The Demon Duke was what society had called him. Of course, Mason hadn’t known that until later. But his heir, and Mason’s half-brother, had taken over the title upon their father’s death. And then the new duke had promptly tracked down the brother he’d never known. He’d found Mason slowly recovering in the basement of a church in Dover where he’d been dumped by the British army to recover or die.
The new Duke of Devonhall had swept his brother away but not before Mason had begged the man to find a girl. A little blonde with eyes the color of the sea on a sunny day.
Bash had raised a brow. “Girl? How old? Please tell me you don’t fancy her?”
Mason had spit on the dirty floor. He’d never sully thoughts of her with such base feelings. “It’s not like that. She saved my life and hers is beyond wretched. One good favor deserves another.”
Bash had tried to find her. But by then, the priest swore that some lady had taken his little angel away. Given her a home, Father Byron claimed. Mason had had his doubts, but little proof.
Still, when the Prince Regent had awarded Mason a title for valor on the battlefield—he had a feeling Bash was behind that honor—Mason had used his newfound power as the Earl of Baxter to see that the priest was sent to the furthest reaches of a Scottish island in a hamlet with a flock so small, there was little chance the man could do more damage.
He’d have liked to kill the man, but then again, his father was surely in Hell and while Mason suspected he’d join him, killing a priest seemed like a golden ticket straight below. He’d often debated if a bad priest still counted but, in the end, he’d settled for the man living his life in near isolation.
Of course, Mason hadn’t been able to resist telling Father Byron exactly why he was being sent to an island in the middle of nowhere. The priest had attempted to hurt an angel and a man had to pay for his crimes.
Bash swept into the room in his usual fashion. His brother radiated confidence and power. “Did you close the deal? I need that club. The Den of Sins will be mine.”
Mason looked up at his brother. Bash’s infatuation with this particular gaming hell was a mystery to Mason, but he generally didn’t ask his brother why he wanted things. Bash was a harder-looking man, his features more prominent and more aristocratic than Mason’s. They shared the same dark hair and penetrating eyes, both well over six feet as their father had been. But Mason’s features were more classically handsome. His father had told him once, in a sneer, that he looked far too much like his mother to ever be accepted in society. “No aristocrat is that pretty.”
Perhaps his father had been correct. But with Bash’s help, society had accepted him nonetheless. Well, for the most part. “I closed it.”
Bash gave him a salacious grin and sat across from him. “You are prolific. No one has your negotiating skills, you charming devil, you.” He laughed then, a hand at his stomach. “So the Earl of Gold accepted your offer to be a partner in a secret gaming hell. I’ll be damned.”
Mason’s fist clenched. “Let’s not use nicknames, shall we. They’re tawdry.”
Bash scrunched one eyebrow as he gave Mason a sideways glance. “You don’t like yours, I take it, Earl of Bastards? I personally think it has a nice ring to it.”
Mason frowned. “Your nickname, Duke of Decadence, has a ring. A bastard is just what I am.”
Bash scowled, sitting forward in his chair. “That’s not true. Not anymore. You’re an earl now.”
Mason gave his brother a practiced smile. It was light and airy and meant to hide the turmoil that was always close to the surface. “True.” He needn’t discuss the particulars of being raised a bastard. The truth was, Bash had suffered nearly as much being the legitimate son. A cruel man was cruel to everyone.
Besides, their terrible father wasn’t what he wished to discuss. Nor was the deal with Goldthwaite.
Funny, he’d spent the last six years building an actual life. Gaining favor among the ton, placing himself in a position of power.
It had been to thumb his nose at his father, of course. The man had wished for his unwanted son to die under some Frenchman’s boot. He’d almost succeeded in convincing Mason that it would be best for everyone. That was until he’d met Clarissa. Rather than die, Mason had become one of the most powerful earls in all of England.
But everything had changed today.
“I found her,” Mason said, his hands spreading out on his thighs.
Bash fell back in his chair, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Who?”
“Clarissa.” He smacked one of his palms on his knee. “After all these years, I finally met her again.”
Surprise widened Bash’s eyes. “No. How?” He scrubbed his jaw. “I thought you’d dreamed her or imagined her. A fevered delusion or something.”
Mason smiled at that. There were times he’d wondered himself. But last night, he’d seen his angel again. Flesh and blood and no longer a girl but a woman. “She looks just as beautiful,” he murmured as much to himself as to Bash. Honestly, she was even more gorgeous now. Then she’d been a child, but yesterday, a woman had stood in her place. Tall and fair, and lovely beyond his wildest imaginings.
“Where?” Bash asked, leaning forward once again, resting his elbows on his knees.
That was the tricky part. “She is living with the Earl of Goldthwaite.” When he’d left her, she’d been an orphan in Dover. She was the last person he’d expected to meet while negotiating the sale of a gaming hell, the Den of Sins.
Bash’s hands slapped against his thighs. “I know you are aware that we need the Earl of Goldthwaite to make our new club a success. Not all of us are the new leader of exclusive clubs like you are. Goldthwaite is pivotal to our plan.”
Mason snorted. It