Chapter Three #2
“Now I don’t know if any of it was real. Did she truly love me, or was that just another manipulation? Did she die knowing she’d succeeded in keeping me from my real life? Or did she regret it at the end?”
Lucien caught a glimpse of his reflection in the carriage window. A stranger stared back at him, caught between two lives—the simple farmer he’d been and the lord he was supposed to be.
“I should have been here,” he said as the carriage lurched into motion. “Five years ago, I should have been here to stop all this.”
“You can’t change the past,” Tarquin replied. “You can only decide what to do with the present.”
Lucien nodded grimly. First, he would drag his father from the gaming hell before he could lose what little remained of their fortune. Then…then he would have to figure out how to be Lord Furoe, how to save his family from ruin, how to build a future from the wreckage of his past.
A future he could stomach. A future he wanted. He deserved to be happy. He just didn’t know how to make that happen.
And somewhere in all of that, he would have to decide what to do about Lady Courtney.
The woman who had loved him enough to wait five years, only to have a stranger return, wearing her fiancé’s face.
The woman who might have been his wife, might have borne his children, might have shared his life if not for Ava’s selfish choice.
He couldn’t ask her to honor their engagement because his marriage to Ava would have voided it.
And he certainly didn’t want anyone to know he was never married.
Only Rockwell and Farah knew that secret.
That would make Ava-Marie illegitimate and could destroy any chance of her making a good marriage later.
He glanced at Courtney’s older brother. What were his thoughts on his sister marrying a man returned from the dead? A man who needed her money more than he needed her.
It was now obvious Lucien had run out of time to find a wealthy wife. Could he marry Courtney? He’d loved her once. And Lauren let slip that she had apparently turned down offers of marriage.
The carriage clattered through London’s darkened streets, carrying him toward the first of many battles to come.
But as the city passed in a blur outside the window, Lucien couldn’t help wondering what his life might have been if Rockwell had never found him.
Would he have remained a happy man? Would he have been satisfied living a simple Irish peasant life?
The questions haunted him, even as he knew they were pointless. He couldn’t change the past. He could only try to salvage what remained, to build something new from the ashes of what was lost.
But oh, how the weight of those lost years pressed down on him. And oh, how the anger burned—at Ava, at himself, at the cruel twist of fate that had stolen his memories and allowed her deception to succeed.
The carriage drew to a stop outside Crockford’s, and Lucien straightened his shoulders. Time to be the son and heir his father needed, even if he couldn’t remember being either.
Some lies, he was learning, had consequences that echoed far beyond the grave.
He was conscious of Tarquin by his side as they made their way into the seedy club. He was trusting a man he couldn’t remember but he knew the man had his best interests at heart. How a man like Tarquin knew this sort of club was a story for another day.
The stench of stale spirits, sweat, and desperation hit Lucien as he entered Crockford’s.
Tarquin’s steady presence at his side kept him grounded as they navigated the dimly lit gaming hell.
Despite his memory loss, something about the atmosphere felt disturbingly familiar—perhaps his body remembered what his mind could not.
Raucous laughter and the clink of glasses mingled with the rustle of cards and the rolling of dice.
Well-dressed gentlemen hunched over gaming tables, their faces transformed by greed or despair.
Scantily clad women wove between the tables, offering drinks and themselves, and the forced smiles of the men who’d lost more than they could afford met his gaze.
“There,” Tarquin murmured, nodding toward a corner table. “Your father’s at cards with Baron Lockwood.”
Lucien’s jaw clenched at the sight. The Earl of Danvers sat slumped in his chair, his cravat askew and his eyes glazed. Across from him, a man Tarquin had called Baron Lockwood, sat with a shark-like smile which spoke volumes.
“The baron is known for seeking out vulnerable prey—men with more title than sense, men in their cups, desperate enough to bet what they couldn’t afford to lose,” Tarquin hissed. “It looks like he has your father in his sights.”
“How much has he lost?” Lucien asked quietly.
Tarquin’s expression darkened. “Difficult to say, but given the stack of vowels beside Lockwood, I’d wager it’s significant.”
Lucien started forward, but Tarquin caught his arm. “Careful. Lockwood’s dangerous when crossed. He has a habit of calling out men who interfere with his…entertainment.”
“I don’t care if he calls me out,” Lucien growled. “I won’t let him bleed my family dry.”
He approached the table, noting how his father’s hands trembled as he reached for his cards. Baron Lockwood looked up, his pale eyes assessing Lucien with predatory interest.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the prodigal son, risen from the dead.” Lockwood’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Come to join our little game?”
“I’ve come to collect my father.” Lucien kept his voice level, though rage burned in his chest. “This evening’s entertainment is over.”
The earl looked up, his bloodshot eyes widening. “Lucien? But you’re in Ireland… Aren’t you in Ireland?”
“No, Father. I’m here now.” Lucien placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, feeling the slight tremor beneath the fine wool coat. “It’s time to go home.”
“Can’t leave yet,” the earl slurred. “Got to win it back… Got to fix what I’ve done…”
Baron Lockwood’s smile widened. “Your father’s already five-hundred pounds in my debt tonight. But I’m feeling generous. One more hand—double or nothing. What do you say, Danvers?”
Five-hundred pounds. The sum hit Lucien like a physical blow. Even if they sold every remaining painting, they couldn’t cover such a loss.
“The game is over,” Lucien said firmly. “My father is in no condition to continue.”
“The game ends when I say it ends.” Lockwood’s voice held a dangerous edge. “Unless you’d care to take his place? I’m told you were quite the card player before your…unfortunate demise.”
He couldn’t remember if he’d been good in his past but he’d been a very good card player in Dublin.
Lucien felt Tarquin tense beside him, ready to intervene if needed.
But something in Lockwood’s smug expression made his blood boil.
This man had been systematically destroying his family while Lucien worked his small farm in Ireland, believing himself a simple widower.
“Very well.” Lucien shrugged off Tarquin’s protest and took his father’s seat. “But we play by my rules.”
“And those would be?”
“If I win, you tear up every vowel my father signed tonight. If you win, I’ll honor his debt—and add another five-hundred pounds of my own.”
Tarquin bent and whispered in his ear, “He’s known to cheat. I urge caution.”
Lockwood’s eyes gleamed. “Bold of you, considering you’ve spent the last five years mucking out stables or whatever it is you’ve been doing in Ireland.”
“Do we have a deal?” Lucien kept his voice ice-cold.
“Oh, most definitely.” Lockwood gathered the cards, his movements deliberate. “The table is playing Faro. Is that to your taste?” When Lucien nodded, Lockwood merely added, “Faro, then. Your father always favors it. I have no idea why. He has no luck at it.”
“Mine will be better.” Lucien accepted the cards Lockwood dealt, aware of the crowd gathering to watch. His father had been led to a chair nearby, where Tarquin kept a steadying hand on his shoulder.
As Lucien studied his cards, instinct took over. He had played a lot in Ireland, against men who cheated more than this man. His hands knew how to handle the cards, how to arrange his suits, how to track what had been played. It felt like speaking a language he’d forgotten he knew.
The first few tricks went to Lockwood, who grew more confident with each winning card. But Lucien watched, waited, counting cards with a precision that surprised even him. When he finally played his carefully preserved ace of hearts, Lockwood’s smile faltered.
“Perhaps your time in Ireland hasn’t entirely dulled your skills,” the baron said, his tone less certain.
“Perhaps not.” Lucien won the next trick, then the next. “Though I did learn something valuable there—how to recognize when someone is taking advantage of another’s weakness.”
Lockwood’s face darkened. “Careful, Furoe. You’re dancing close to an insult.”
“No dance at all.” Lucien laid down another winning card. “I’m stating plainly that men like you, who prey on others’ desperation, disgust me. You’re no better than a common thief.”
“How dare you—”
“No, how dare you?” Lucien’s voice carried across the now-silent room.
“You knew my father was in his cups, knew he couldn’t think clearly, yet you encouraged him to keep playing.
How many other men have you ruined this way?
How many families have suffered because you exploit their loved ones’ afflictions? ”
“If you’re trying to provoke me into calling you out—”
“I’m trying to provoke you into showing a shred of human decency.” Lucien won another trick. “Though I suspect that’s beyond your capabilities.”
The final hand came down to a single card. Lucien played his last trump, and Lockwood’s face went white.
“Impossible,” the baron breathed. “You couldn’t have—”
“I believe those vowels are mine.” Lucien held out his hand, his expression unyielding.