Chapter Thirteen
“I imagine you’re glad to get out of that house,” Simon remarked, stretching his legs out on the opposite carriage seat.
Neil’s carriage rocked and rumbled through the night, carrying them back to London for Lord Pemberton’s party. They had been travelling since noon; even so, this was quicker by far than crawling along in a lumbering stagecoach.
“More than you can imagine,” Neil replied. “And get your dirty boots off my carriage seat.”
“They’re clean. Freshly polished before we left,” Simon sniffed. “I hear your bride-to-be—Lady Constance—had a less than graceful encounter with poor Emma in the gardens.”
Neil let out a long, ragged sigh. “Who told you this? Why do you always know everything straightaway?”
He shrugged. “Jenny told me. I often slip into the kitchens for something to eat. She’s usually there.”
“Hm.” Neil’s voice was dry. “Well, Lady Constance is not my bride-to-be, whatever my aunt may think.”
Simon watched him thoughtfully for a moment. “Be careful, Neil.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Of what?”
“If Lady Westbrook makes her approval plain, and the Farendales begin hinting that a match is likely, you might find yourself ensnared. It may not be easy to draw back.”
Neil was silent a moment. Then, quietly: “Thank you for the warning, Simon. But I’ve yet to find myself in a situation I could not disentangle—particularly where the heart is concerned.”
Simon leaned back, the lantern swaying overhead and throwing shadows across his face. “There’s always a first time.”
They reached Lord Pemberton’s London townhouse an hour later. It was past midnight; the windows blazed with light, spilling gold across the wet, glistening street.
Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and heat. There would be no dancing here—no hostess, no ladies. Lady Pemberton was away, and such gatherings were not considered suitable for women in any case. The men called them ‘card parties’, though the stakes ran far higher than cards alone.
The room smelled of cologne, sweat, and candlewax—sharp and close, almost metallic. Simon vanished at once into the crowd to mingle, drink, and listen. Neil lingered, assessing the tables. Faro was still fashionable, though hazard seemed to rule the night.
He drifted among the tables, conscious of glances that followed him—some wary, some openly challenging. He ignored them all.
Cards and dice came easily to Neil. He could remember every play, every card laid down, and the habits of each opponent. There was luck in it, yes, but pattern too. Every game had a rhythm; one only had to find it.
He had been accused of cheating before. He had dealt with all such accusations as sharply and harshly as they deserved, and nobody else had dared level such claims towards him again.
There was a hazard table at the corner with a few grim-faced familiars clustered around it.
Neil recognised the men, not as friends, but as acquaintances, gentlemen who understood the game a little more than the fresh-faced earl’s sons who frequented these places, armed with an inheritance and a lot of unearned confidence.
I’ll play there.
Before he could move, however, a figure flitted out of the crowd, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, momentarily full of anger, before he realised who it was.
“What is it, Simon?”
“Lord Bramwell,” Simon hissed urgently. “He’s here—or was. I haven’t seen him for several minutes, but he’s prowling about. He’s speaking more openly now—asking questions about Miss Camden. Everyone’s uneasy tonight. Take care.”
Neil’s jaw tightened. “Understood. We won’t stay long.”
Simon grimaced but nodded, melting back into the crowd.
Neil drew a long breath and went to the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “Room for one more?”
Four men looked up: three seasoned players and one young fellow, ruddy-cheeked and barely out of the schoolroom. The youth’s eyes widened.
“You—you’re him,” he stammered. “The Gambling Devil!”
Neil chuckled. “Best not to mouth such names, lad. It’s poor taste and tempts ill luck to speak of them.”
Sir Thomas Bedford, one of the elder players, gave a low chuckle. The young man did not. He swallowed hard, looking down at the dice that awaited his throw.
“Are we betting, gentlemen?” Neil asked mildly.
“I… I think I’ll sit out,” the young man muttered, colouring. “I don’t wish to offend you, sir. You won’t challenge me to a duel, will you?”
“Only if you accuse me of cheating,” Neil said lightly. “Otherwise, you may leave unscathed.”
“He’s already thrown once,” Sir Thomas objected. “Let him finish his turn. He can’t simply—”
“How about if he were replaced?” came a soft, sharp voice from just behind Neil.
He recognised the voice at once. Goosebumps broke out all over Neil’s skin. He felt his stomach lurch, wanting to empty its contents, only he hadn’t eaten or drunk a thing for hours.
He didn’t turn, as there was no point. He knew who was there. A ripple of unease went around the table. One of the hard-faced gentlemen—not Sir Thomas—got up and left without a word. After a moment, his companion followed.
It was plain that Sir Thomas was the setter and so could not leave until the game was played out, but he shifted in discomfort.
Neil sat still. The gentleman—if he could be called such—crossed the table, taking his seat where the young fellow had been sitting.
“Lord Bramwell,” Neil forced himself to say, after a tense half-minute or so had gone by. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I could say the same,” the older man drawled. “I heard you’d retired from play when you left London. I heard the Devil had hung up his horns.”
Neil gave a brittle smile. “Did you? I had not imagined you to be the sort of man to concern himself with gossip.”
Bramwell only grinned. He was gaunt but elegant, his fine clothes stretched a little too tight over a softening waist. At forty-nine years old, he was still considered to be in his prime and, of course, was fabulously wealthy.
Plenty of women were keen to snag a titled man with as much money as Lord Bramwell.
He could probably even bring a debutante to the altar, if he so wished.
He doesn’t want a debutante, though, Neil thought grimly. He wants Maggie.
But why?
“Are we playing, or not?” Lord Bramwell said, interrupting Neil’s thoughts. He had glittering grey eyes, rather paler than they should be, and those eyes never seemed to blink. Clenching his jaw, Neil met his gaze.
“Of course,” he answered. “I believe you were taking over for that young fellow there.”
“So I was,” Lord Bramwell responded easily.
“We should begin the game afresh,” Sir Thomas said, clearing his throat and looking at no one in particular.
Bets were exchanged, modest ones. Nobody wanted to begin with a high price. Lord Bramwell rolled four times before he was out and passed the dice to Neil.
“I believe I am winning, so far,” the older man remarked, that glittering gaze searing into Neil’s flesh. “Tell me, your Grace, what brings you back to dear old London? I thought you’d given it up.”
“I like to keep my hand in,” Neil responded shortly. He threw a combined eight, exactly as he’d hoped. There was a knack to throwing certain numbers on a dice, but of course, there was no guarantee whatsoever. He threw twice more before throwing out and wordlessly handed over the dice.
“I imagine you’ve heard of my misfortune,” Lord Bramwell sighed, waggling his eyebrows. “My betrothed has fled. Hurtful, is it not?”
“Very,” Neil agreed. “But sometimes the best course is to let her go.”
“Ah,” Bramwell murmured, smiling. “And did you build your reputation by surrendering every hand when it grew difficult? No, no—you play to win. Perseverance, your Grace.”
Neil’s pulse thudded. “If the lady does not wish—”
“Let me give you a piece of advice, boy,” Bramwell interrupted, the word weighted with deliberate insult.
Sir Thomas shifted, appalled. “Women don’t know what they want.
The ones who think they do are dangerous.
Miss Camden—I shall assume that you know her name—was mine.
She had no right to leave me. If a servant steals my watch, I retrieve it. Miss Camden is no different.”
Neil fought to keep himself calm. Lord Bramwell handed over the dice, and Neil had to force himself to take them, stretching out his hand, palm upturned, so that the other man could drop them into his palm.
“I would not wish to marry a woman who did not wish to marry me,” Neil hissed, refusing to let himself look away.
Bramwell smiled lazily, then reached across the table. Instead of dropping the dice into Neil’s palm, he placed his hand beneath it, curling Neil’s fingers around the cubes.
“Do you know what I think, your Grace?” he murmured. “I think my Miss Camden has found herself a protector. I think she hides with someone who believes he can keep her from me.”
Neil met his gaze steadily. “A fascinating theory. I can’t imagine why you’d share it with me.”
Bramwell’s smile widened. “No reason at all. Just conversation between gentlemen. Now—about you. I hear you’re hosting the Farendales and their charming daughter. Shall we soon hear wedding bells?”
Neil flicked his wrist, the dice clattering to the table.
“No,” he said evenly. “You may not.”
Sir Thomas coughed nervously. “Was that—was that a throw?”
“I think not,” Neil replied, standing. “I believe I’ve played enough for one night.”
Bramwell’s expression curdled. “Running off already? Disappointing.”
Neil smiled. “I’ve never minded disappointing people. Do you know, Bramwell, why I win when others lose?”
Bramwell sneered. “I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”
“Because I know when to play in earnest.”
He turned on his heel before the man could answer.
“Simon,” he said sharply, catching his cousin’s eye. “We’re leaving.”
Simon blinked. “Already? But—”
“I’ve learned what I needed,” Neil said. “It’s time to go home.”