Chapter 2
Two
“Idare say, Your Grace, you have a remarkable knack for calamity.” Mr. Brown’s voice was like oil, slow-moving and unforced, wreathing the ends of his words like the curl of cigar smoke. “Are you quite sure you want to go on?”
Norman didn’t so much as blink at his creditor’s condescension.
“I must believe, Brown, that the only misfortune here is yours.” Norman’s fingers ran over the rim of his card, his expression as serene as ever. He had long since learned that displaying one’s mind at a gaming table was an open invitation to ruin.
Brown snorted, leaning back in his chair with an expression of feigned amusement.
“Is that so? Shall we set the books straight, then? You arrived already in hock up to your eyeballs, and yet you have the nerve to risk what little remains of your reputation?” His lips twisted.
“I must compliment your optimism, unfounded as it is.”
Norman took a slow breath in through his nostrils, ignoring the pickle of irritation along the back of his neck. He was accustomed to men like Brown—serpents, circling on the scent of desperation, of vulnerability. But he was neither vulnerable nor desperate.
“You are in error on one score, at least,” Norman breathed. He lifted the card between two fingers, paused for a heartbeat, and turned it over with a deliberate flick of his wrist. The King of Spades glared at them.
Brown’s sneer wavered, then vanished.
A silence.
Then another.
The candle flame danced as though the air itself had been disturbed.
“It would seem,” Norman allowed himself the slightest of smiles. “that fortune favors me this evening.”
Brown’s jaw tightened. He drew a harsh breath, as if to regroup, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him.
“Enjoy this moment, Your Grace,” Brown answered, his tone softer now, a whisper. “For it will be short-lived. “You may have won tonight, but a single hand at cards will not discharge your father’s debt. You owe me far more than this.”
The mention of his father’s ruin stung—a needle’s prick behind his ribs—but Norman did not flinch.
A year of laboring under the old duke’s debts had hardened him.
Brown’s smug insinuations were but gnats against armor—let the man sneer over the money.
Norman was playing a longer game. Every pawn moved in silence—every debt would be answered.
The Dukedom of Wharton would not crawl. It would rise, even if he had to scorch the earth behind him.
Norman leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes as sharp as steel. “That debt, Brown, is not mine. You know it very well. It is time it was cleared.”
Brown’s gaze turned flinty. “Cleared?” He gave a slow, mirthless chuckle.
“Your Grace flatters himself if he believes one night’s luck has…
absolved certain obligations.” He inclined his head, the picture of mock courtesy.
“But let us not speak in riddles. A month’s grace—generous, given the circumstances—ought to suffice for a man of your resources.
Should it not…” He paused, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
The words hung like lead between them.
But Norman didn’t wince. He didn’t step back at the underlying threat contained in Brown’s words. He just sized the man across from him up and down, weighing out the venom in his tone, the calculated savagery in his gaze.
Then, effortlessly maddening, he leaned forward to take his winnings and stacked them on top of one another neatly.
Brown’s face blazed with rage and then struggled back into politeness.
He inhaled deeply and shoved back his chair, standing up.
“You believe you are above the rules, but you are wrong, Your Grace. Your father was ruined before you, and you tread very close to experiencing the same ruin. Listen well: I make no idle threats.”
Norman stood too, adjusting the cuffs of his coat with deliberate slowness. “No, Brown. You write desperate ones. And I do not deal well with desperation.”
The flickering candlelight elongated their shadows on the walls as they stood facing each other. The air between them was charged with the tension of something unspoken—something that went beyond mere money, beyond cards and wagers and overdue debts.
History.
Twelve months before his death, the late Duke of Wharton had made a catastrophic wager.
Seduced by the promise of mammoth dividends, he had gambled the family fortune on a speculative venture that blew apart in the blink of an eye. The loss was cataclysmic, and its shock had killed his father both in body and in spirit.
Norman was left to sort out the pieces. No one knew the truth, of course. To the world, Norman Egerton was the Duke of Wharton, a man of authority and wealth.
A month. That had been given to him.
A ghost of a smile played on his lips.
Norman Egerton never lost a game.
“Leaving your duties behind, I imagine,” said Lady Mulberry as she walked in, carrying herself with an unassailable air of entitlement.
Norman had only just stepped into his study moments ago before being interrupted. His desk, the dark mahogany expanse littered with papers detailing estate accounts, tenant problems, and a rapidly dwindling ledger that had long since lost its balance in his favor.
Brown’s last words tormented him like a specter, his threat echoing between Norman’s temples.
One month.
Norman leaned back in his chair, his expression unchanging. “If you mean managing the estate, then I can assure you, I am quite taken up with my duties.”
Lady Mulberry closed the door with an air of such exaggerated deliberation, one might have thought she was performing a delicate waltz rather than simply entering the room.
“Estate business can wait. The Season, alas, cannot.” She paused, her gloved hands clenched tensely in front of her.
“The Egertons have had a long history of being a shining family—auspicious marriages, high-ranking alliances, the most extravagant balls London has ever seen. And yet you’ve been negligent in your duties to your sister.
She hasn’t even new gowns to make a proper impression, and you know as well as I that her debut must be flawless. ”
Norman’s eyebrow flickered. “If marriage, parties and new gowns are the sole measure of a model family, society must have very low expectations.”
Her lips tightened into a firm line. “Do not be flippant, Norman. You know perfectly well what is at stake. I have seen this before—when my daughter married your father. The comparisons, the scrutiny…they never end. The ton’s eyes are on you now.
And they are beginning to whisper that the new Duke of Wharton is…
lacking. That he cannot hold a candle to his father, or his father’s father. ”
Norman’s jaw tightened, his voice low and dangerous. “Watch your mouth.”
The air between them crackled with unspoken accusations, the weight of generations on Norman’s shoulders.
“You fail to understand the true cost of all this,” Lady Mulberry continued, her eyes now glinting far more dangerously.
“You think I do this for the sake of your sister? Oh, my dear, no. You see, Eleanor’s debut is not merely about securing her place on the marriage mart.
It’s a statement. A demonstration of power.
The Egertons must rise once more, and your sister—your sister—is the key to that. ”
Norman shrugged, the weight in his chest not bulging, but he still kept his voice steady. “You would use her like that? To prop up your precious name.”
“It is the legacy that sustains us all, Norman. If you do not ensure Eleanor’s proper debut—her placement—then all will crumble. And what will be left of your Egerton name? Dust. Ridicule.”
If only you knew, Grandmother. I’m the only thing standing between your precious name and the disgrace my father left behind.
“Enough,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. “I know my duty. But I will not sacrifice my sister—or my own dignity—for the whims of society.” His chest burned with the heat of all he had to deal with, and he had no more patience for Lady Mulberry’s ridiculous accusations.
Just then, the door creaked open, halting their standoff.
Eleanor stood in the doorway holding aloft a gown of pale blue silk, her face alight with gentle expectation. “Do you like it?” she asked, moving forward.
Norman’s gaze softened a bit as he took in his sister’s optimistic countenance. She was the only element of his existence that his father’s ruin had not touched, the only reason he could stand the suffocating burdens of his title.
Lady Mulberry’s expression faltered; it was as though she had just swallowed something unpleasant, realizing that Norman had anticipated her move and acted ahead of her.
Eleanor gazed at him encouragingly. “Norman?”
Brown’s warning still coiled in his mind, but Norman refused to let them steal this moment. He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he met Eleanor’s expectant gaze. Eleanor turned in her gown, and Norman couldn’t help the quiet pride that settled in his chest.
She was sunshine incarnate—not just in the golden hue of her hair, but in the way she brightened every room she entered. Even after years of loss and hardship, her eyes still glinted like the world held no shadows. It was a gift, that lightness of hers, one he would protect at any cost.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You’ll outshine every diamond in the room, Eleanor. As always.”
“Thank you, brother. You’ve chosen the most magnificent dress for me.” Her smile was dazzling, and the atmosphere in the room momentarily relaxed.
But when she stepped aside to pin the dress against her body, Norman found himself staring again into Lady Mulberry’s eyes. There was only a flicker of embarrassment, as if she realized too late the battle she had fought had been unnecessary.
Eleanor curtsied with the practiced graciousness of a young lady raised to solicit the ton’s attention. “Thank you, brother. You are very kind.”
Norman inclined his head, glancing at the dress over her arm. “I have also arranged for you to wear our mother’s diamonds tonight. They will give you the importance you deserve.”
A flicker of excitement crossed Eleanor’s face, but she bit it back, schooling her face to politeness. “How thoughtful. I will see that they are attended to properly. Thank you.”
She turned and left without a word, her steps light but measured, a well-trained debutante preparing herself for the performance of a lifetime.
Norman rose as well, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve before casting his grandmother a measured look. “You need not worry, Grandmother. I have all this well under control.”
Lady Mulberry inclined her head, looking at him with the sharp eyes of a woman who had mastered the game of manipulation decades before he was born. “And what about you, Norman? Your sister is sure to secure the husband she deserves. But I believe you have found a suitable wife already.”
Ah, round two. The lady does not rest.
Norman sighed, already predicting where the conversation was going. “I suppose, you are implying Lady Cynthia.”
“Precisely,” Lady Mulberry confirmed, smiling faintly at her lips as if she had anticipated him to protest before he spoke. “It was your father’s wish. Do you recall his words?”
“Unite our noble houses and produce an heir?” Norman laughed—the word seemed ridiculous to him. “Ah, yes, I recall. ‘Produce’ is such an unromantic term, don’t you think? It makes marriage sound somewhat like…breeding cows.”
“It is,” Lady Mulberry said matter-of-factly.
“Romance is for fools and poets—or have you forgotten your cousin Foxdrey’s disgrace?
The man treats his title like a tavern joke.
Your duty, Norman, is to secure the Egerton line, as your father has done, and his father before him.
It is not a matter of want—it is an expectation. ”
Norman didn’t flinch. His smirk vanished and the air turned to ice as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a lethal calm, the kind that precedes a blade being drawn. “You forget, Grandmother—I made my own vow long before you decided to meddle. The Egerton line dies with me.”