Chapter 1
“For the last time, did you kill my brother?”
Four pairs of eyes looked up from their cards to stare at Adrian Mason. His piercing blue eyes were focused only on one person, though. The man right across from him. The man who had been with Adrian’s brother, the rightful Duke of Redgrave, the night he had died a year ago.
“Mr. Mason—” Mr. Harleigh Quinten began.
“I am the Duke of Redgrave now, and I believe you should address me as Your Grace,” Adrian cut the man off. His hands tightened around the cards he was holding, curling their edges as he gave the sharp reprimand.
Mr. Quinten’s brown eyes widened in alarm. “My apologies, Your Grace! But as I said—”
“Tell me the truth, and I may spare you your losses,” Adrian invited coldly.
Rage radiated from his broad shoulders, ebbing toward the other men who sat at the card table. His chiseled jaw tightened painfully as he gnashed his teeth together and felt the nostrils of his Romanesque nose flare on their own volition.
“I believe it is time for us to acquire another drink,” Lord Jefferson Torley muttered, placing his cards on the green felt table.
“Agreed,” Lord Thomas Bentley murmured, rising from his chair.
Standing beside him was Lord Richard Upton.
The three well-dressed nobles left the card table without another word and made their way through the crowded gaming hell, heading anywhere but back to the awkward interrogation that had so suddenly sprung from the depths of polite conversation.
Quinten eyed his compatriots longingly as they left him alone with Adrian, and Adrian almost smirked as he watched the man squirm.
“I am still waiting, and as you know, I have waited for a very long time,” Adrian stated, starting to feel his sanity come apart at the seams. “I will not rest until Evander’s murderer has been found and punished for what he has done, so you had better tell me everything you know!”
It was not a threat, but a promise. A promise he had made to his brother the day Adrian and the rest of their family had buried the rightful Duke. Evander would not be alone in his death. Adrian was determined to ensure that. As soon as he found the killer, the man would pay in blood.
Quinten flinched as the color drained from his face and his hands began to shake. He looked back at Adrian with wide eyes and shook his head.
“Your Grace, please. I did not kill your brother,” Quinten answered in a serious tone. “I would have no reason to do such a thing. I would even go so far as to call His Grace and me friendly acquaintances, if not friends.”
“Forgive me if I doubt that, but even so, according to my investigation, it was while he was with friends that my brother was killed,” Adrian answered with a curt tone. “Found dead in a ditch.”
“It cannot be true of me,” Quinten insisted, his tone becoming desperate. “The last I saw of His Grace, he was alive and well!”
“And coming out of this very gaming hell with you!” Adrian growled, standing up. “So tell me. Where did he go? What happened that night?”
“You expect me to remember that from a year ago?” Quinten asked, his frightened expression shifting to one of annoyance.
“Perhaps a reminder of your losses and debt to me might freshen up your memory.”
“Your Grace, I cannot imagine the loss you feel,” Quinten went on, tossing his cards onto the table. “And for that, you have my sincerest apologies. However, I will not allow such vile accusations against myself, nor will I allow your threats.”
The man rose to his feet, looking as if he was about to storm off in a fit of offense, when two large hands pressed down on both of Quinten’s shoulders.
Adrian raised his eyes from Quinten and smirked devilishly when he saw his friend, Damien Winterborne, Duke of Ravenshaw, staring down at the top of Quinten’s renewed expression of terror.
“Where do you think you are off to, Quinty?” Damien’s deep voice held a hint of condescension, his dark gray eyes glistening with a quiet threat.
His devilish smirk and dominating presence quieted Adrian’s rage almost immediately as he was reminded that he was not alone in searching for his brother’s killer.
“I… Mr. Winterborne… I mean, Your Grace—” Quinten began to stammer.
“None of that,” Damien’s quiet, commanding tone stated. “You will tell us all that you know, and you will do so now. Otherwise, the Duke of Redgrave and I shall be forced to speak of your daughters’ scandal to the ton, and your wife would never forgive you for that, would she?”
Adrian tsked his tongue and shook his head as Quinten’s wide eyes slowly came back to him.
“Pity that you keep gambling away their dowries,” Adrian goaded. “They are such lovely creatures. To think that they will find no husbands because of your poor card playing is an utter tragedy.”
“How did you know about that?” Quinten rasped.
“As I stated earlier, I have been investigating my brother’s murder for months. It is amazing what details you discover when you start paying attention to others instead of participating in the games they play,” Adrian replied.
Quinten’s heavy brows furrowed in contempt.
“This is ghastly behavior for gentlemen,” he whispered loudly, glaring from Adrian to Damien. “Ghastly, I say!”
“Keep avoiding Redgrave’s questions and you will find that our behavior may go far beyond ghastly, Quinty,” Damien warned.
Adrian watched as his friend’s hands tightened on Quinten’s shoulders, knowing how painful that grip felt.
As avid proponents of both boxing and roughhousing, Adrian and Damien had practiced together since they were young lads, and he had been on the receiving end of Damien’s choking grip.
Damien, as well, had been on the receiving end of Adrian’s.
Now, when they practiced, they usually had to simply tap out, with no winner declared, because their strength was evenly matched.
“That pain you are feeling radiating into your collarbone?” Adrian asked as agony washed over Quinten’s face. “It will only get worse. I have seen His Grace break melons the size of your head in a single squeeze of his grip. Imagine what he could do to you.”
A choked sound of pain rose from Quinten’s throat as his face grew beet red and his breath became ragged.
“All right, all right. I will tell you everything I know! Just please… Let me go,” Quinten gasped.
Damien removed his hands from Quinten’s shoulders in an instant and took the seat next to him.
Adrian felt a well of relief rise up in him as his friend gave him a satisfied smirk.
They might not be brothers by blood, but they did share the same birthday and an unbreakable bond.
Damien had loved Evander like an older brother as well, and Adrian knew he was just as determined to find his killer as he was.
“Speak,” Adrian demanded, his tone low and deadly. “And no more lying.”
“The reason why your brother and I left the gaming hell that night was because of the Earl of Winslow,” Quinten confessed, keeping his voice low among the hum of the busy gaming hell.
Adrian’s muscles tightened.
The Earl of Winslow? That pompous old geezer?
“The Earl is worse at gambling than I am,” Quinten went on. “He had been losing to His Grace for weeks, and that night, your brother had demanded payment. They got into a horrible quarrel that got them both removed from the premises.”
“That is all? You know more,” Adrian stated when Quinten fell silent. “Reveal everything you know about that night now, or it is you that will be removed from these premises, and I cannot assure you that you will return.”
Quinten gave him a dirty look, but a glance over at Damien had him turning red.
“Even though the late Duke was a formidable man and most of the men here feared him, the Earl of Winslow is known for his bad temper,” Quinten went on.
“So, when His Grace’s demands started to escalate, it surprised no one that the Earl began threatening him.
He was drunk that night, but he had done it to so many others before, and no one paid him much mind. ”
Adrian’s hands balled into fists as he leaned over the table, growing impatient.
“You will tell me exactly what he said,” he demanded.
Quinten swallowed as his gaze fell to the table; their game of cards was now long forgotten.
“The Earl threatened to have your brother killed if he did not stop badgering him,” he answered, his tone quiet.
Then he looked up at Adrian with pleading eyes.
“You must understand, Your Grace, the Earl is a blowhard. No one thought that he meant it. Even after your brother passed, I did not believe it could be the Earl. He is a mean old codger, but the most frightening thing about him is his words. He is too busy gambling and whoring to ever make good on any of the threats he has issued.”
Adrian’s jaw ticked with irritation; his teeth threatened to break from grinding them so hard.
He did not care about Quinten’s excuses.
Only that it took so much to get one small detail from the weasel of a man.
A detail that was glaringly crucial to Adrian’s investigation.
The men in such establishments were surprisingly hard to speak up about anything, even when threatened.
He rose from the table, his jaw still locked tight, and drew a black velvet bag of coins from his inner jacket pocket. Quinten’s brows drew down as he looked up at Adrian, then they flew up as Adrian tossed the bag toward him.
“Most likely not enough to save your daughters from your mistakes,” Adrian said coldly as Quinten slowly reached for the purse. “But I did promise to settle your night’s losses if you spoke the truth.”
Before Quinten could close his fingers around the bag, though, Damien snatched it and upended it on the floor as he stood. Like a starving rat, Quinten sprawled to the floor, quickly going after the coins that had scattered.
“Pathetic,” Damien murmured, glaring down at Quinten.
“Let us go,” Adrian insisted, nodding toward the door.
Damien spent another moment looking down at the man desperately scraping the coins together, then joined Adrian at his side.
Together, they walked through the crowded gaming hell, its many occupants completely unaware of what had just happened.
As they made it outside to the balmy summer air, Adrian drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, ran a frustrated hand through his raven black hair, and let out a snarl.
Damien leaned his well-dressed, muscular body against the wall of the gaming hell, steepling his fingers together quietly as he let Adrian process his rage.
That was the thing about Damien. Like Evander had been, his size and quiet nature had been enough to intimidate most members of the ton.
He exuded a natural authority over others.
Unlike Adrian, who was never expected to step into such a role as Duke.
That was always Evander’s destiny. His birthright.
It was only because his life was cut short that it was now Adrian’s responsibility, and for the past year, he had been struggling to fill his brother’s shoes.
And it has taken me almost a year to find a single clue about what happened to him. Evander would have probably already solved this.
“You need to go home,” Damien stated as Adrian continued to pace. “It is late. You did well tonight.”
“Not well enough,” Adrian snarled.
“You discovered a thread that even the authorities had not known about,” Damien countered. “Go home. Get some sleep. In the morning, you and I will meet and discuss what to do next.”
Adrian shook his head, ceasing his pacing and heading down the street.
“To the devil with that,” he said with a glare back at Damien. “I have waited long enough. I am speaking with the Earl of Winslow tonight.”
Damien leaned away from the wall and caught up with Adrian with quick, powerful strides.
“That is not wise,” Damien insisted. “You are far too passionate at the moment. You need to center your anger and approach this calmly.”
Adrian shook his head, doubting he would ever be calm again.
The loss of his older brother had taken away a little more of his sense of peace with the passing of every day.
Now, all he ever felt was rage. Even when he appeared calm, he felt it vibrate through his very bloodstream in a constant hum.
Most of all, he felt guilt for letting Evander down even in death.
“Your brother would have wanted you to handle this properly,” Damien insisted.
Pain shot through Adrian’s chest, and for a moment his determined footsteps faltered. He stopped and turned to his friend.
“My brother is dead, Damien,” Adrian stated, feeling another sharp pain in his chest as he said the words aloud. “He will never want anything from me ever again. He cannot. All because someone killed him and threw his body in a ditch. But how can he rest in peace if I do not find justice for him?”
A rare look of pity glittered briefly in Damien’s eyes before their sharp intensity returned. It was so quick that Adrian would have missed it if he had blinked, but it was there, and it made him feel worse.
“What do you want me to do?” Damien asked quietly.
Adrian turned and continued walking down the street.
“Go home,” he said over his shoulder. “And let me handle this my way.”