Baron Bromfield snorted, unable to resist the urge to intervene. “Take your chances, that’s what I say. Roll the damn dice. Drake has his brother’s luck, and we all know how that ended.”
Anger ignited in Devlin’s chest—a hot fiery rage capable of tearing through the room and causing carnage. How dare the bastard mention his brother. Devlin grabbed a goblet of port off the table and downed the contents to douse the flames. Oh, he wanted to beat the baron to a pulp. But revenge hurt best when delivered from unexpected quarters.
Devlin scooped up the wooden cup and thrust it into Mr Harridan-Jones’ hand. “You win, I pay your debt. I win, I pay the house and take your vowel. Agreed?”
No serious gambler could refuse such a generous offer.
Mr Harridan-Jones took a few seconds to reach a decision and then he nodded to the setter. With his free hand, he scribbled his vowel on the paper slip, then rattled the cup and after some hesitation threw an eight.
Hushed whispers breezed through the room.
Devlin captured the cup and shook a ten.
Gentlemen snorted, others chuntered.
Mr Harridan-Jones gripped the table. Bony white knuckles looked ready to burst through the skin as he tried to remain upright. “Damn you to hell,” he snarled between gritted teeth.
The setter waved to the door of the private room. “You’re free to leave, sir. Mr Drake will settle your account and take possession of your vowel.”
It took a moment for Mr Harridan-Jones to regain his composure. Even so, he stumbled from the room like a man deep in his cups, barged shoulders with those standing in his way and knocked over chairs to release his pent-up aggression.
“You were wrong about me having my brother’s luck, Bromfield.” Devlin fixed his gaze on the baron, the comment being his first move in the next game of wits.
The lord was of slender proportion—one punch would take him clean off his feet. Blonde locks gave Bromfield the appearance of a much younger man for it was almost impossible to note the fine streaks of grey at his temples. But it was the baron’s arrogant countenance and air of superiority that brought bile bubbling up to Devlin’s throat.
“Beating Greystone’s pathetic brother is hardly something to boast about.” The baron’s tone brimmed with contempt as he stared down his aquiline nose. “Next time seek a worthy opponent.”
Devlin resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest for the circumference of his muscular arms often gave men pause. “That sounds like a challenge.” His hands throbbed to knock the smirk off Bromfield’s face. “Are you suggesting we make a wager?”
All noise in the room ceased.
The atmosphere grew heavy and oppressive.
Men froze, glasses half raised to their mouths, awaiting the baron’s reply.
The baron’s cold gaze drifted over Devlin, hard and assessing. “I would hate to relieve you of your measly winnings.”
Devlin caught Valentine’s inconspicuous smirk. The baron knew nothing of their triumphs abroad, and Devlin preferred to keep it that way.
“I understand,” Devlin began in a tone full of mockery. “The gentlemen here can see through your bravado. You fear I might beat you. Is that it?”
Devlin had the baron cornered. Should the lord retreat now, he would only look craven.
The lord muttered a curse. The muscle in his jaw twitched. “And on what shall we wager?” he said, taking the bait. “How long it will be before you’re found dead on the common? Whether there is a woman alive who doesn’t tremble when you enter a room?”
The last comment found a chink in Devlin’s armour. Towering above most men, he was a veritable giant compared to those petite ladies of the ton. His raven-black hair and obsidian eyes accentuated his menacing aura. The baron was right. Most women found his powerful countenance unsettling.
The sudden urge to end the game came upon him. A lead ball between Bromfield’s brows would atone for the spiteful gossip, would ease the ache in Devlin’s chest, appease his need for revenge. But it would shed no light on the circumstances surrounding Ambrose’s mysterious death. Only one person had an intimate knowledge of his brother’s final days. Only one person had lied, had made up stories about his brother’s nefarious activities—Miss Bromfield.
“Let us wager on something more substantial,” Devlin said, pushing aside all doubts to the contrary. “Something more precious than money or reputation.”
An excited hum burst through the room.
Everyone shuffled closer to the gaming table.
“And what is more precious than money or reputation?” The baron gave a mocking chuckle as he baited the crowd, but uncertainty flashed in the man’s frosty blue eyes.
Devlin was about to answer but paused.