Chapter Two
In the milky half-light of dawn, Benedict Fairfield, second son of the Duke of Alton, put his hands over his ears and muttered a curse.
An infernal banging noise reverberated around his long, thin bedchamber, traveling from the paneled door to the heavy shutters and back again, with greater volume and rhythmic precision than the military drums in Paris.
He tried pulling his sheets over his head but almost immediately grew too hot and threw them down. The action banished the last vestiges of sleep, and he sat up with a deep groan of complaint.
“What must a man do for a moment of peace?”
The banging stopped. He rubbed his eyes, not quite trusting the sudden quiet.
His head ached and the taut scar tissue across his hips itched as if in sympathy.
What time was it? His silver pocket watch gleamed from the nightstand, but when he reached out for it, his long fingers knocked it to the floor.
“Damn it all.”
“May I come in, please, Bear?”
It still seemed strange to hear his family nickname—given on account of Bear’s uncommon height, strength, and unmanageable dark hair—after so much time away in France. Bear snapped his head around to the door and instantly regretted it. A sharp pain needled his neck as his vision blurred.
“Clara, is that you?”
“Good heavens, brother, you’re in a worse state than I thought. Was last night a good night? Or a terrible one?”
He made a noncommittal noise. It had been a night of foolish decisions and heavy losses. One of many. But his little sister did not need to know the details.
“Can I open the shutters? It’s a lovely day,” she chirped, walking swiftly through the room. Her air of bright positivity made Bear feel even worse.
“It’s too early. Tell me whatever it is that is so important. Then go back to bed so we can both sleep.”
“It’s past ten in the morning.” Clara pulled back the large wooden shutters and Bear retreated under his bed sheets to hide from the bright glare of unforgiving sunlight.
“Too early,” he repeated.
“And I have a letter for you. From Granny’s steward.”
“Bailey?” Bear put his hands over his face, encountering a rough coating of stubble. He had not anticipated a reply so soon.
Did that denote good news or bad? He feared the latter.
“Dear old Bailey.” The mattress moved as Clara perched at the end of his bed. “Shall I read it to you?”
“No. Give it to me.” With his head still under the covers, Bear stretched out his hand and waggled his fingers until he felt the weight of the envelope. “Thank you.”
Bear waited, but the mattress didn’t shift again.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Aren’t you going to leave me in peace?”
“Not until you’ve read the letter.”
With a groan of defeat, he sat up and blinked until he grew accustomed to the light.
His bedroom, which had lain empty during his long sojourn in France, was sparsely furnished, with one large wooden closet and a cluttered writing desk positioned near the window.
He rubbed at his aching head. As much as Bear enjoyed Clara’s company, it would be better if she weren’t present to witness this.
“Why are you so interested anyway?” he demanded grouchily.
From the end of the bed, Clara gazed at him with big blue eyes. His youngest sister was small, slender, fair skinned and golden haired, a Fairfield through and through.
In contrast, Bear was tall and broad. Since the age of fourteen, he had towered over his father and elder brother. His shock of wiry hair had never been tamable, not even by the most vigilant of nannies, and his eyes were darker than rich chocolate.
“Because I miss Granny,” Clara said simply. “And news from The Towers makes me feel close to her again.”
I am a brute, thought Bear.
He covered Clara’s dainty hand with his large one. “Of course. Forgive me, Clara. I had a rotten night’s sleep.”
“And a skin-full of ale last night,” she filled in for him.
“Or is it whisky that has brought such pallor to your handsome face? I’m only teasing.
” She squeezed his fingers. “But you know the only good thing that’s happened recently is learning that Granny left The Towers to you in her Will. I long to hear more.”
Bear fingered the unopened letter. He too had shared Clara’s joy at first discovering his grandmother’s bequest, but as the weeks went on, his elation had turned to concern.
Granny Attley, their maternal grandmother, was a no-nonsense country woman who had lived out her days defiantly in the remote estate—occupying no more than one circular room at the very top of the northern tower.
By the end, her staff had dwindled to just two loyal retainers, and the rambling manor house was almost entirely closed off.
It hadn’t always been that way. Bear remembered childhood visits when he and Clara would race around the formal gardens and play hide-and-seek in the attic.
The Towers had been a place of love and laughter, with Granny Attley providing the care and warmth that was so lacking—for both of them—at Fairfield House.
But visits to Granny Attley had grown rarer when Bear was posted to France to fight under Wellington. And recent news from The Towers indicated that the ancient building had been in a more precarious state than anyone had realized.
He tightened his lips as he perused Bailey’s latest missive. Repairs to the roof would cost more than he had dared to imagine. His fragile dream was beginning to splinter.
“What is it?” Clara leaned forward and he moved the letter so she could not read it.
“Nothing of concern,” he lied.
“Really?” She clasped her hands together. “I had the idea something was wrong.”
He couldn’t bear to see any distress in Clara’s lovely face.
“Nothing is wrong.”
“So you will move out of Fairfield House and make your home in The Towers?” Clara’s voice was breathless with anticipation. “It’s just what Granny would have hoped for.”
Suddenly choked with emotion, Bear could only nod.
“Can I come with you?” The plea burst from her.
“Clara?”
“Please, Bear. You know I’m not welcome here.”
“That is not true,” he growled. “I’m the one Father wishes to see the back of.”
Clara shook her head slowly. “My birth caused our mother’s death, and our father has never forgiven me for it.”
A surge of anger made Bear swing his legs to the floor. At the last moment, he remembered he was naked beneath the bed sheets. He stilled, bare feet resting on an oriental rug, and took a deep, steadying breath.
What manner of man would make his daughter feel guilty for the simple fact of being born?
A man would need a heart of stone to hold any grudge against Lady Clara Fairfield, who, at just twenty years of age, was already billed as one of the loveliest debutantes to ever grace the glittering ballrooms of London Society.
Unfortunately for Bear, that description fitted the Duke of Alton perfectly. He was cold to his core.
Bear knew better than to argue this point with his sister. They had both been family outcasts from the start. It was why they had grown so close to one another. And why the hand of friendship from Granny Attley had been so eagerly grasped.
Instead, he threw her a rueful smile. “You will have to leave, sister dear. I must dress and face the day.”
Clara wrinkled her nose at him. “Not until you promise that I can come and live with you at The Towers.”
“What about the season? Soirees and dances and suitors and such?” Bear dragged a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“I would rather watch the sun rise and pick apples from the tree and picnic on the hills.” Clara named some of their childhood pastimes. “Besides, I have little chance of attracting a serious suitor before either Grace or Marigold are married. You know that, as well as anyone.”
Bear closed his eyes against the swell of painful memories.
Yes, he knew that the oldest must marry first, no matter how much heartbreak ensued.
And he couldn’t resent Clara for reminding him of a lost love that he had never forgotten—especially when he would likely sit across from Lydia at dinner tonight.
He lightly tapped his sister’s shoulder with the rolled-up letter. “You cannot hide away forever.”
Clara leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. “But can I come? I can see it in your eyes. Thank you, darling Bear. You won’t regret it. We’ll have such fun.” Beaming with delight, she danced out of the room.
Bear sighed deeply and looked again at the letter from Bailey. If he and Clara were to enjoy their grandmother’s legacy—and heaven knew, Clara was right; it was what Granny Attley would have wanted—then he needed to find a substantial amount of money, quickly.
And there was only one way to do that.
The gambling floor of the Lyon’s Den was beginning to feel like home.
Not due to any sense of comfort; Fairfield House had rarely provided that.
But because the pervading scent of beer, tobacco, and perfume had become so familiar to him.
And because Egeus, the servant, brought over his favorite drink—whiskey and water—before Bear had properly taken a seat.
He joined a card table and was immediately dealt into a high stakes game of vingt-et-un.
I had not even decided to play, Bear ruminated as he considered his cards.
He had a poor hand. And he recognized Lord Lichfield, one of his opponents, as a notorious card shark.
Although would even a wealthy peer of the realm dare to cheat at the Lyon’s Den?
Bear glanced around at the all-seeing wolves positioned strategically along the busy floor.
It would take a brave, or reckless, man to pull the wool over their eyes.
Brave or reckless. Which was he? He had been brave once, while fighting against Napoleon for the Duke of Wellington. Did any of that courage remain? Or did reckless stupidity inform all his decisions?