A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“Agreed.” Devlin inclined his head though wanted to jump up and punch the air. “We should remove our coats.”

“Our coats?” The baron’s mouth drew thin. “I am a gentleman who plays by the rules, Mr Drake, though I doubt the same could be said for you.”

“Which is why I shall remove my coat.” Devlin shrugged out of his black coat and handed the garment to Valentine. “Should there be any accusations of cheating, I would have to call that gentleman out. Having spent five years abroad, I would rather refrain from fleeing the country again so soon.”

All eyes in the room settled on Devlin. It was not the relaxed sight of a man in his shirtsleeves that drew their attention, but rather the bulging muscles straining against the fine lawn.

Bromfield removed his coat. His scrawny physique failed to draw the crowd’s attention. But anyone with the baron’s cunning was considered a worthy adversary.

A thick, clawing silence surrounded the table.

Bromfield reached for the polished wooden cup. “We will shake to see who rolls first.” Without pausing for thought, the baron rolled a nine.

Devlin used the opportunity to test his sleight of hand. For three years, he’d been perfecting the skill of knowing exactly how to claim the dice off the table, how to drop them into the cup in precisely the right way to achieve the desired result. Yes, he had made his fortune with Lord Greystone and their friends, buying and selling commodities. But he had doubled his wealth at the gaming tables.

Devlin shook the cup and cast the dice, pleased when he rolled a seven as planned.

The baron snorted. “When I claim Blackwater, I intend to raze the place to the ground.”

“When I claim your only daughter, I plan to treat her with the same kindness and respect she showed my brother.”

The baron cast icy daggers Devlin’s way. He grabbed the cup again, muttered to himself and shook the vessel too vigorously, too many times for there to be any skill involved. He released the dice, and they flew across the table, rolling and rolling until coming to a stop an inch from the edge.

“Ten,” someone shouted.

Bromfield’s lips curled into a sardonic grin. “Your turn to roll, Mr Drake, though it’s clear to see that the odds are against you. Oh, I can almost smell a Blackwater bonfire.”

“Only frightened men boast,” Devlin countered. “Confident men have nothing to prove.”

Devlin joked about there being nothing to do abroad other than gamble. The distraction gave him an opportunity to scoop the ivory cubes into his hand, shuffle them into the required position before dropping them into the cup.

Three short, sharp shakes and he emptied the vessel knowing that they would roll twice, no more.

Devlin did not look at the dice but kept his gaze focused on the baron. The shocked gasps from the crowd confirmed his success. Bromfield’s grin slipped, replaced by a look of horror. The baron gulped and tugged on the knot in his cravat.

“By God, Drake rolled a twelve,” Lord Criddle said, amazed.

Valentine stepped closer. “Never have I met a man with more luck than you. It seems you have won a wife, my friend.”

The sudden rush of elation was fleeting. Luck did not wrap its lithe legs around a man’s waist and promise to keep him warm at night. Luck did not profess love, did not rub the aches from one’s shoulders. Luck did not make a man feel glad to be alive.

“I demand someone inspects the dice,” the baron snapped.

“You have used the house dice,” Lord Criddle countered. “There is no trickery here. You lost, Bromfield, and must pay the debt.”

“You cannot expect a girl to marry a beast.” The baron dragged his hand down his face.

“Some consider me a devil,” Devlin countered. “Where your daughter is concerned, I shall strive to live up to my reputation.”

Bromfield growled and thumped the table. “But she will never agree.”

“Then her father will give me satisfaction some other way.”

“Failure to pay the debt will damage your reputation,” Valentine reminded the baron. Elegant fingers straightened the diamond pin in his cravat, brushed imagined dust from his coat sleeves. “I for one would not entertain a gentleman who is considered dishonourable.”

Devlin had heard enough. It was time to bring the night’s proceedings to an end. He had an appointment to empty the port decanter for it was the only way he would sleep tonight. Moving to scrawl a few particulars onto a slip of paper, including a signed statement declaring no impediments to the marriage, he returned to the gaming table and threw it down.

“I expect to meet my bride tomorrow at noon. Bring her to Wimpole Street. You will arrange a special licence, or common if the archbishop refuses. You have proof of my consent.”