Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“God’s teeth, Tristan, what has gotten into you?”
The air was filled with the sounds of labored breathing. Before him in the boxing room, his oldest friend Dominic was doubled over, his hands braced on his knees as he drew in great mouthfuls of air. Tristan was not in much better of a state, but there was one large difference. He had won.
“Oh,” Tristan panted, feeling the sweat drip down his defined pectorals and abdomen, “You know. Sometimes one just has a good day.”
“A good day,” Everett chortled from outside the ring. “Good enough to beat Dominic? I do not think so.”
“Maybe he has been practicing,” Alistair offered, taking a look around the large room, “He has, after all, turned his old bachelor house into a private boxing club. What else does he have to do all night besides watch our money grow?”
Tristan smirked, amused that was what all his friends thought. He rose to his full height, and then walked over to help Dominic stand.
“Are you well, old chap?” He asked.
Dominic scowled at him as he swatted Tristan’s hand away and stood on his own.
“I am perfectly fine, thank you,” Dominic said defensively, “Just tired. My wife keeps up most night’s you know.”
“All of our wives keep us up at night,” Everett tittered, tossing towels to them both.
“Indeed,” Alistair agreed, smirking.
“Ah! No!” Tristan snapped, wiping the towel over his sweat-soaked neck and hair. He and Alistair’s friendship had come a long way, but he still refused to listen to such things in regard to Theo.
“We will not be discussing what happens between you and my sister, thank you. Now who’s up for another round?”
“I am tapped, old boy,” Everett said, taking a seat at the nearby table.
“As am I,” Alistair agreed.
“I would,” Dominic said gruffly, still sore over losing, “But my wife would not appreciate it if I did not save a little energy for her for when I return home.”
“Hugo?” Tristan asked, turning to him.
“The dark haired Duke shook his head, held up the bloody rag, then brought it back to his lip.
“Seraphina would string me up if Dominic busted my lip again and rendered me unable to kiss her.”
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head at all of them. In the eye of the ton, the five of them were some of the most powerful aristocrats of their generation. Behind closed doors, though, these big brutes were willing caterers to their wives’ every need. Save, of course, for Tristan.
“So seriously, how did you beat Dominic?” Alistair asked as Tristan took a seat beside him.
“Hugo and I barely beat him and we’re about his size. You’re a scrawny little thing compared to us. How’d you get the upper hand?”
“Scrawny?” Tristan chortled, then made a point to look down at his sweat-slicked pectorals and abdominal muscles. He may be slightly shorter and less hulking as Hugo, Dominic, or Alistair, but neither he nor Everett were even close to scrawny.
“Pay them no mind,” Everett said, throwing a wry look toward Alistair, “They are just jealous that you and I can actually fit through doorways without having to turn.”
Tristan reached for the snooker of brandy Everett had poured him and grinned.
“Jealous indeed,” he agreed as the three hulking men rolled their eyes and lifted their glasses toward Tristan’s and Everett’s.
“As for my win? Just a lucky night, I guess,” he went onreplied, then downed the glass.
He couldn’t tell them the truth. That he’d been tense as a harlot in church since he and Ophelia found each other out the night before.
That he’d been so on edge with his secret, he felt he could bite through steel.
That’s why he’d taken the night off from the Masquerade and called them all.
He needed a way to release his tension, and he’d certainly found it.
After several rounds of boxing, he finally felt at least a little like his usual self.
“Lucky,” Dominic muttered, then took a sip of his own brandy. “Lucky, my foot.”
“All right,” Tristan chuckled, clapping his overly competitive friend on the back, “Let us change the subject lest we drive poor Dominic into an even fouler mood.”
“Well, you may have an opportunity to put your improved boxing skills to use with a new client of ours,” Alistair offered.
Tristan raised an intrigued brow. The five of them were all in business together now, operating the biggest whiskey venture in all of England.
It was going so well that in the past year, they had added brandy to that venture.
They were making money hand over fist, and every gentleman of the ton seemed to want to find a way in.
“What has happened?” Tristan asked.
“He gave us his buy in, let us look through his accounts. He met all of our requirements for joining, but now I believe he may have deceived us,” Alistair explained. “He has asked to take out a line of credit from one of our investment accounts.”
“How much,” Tristan quickly asked.
“A couple thousand pounds,” Alisatir answered, “I told him no. He did not take it so well. The chap started huffing and puffing like a bull in heat, threatening to put us over a barrel if we did not give it to him.”
All of the tension Tristan just released came rushing back into him, and he went rigid.
“Blackmail? Did he say how he would do that?” Tristan asked.
Alistair let out a huff of a laugh and clapped Tristan on the back.
“He has nothing! The man is a blowhard, nothing more. I am intent on serving him exit papers the moment I find him but that is the trouble. He seems to have gone missing. Even Dominic’s little spies have not been able to find him.”
Tristan’s muscles ticked with stress. It was Alistair’s job to evaluate every new investor, and he had failed. That, however, was not what he was worried about. Mistakes happened all the time. He’d made more than one with Masquerade. It was the information this man might have on him.
“What’s his name?” Tristan asked. “I can help.”
Alistair screwed his lips to the side, looking guilty.
“That is another thing. After further investigation I am quite sure that he used a false name. He came to me as a Mister Benedict Perley, a liquor merchant. He is an older gentleman. About your height. Short, white hair and dark eyes. Walks with a slight limp.”
Tristan repeated the details in his mind as he rose from the table to fetch his clothes.
“Where are you going?” Everett asked, raising a brow as Tristan pulled on his white shirt, “We have not had a minute to catch up in ages. You have been so busy lately.”
“I know. Apologies,” Tristan replied, putting on his navy blue waistcoat, “But I have an associate that might be able to help us and he only keeps night hours.”
“Intrigue,” Everett sang, rising from his chair, “Well hold back a minute and we shall go with you.”
“No,” Tristan said, drawing on his black jacket, “Stay. Enjoy yourselves. I would like to do this alone.”
“We came here for you,” Hugo called as Tristan walked to the door.
“I will make it up to you later,” he called back, then shoved the door open.
“Lord Darlington,” Christopher Vaughn, the owner of the illegal gaming hell greeted Tristan.
“Mr. Vaughn,” Tristan answered with a nod.
Tristan waited as Christopher’s dark brown eyes looked beyond his shoulder to the guards that had escorted him to the owner’s office. The guards quickly left, shutting the door behind them.
“Have a seat, my lord,” Christopher offered, waving a hand to the chairs across from his desk, “Can I pour you a drink? Or are you here to finally accept my offer for a line of credit?”
“Neither,” Tristan replied, taking a seat, “I was hoping you could help me find someone.”
Christopher’s brown eyes sparkled with intrigue.
There was only a specific sort of person Christopher knew, and while they came in varying class statuses, they all had one thing in common: they all wanted to make money through gambling.
Most were addicted to, and they were often willing to accrue the means necessary to do so in questionable ways.
Christopher was happy to provide the chance for them to gamble their money away, no matter how they came by it, as long as a membership fee and discretion were given.
“If you are asking me for help I am assuming this particular gentleman is not a law-abiding citizen of the Crown?” Christopher drawled, leaning back in his chair.
“I do not believe so,” Tristan agreed.
“Who are we looking for?”
Tristan gave him the name and description, and Christopher’s features darkened with disgust.
“That one,” he grunted, opening the account book atop his desk.
“Not your favorite customer?” Tristan asked.
“He is on our black list,” Christopher explained, running a finger down the lines of debts. “Racked up a sizable debt from the house then disappeared. I have my own men looking for him as well. Like you, I am having trouble finding him.”
Tristan grimaced, but took slight comfort in knowing that he was not the only one looking for this ‘Mister Benedict Perley.’
“I will give you five-hundred pounds if you find him and bring him to me before you deal with him,” Tristan offered.
Christopher’s dark brows rose, but asked no questions. It was one of the things Tristan liked about the man. He kept to his own business, very much like Tristan did.
“Consider it done,” Christopher replied, standing up to shake Tristan’s hand.
Tristan rose and accepted it.
“Shall you stay for a while? Have a bit of gamble and a show?”
“Another time,” Tristan promised, “I have one more source to go to.”
“Be well, old friend,” Christopher replied in farewell.
“You as well,” Tristan returned, then left.
He had one more set of records he could go through to try to find Mr. Perley, in a file well-hidden in his home office. The file that listed the members of the Devil’s Masquerade.