled the far wall—slate boards with lists of numbers and names, brass dials and sliders used to track bets and odds. The place smelt of wet dogs and stale sweat. A thin man with spectacles and wiry copper hair sat behind a battered oak desk. Jonathan sat hunched in the chair opposite. He looked at Ava, and his cheeks flamed red with shame.

“Mr Maguire?” Lord Valentine asked.

“Connor Maguire,” the scrawny man replied in a cockney accent tinged with a Southern Irish intonation. He did not stand but twirled the handle of a small pocket knife around his bony fingers as he spoke. Not once did the blade cut or mark his skin. “Martin is in the arena with that savage beast he calls a pet.”

“You speak of the monkey?” Lord Valentine said.

Mr Maguire nodded. “If you’ve bet on the dog, then you’ll leave with an empty purse.”

“Thankfully, I am not a gambling man.”

Mr Maguire studied the viscount for a moment before his sharp gaze moved to Mr Drake. Ava defied any man not to shiver when looking into those black eyes, but clearly, Mr Maguire had seen enough brutality to remain indifferent. One sweeping glance at Ava’s attire brought a smirk to his lips.

“If you’ve come to save Kendall here,” Mr Maguire began, “then you’ll need more than a pouch filled with sovereigns.”

A brief silence ensued before Lord Valentine asked, “How much would it take to clear Mr Kendall’s debts and render the matter closed?”

Jonathan squirmed in his chair. “I do not need you to act as—”

“Oh, do be quiet.” Ava bristled to Lord Valentine’s defence. She was tired of listening to the nonsense that came out of her brother’s mouth. “Can you not see that people are trying to help you?”

“I do not need his help,” Jonathan countered.

“I beg to differ. You should be grateful such an honourable gentleman is willing to take the time and trouble to act on your behalf.”

“Valentine is acting on your behalf, not mine. Any fool can see that.”

Ava supposed there was some truth to the comment. She couldn’t look at Lord Valentine for fear of blushing, but oddly she noted Mr Drake’s mouth widening into a satisfied grin.

Mr Maguire threw the blade in the air. He caught it by the handle and stabbed the point into the desk with enough force to penetrate a man’s chest. The candle flickered in the lamp casting eerie shadows over his skeletal features.

Everyone froze.

“Then you’ve got the money to pay me, Kendall,” Mr Maguire said in a tone filled with menace and mockery. “Why didn’t you say so? I’d not have had Milligan drag you away from the entertainment.”

Entertainment? The sport was merciless and barbaric.

“Well, I do not have the money at the moment.” Jonathan’s meek voice grated. “But perhaps my luck might change tonight.”

“You championed the monkey to win?” Lord Valentine sounded hopeful.

Jonathan cast the viscount a sidelong glance. “Don’t tell me you bet on the dog.”

“As I said, I am not a gambling man. One has a responsibility when one inherits.”

Ava would wager the lord had never made a foolish decision in his life. What was it that made the two men so vastly different? Jonathan had been afforded a childhood filled with love and excitement and adventure. But what about the viscount? While love for his mother radiated from him like a blazing beacon, neither he nor Honora ever mentioned his father.

“You have the advantage,” Jonathan sniped. “You were born a gentleman. Some of us have to earn our place.”

Lord Valentine snorted. “And you think by causing your sister distress that makes you an honourable man? With that mentality, you will never rise to the ranks.”

“Enough!” Connor Maguire cried.

The black dog—who looked more terrifying than the one in the fighting ring—sat up from his fireside basket and ba

rked.