Chapter 2
Even though Ezra Swifton, the Duke of Rutley, made a habit of distancing himself from his extended family, every now and again, he had to admit that there were some perks to being associated with the Lightholders.
“Play your card, Tilford,” he said icily to the lord sitting across from him.
“Don’t rush a man, Rutley.” Tilford was trying to sound light and casual, but the bloom of sweat on his forehead gleamed in the lamplight.
Ezra pressed his lips together against his smile. Good. This was precisely where he wanted his opponent.
Lord Tilford was a habitual gamer, but a wholly unimpressive one, with little to commend him in the way of rank, wealth, or connections.
Thus, he’d been practically beside himself when Ezra—a duke, one associated with the so powerful bloody Lightholders—had asked him to play a round in a private room.
Such a thing was easy enough to obtain, since Ezra possessed rank, wealth, and connections.
Notably, the owner of this club was his cousin, Hugh.
Ezra had plied Tilford with drink and charming conversation to start.
“Your lands are near my late grandfather’s estate, are they not?” Ezra had ventured over the first hand. “Godwin Estates. My cousin’s home.”
Tilford puffed up. “Yes, yes, we are the nearest neighbors,” he said, full of himself. “But of course we are not very close,” he added, to avoid offending Ezra on his cousin’s behalf. “Considering how vast the Lightholder lands are, of course.”
“Of course,” Ezra murmured. He’d even let Tilford win a hand. He’d waited until the man had finished his drink before adding, “You had already taken up the title by the time of the fire, had you not?” He tsked, keeping his tone light. “Terrible thing, that was.”
This was, of course, an egregious understatement when it came to describing the fire that had wiped out nearly an entire generation of dukes—Ezra’s three uncles—and permanently disfigured a fourth—his father.
If it had been even slightly more of a terrible thing, it would have killed nearly a dozen children, as all of the next generation of Lightholders had been in attendance, too.
Ezra wielded that understatement like a blade.
Tilford was clever enough to look nervous. “Oh, yes,” he agreed. “Terrible indeed.”
Another hand. Ezra took this one. It was frankly hard to lose to Tilford, who was a wretched player.
“You and my uncle Ambrose knew one another as children, didn’t you?” Ezra played a card, not looking directly at Tilford as he asked the question.
The lord gulped down a sip of port to hide his anxiousness.
“We did,” he said, no longer quite so cocksure and proud. “I was fortunate to say that he and I counted one another as friends.”
This was, as far as Ezra’s research had uncovered, true.
Of course, Uncle Ambrose had been as conniving as his father before him, and so likely maintained a friendship with Tilford because the man was inconsequential, not despite it.
If Ezra wanted to gamble upon it, he would wager that Grandfather Cornelius, that wretch of a patriarch, had maintained a friendship with Tilford’s father and encouraged his son to do the same.
There was nothing like a subordinate who thought himself a friend when it came to manipulation.
And lo, neither Grandfather nor Uncle Ambrose had needed to do something as dramatic as try to offer one of their daughters’ hands in marriage to secure that alliance. That move Grandfather had reserved for other dukes—and only other dukes were good enough for his precious daughters.
Though maybe Ambrose would have done it. He’d just burned up before his daughters were old enough to play the same kind of games. Ezra didn’t think so, but he wasn’t certain. He wouldn’t gamble on that.
No, it was far more likely that Uncle Ambrose had considered it a relaxing pastime, riding or hunting with an unimpressive neighbor. It would have been a nice break from all the powerbroking that occupied the rest of his time.
Still, Ezra hummed a little doubtfully. Tilford fell right into the trap.
“It’s true,” he said, frantic to defend himself. “I saw him… Oh, it could not have been more than a week before the tragedy. And we did talk about how pleased he was to see his sisters, and all their children, even if there was that—”
Tilford cut himself off, his cheeks flaming, likely as much from the alcohol as from whatever he had been about to say.
Ezra leaned forward, his eyes intent.
“Even if there was what?” he growled.
Tilford twisted his cards nervously between his fingers.
“Let’s just play, shall we, Rutley?” He sounded like he was pleading. “Why open old wounds, eh? I do still miss my old friend, no matter how many years it has been.”
Ezra threw down some cards, winning the hand. Tilford went pale; his debts were mounting by the minute. But he could either play or speak. There was no third option.
Ezra watched the calculation in Tilford’s eyes as they darted nervously between Ezra and the table.
“Deal another?” he asked weakly.
Ezra gritted his teeth and distributed the cards. He could do this all evening if Tilford wanted to get himself deeper and deeper in debt.
Ezra won the next hand.
And the next.
And the next.
“Tell me what you know, Tilford,” he commanded when the gentleman looked as though he was likely to pass out. He left unsaid the part that they both knew: Tilford would not be leaving this room until he said everything.
The man looked wan. “It was nothing, all right?” he cried.
His hands were shaking furiously, so much so that he nearly dropped his cards.
“Ambrose was just arguing with one of your uncles. He didn’t say what it was about, and then the bloody house caught fire, all right?
So what does it matter? It was horrible, a terrible loss, and none of it matters! ”
Ezra leaned back in his chair, a grim satisfaction settling over him. This was exactly what he wanted—information, even if limited.
Because, goddamn it all, he was going to find out what had caused that fire. He was going to find out what had killed three of his uncles and left his poor father riddled with scars that had plagued him for the rest of his life.
He was going to discover the truth, come hell or high water.
“Now,” he cooed to the gentleman, because Tilford might be piteous, but his trouble was entirely of his own making. “Was that so hard?”
There was a moment of relief on Tilford’s face. “So, that’s it, then? I told you what I know, and we can forget the debts from tonight’s play?”
Ezra did not even feel bad about crashing the man’s hope.
“Of course not,” he scoffed. “It was a fair game. You will give me your vowels tonight, and I will expect the money by the end of the month.”
Tilford went paler and paler with each word. “But I… I don’t have those kinds of funds,” he protested.
Ezra was unmoved. “Then you should not have gambled it, should you?” he asked, getting to his feet and crisply tugging down his coat until it hung just right. “Consider that next time, Tilford. The staff will see to your note of promise.”
Ezra nodded to one of the solemn-faced club workers, who gave him a brisk nod in return. Clubs like these lived and died on enforcing members’ debts. That would have been true even if Ezra wasn’t related to the proprietor.
Almost as if his thoughts had summoned the man, Ezra emerged from the private gaming room to find his cousin, Hugh, waiting for him, his arms crossed, his expression irritable.
This latter bit wasn’t surprising. Looking irritable was Hugh’s usual state. He appeared this way even when engaging in activities that Ezra knew his cousin enjoyed. He only shifted his expression when looking at his wife, children, or the three nieces he’d adopted.
God only knew why Hugh was so cheerful around these last two categories.
Persephone, Hugh’s wife, was friendly enough, but the children were always making a lot of noise.
They shrieked when they were happy. They shrieked when they were sad.
Sometimes, they just seemed to shriek because it was shrieking time.
Hugh seemed to love it. Ezra loved his own quiet home even more because of the times he visited Hugh’s, especially when he could not avoid doing so.
“Good evening,” Ezra said curtly, trying to brush past his cousin.
It didn’t work, not that he had really expected it to.
“Why are you terrorizing my clientele?” Hugh asked, falling into step beside him.
“Is it terrorizing them to gamble with them in a gambling hell?” Ezra asked lightly. “Besides, I thought they were scarcely your clientele any longer. I thought you turned over operations to your man, so that you could be completely domesticated.”
Hugh huffed out a puff of air, but gave no other notice to the taunt.
“I am rarely here,” he allowed. “But I came to talk to you.”
Oh, bollocks and shite, then. No good ever came of one of his family members seeking him out.
Ezra wanted nothing more than to return to his own—private and blissfully quiet—home and ponder this new information he’d learned.
But Hugh was as broad as a goddamned bull, and Ezra wouldn’t be able to push past him, as nice as the thought might be.
Still, he could not resist just a little jab in Hugh’s direction.
“If your wife has thrown you out and you need a place to stay, I am sure there are still rooms here,” he said, clapping a hand on Hugh’s shoulder, as if in consolation. “You don’t need to come begging at my door.”
Hugh scowled and knocked off Ezra’s arm.
“Don’t be an arsehole,” he said. “And don’t talk about my wife. I am here to talk about Xander.”
Ezra groaned. If there was one member of his family that he wanted to associate with even less than any of the others, it was high and mighty bloody Xander.