Chapter One
Brooks’ Gentlemen’s Club, London, October 1820
The ivory dice rattled in the wooden cup. Three shakes and they flew out onto the pristine green cloth covering the hazard table. Ten men stood stiffly and watched with bated breath as the white cubes rolled to a stop.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
No one dared blink.
“Ten,” the setter called in his monotone voice. “You roll again, Lord Criddle.”
The room erupted in a chorus of frustrated grumbles and whoops of pleasure. Men dabbed their brows with their handkerchiefs, others snatched glasses of port from the tray of a waiting footman and downed the contents without pause.
Devlin Drake weighed the odds of Criddle rolling his third chance. Winning at hazard had as much to do with understanding probability as it did with luck, and Devlin was exceptionally skilled when it came to mathematical equations.
Of course, there were always those desperate to steer the game in their favour.
Here, in this private room at Brooks’, the house took every precaution to guard against cheats and chancers. New dice were inspected for shaved edges and bristles. The tapping of dice was strictly forbidden lest one wished to find themselves accused of dishonesty and issued with a challenge to meet on the common.
“A thousand pounds on Lord Criddle rolling a throw out,” one eager gentleman called.
Devlin needed to lose to the house once more, perhaps twice if he hoped to lure his quarry into his trap. He did not need to lock eyes with Baron Bromfield to know that the arrogant lord watched his every move. The man’s beady stare felt like hot rays searing Devlin’s skin.
A warm wave of satisfaction rippled through Devlin’s chest. Before the evening was out, he would have the bastard on his knees, begging and pleading for clemency.
The setter—a thin man with spectacles and long, bony fingers—scanned those crowded around the table. “Any more bets, gentlemen?”
Devlin cleared his throat. “A thousand pounds in favour of Criddle rolling another chance.”
Stunned gasps replaced the mumbled chatter.
Devlin moved to the side table, took a slip of paper, dipped the nib of the quill in ink and scrawled his wager. After dusting the note, he returned and handed it to the setter.
Other gentlemen followed suit, taking advantage of the brief respite to whisper and stare in Devlin’s direction.
No one cared how much Lord Criddle won or lost. No one cared for the sotted fools willing to stake everything they owned, hoping for a stroke of luck.
Everyone wanted to know what had brought Devlin home from India after five long years. Everyone wanted to know when he would issue Baron Bromfield with a challenge after learning of the spiteful gossip spread by the lord’s daughter.
Valentine appeared at Devlin’s shoulder and drew him away from the gaming table. “I trust you know what you’re about, Drake,” his friend whispered before taking a sip of port. “Despite numerous attempts, Criddle has yet to roll three in a row.”
Devlin turned to the viscount and raised a brow. “You’ve seen me play enough over the years to have faith in both my judgement and my ability.”
Along with Greystone and Lockhart, Valentine had been Devlin’s constant companion during their time abroad. The four men were closer than brothers.
“Bromfield is no imbecile. He knows you’re seeking an opportunity to settle the score.”
“Settle the score?” Devlin’s hatred ran deeper than a game of tit for tat. Satisfaction would take more than an apology or a call for first blood.
Devlin had come to win something more valuable than money.
He had come to win a wife.
Indeed, he would spend the rest of his life making Miss Bromfield pay for the evil lies she had spread about his brother, Ambrose.
“Miss Bromfield’s vicious snipes played some part in my brother’s death,” Devlin said, frustrated at having to keep his voice low. “I plan to make that spoilt harpy rue the day she crossed my family.”
All boisterous talk in the room suddenly dissolved into an uneasy silence.
Devlin turned back to the gaming table to watch Lord Criddle roll a two.
“Throw out,” called the setter and Devlin cursed at his loss as did those who had followed suit.
And so the evening went on.
Devlin ensured he lost more than he won. When it was his turn to cast, his usual stern expression heightened the nervous tension thrumming in the air about the table. Towering above most men, and with a chest twice as broad, few people were brave enough to bet against him.
Valentine wagered two thousand pounds on Devlin to win—a measly amount for a man of Valentine’s wealth, which was why Devlin felt no remorse when he deliberately lost.
Other than the fact Mr Danes had to be escorted home for fear the man’s losses might lend him to swallow the muzzle of his pistol, the game passed without incident.
Notes were tallied. The house made calls for the settlement of all debts.
While watching anyone win or lose in a high-stakes game proved exciting, it was the private wagers made after the event that sent hot blood rushing through a man’s veins. Indeed, Devlin stepped forward as planned when Edwin Harridan-Jones—Greystone’s illegitimate wastrel of a brother—pleaded for more time to settle his account.
“You know the rules, sir,” the setter said in a tone that gave no room for negotiation. “In placing your bets, you agreed to the terms.”
“I’m not saying I cannot pay. I am simply asking for more time.”
“Perhaps I might offer a suggestion,” Devlin called out from the crowd, eager to deal with this matter so he might focus on his own cunning plan. The crowd parted as he pushed closer to the gaming table and addressed the setter. “I will cover the gentleman’s debts in exchange for his vowel.”
Mr Harridan
-Jones’ lips trembled as he craned his neck to look at Devlin. “Wh-what so you may give the vowel to Greystone? I would rather take a trip to the morgue than let him hold me to ransom.”
Devlin fixed him with a hard stare, the vicious look that caused men to stumble backwards wide-eyed and ready to run. “Trust me. That can be arranged. Indeed, I would take great pleasure in seeing to the matter personally.”
“I—I suppose Greystone suggested that, too,” his friend’s scrawny brother said.
If Greystone wanted the dolt dead, he would not be breathing.
“Lord Greystone has more important matters on his mind.” At this hour, the lord would be in bed entertaining his new bride. “What say you? Shall we let the dice decide your fate?”
The desperate fool searched the curious faces in the crowd. “Will anyone else stand good for me until I can secure the necessary funds?”