“Is it that obvious?”
“To those who know you. To those of us who have seen you give that look to nothing but a pint of ale for the past four years.” Robert returned to the desk and perched one hip on it. “You need to make sure, Michael, that she is not your new rum.”
Michael scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“That you are not trading your fascination with spirits for a fascination for a woman. Both are equally deadly.”
“That’s rubbish.”
Robert studied him. “Perhaps. Are you sure she will want to see you again? A duke has a certain allure to all women.”
Michael hesitated, his mind focusing on the look of dismay that had crossed her face for a brief instant as he had risen from his chair to leave. But it had been replaced quickly with a look of welcome for Wykeham, transforming Clara into a proper lady of thetonagain. “She... when he arrived...”
“And it is not quite proper to call on a lady two days in a row without making your intentions clear.”
“I had planned to talk to her father.”
“And say what? That the impoverished third son of a family in disgrace wants to marry his beloved child? ‘Sir, I do wish you to set aside the duke with the estate and a mound of pounds to allow me to pull your daughter into titled poverty.’ I know I would find that appealing as a father.”
Michael stared at his brother, annoyance growing. “Do you always make things so difficult?”
Robert spread his arms wide. “It is what I do best.” Robert dropped into the other wingback sitting in front of the desk. “Michael, you have to be able to make your case for her. To illustrate why you would be a better match than a duke. Coming with me, helping me build this could be the opening volley of something much bigger and more expansive in your life.”
“And if I don’t have time? If she marries him quickly.”
“Then you will have another focus in your life to help you get past it. Because if she breaks your heart, I know you will try to wallow in it, just as you did after Miss Carlson bolted.”
That stung. “You should work on your persuasive abilities.”
“Sometimes honesty is more suited for the situation.”
A sharp rap on the office door got their attention, and Robert stood. “Enter.”
The door opened and a large man leaned in. “You need to come. There’s trouble on the floor.”
Michael got to his feet and followed Robert, who headed down the open stairs from the office to the gambling hall with a sense of urgency in his steps. The big man—Michael remembered him from previous visits to the Emporium as Gilley, one of Robert’s enforcers—led the way. The low roar of the gambling throng swept over them as they strode across the broad floor toward a table where a tighter cluster of people had begun to push together. The acrid scents of smoke, sweat, and fried foods stung Michael’s nose as the three men formed a bit of a plow that pushed aside people as they made headway. Michael could hear shouted accusations of cheating and other assorted name-calling. As they approached, the crowd around the table parted, a human curtain pulling away to reveal the action before them.
Michael stopped, holding back, as he realized the man doing the shouting was the Duke of Wykeham, his bold tenor soaring over everyone’s heads. He still wore the indigo, blue, and silver kit from this afternoon, the brushed silk of his topcoat standing out in a crowd of mostly factory workers and lower-level nobility. His attitude also marked him as an outlier. The crowd at Campion’s tended toward congenial competition, as anyone who grew too belligerent with the dealers or staff found themselves quickly ousted.
The game, obviouslyvingt-et-un, had fallen still. The other players remained seated, their eyes looking either at their cards or the dealer, their mouths pressed into tight lines. The duke, however, stood, and—spotting the three men—switched his haranguing from the dealer to Robert. “You! Your man is cheating all of us.”
Michael watched, curious to see his brother in action again—he had not visited the Emporium since returning to Ashton House in April. He also waited to see if the duke recognized him. Robert slowly looked at each player in turn, ending with the dealer, whose face was calm. He had his hands covering the money in front of him.
“Jimmy.”
“Lord Robert.”
Formal, and Michael realized the dealer acknowledged the seriousness of having a peer of the realm make such an accusation. Most of the staff referred to his brother as “Robbie,” no matter what.
“What seems to be the problem?” Robert’s tone was firm but even.
“The problem,” announced the duke, “is that the table is rigged.” He thrust a finger at the dealer. “He is cheating me and the rest of us.”
Robert kept his eyes on Jimmy’s face. “What happened?”
Jimmy sat a bit straighter, his gaze not wavering from Robert’s. “He always bets too high.” He nodded at the man sitting next to the duke. “This gentleman tried to caution him, but he will not listen.”
The gentleman in question began to pocket the money in front of him and stack his cards together.
