The irony of it all was that he might never have noticed Estella if the fire hadn't happened.
He'd been a different man before. Not a bad man, necessarily, but selfish. Careless. And, like most spoiled and entitled young men of his acquaintance, he’d been unforgivably shallow.
He'd been the sort of man who chose his companions for their wit and their connections, and who never once looked beneath the surface of anyone or anything.
If someone had pointed out Estella Hale to him then, he'd have been polite. Perhaps even charming, since there was no doubt she was beautiful. But also…utterly indifferent.
He'd have noticed the pretty face and missed the woman entirely. And then he’d have moved on to whatever bright, uncomplicated amusement presented itself next.
But that fire had killed off the man he’d been back then. The grief and the guilt and the months of pain. The scars that made people flinch. The tremor in his hand that made every simple task a reminder. He'd been broken apart and put back together, and in the rebuilding he'd developed eyes that could see what mattered.
And what mattered was Estella.
Not her beauty, though she was beautiful. What mattered was the way she'd held her family together without complaint or recognition. What mattered was her innate kindness and her sweet sincerity. The way she loved her impossible sister and her broken father with a steadfastness that humbled him.
So the fire that had killed Andrew and given Sebastian eyes to see what truly mattered had also ensured he could never act on what he saw.
The tragedy that had led him to love her was the very reason he couldn't have her.
He stared at the sealed letter. Lady Clarissa Whitfield. Sensible. Amenable.
There was a knock on the door. His butler appeared in the doorway, looking apologetic. "My lord. A messenger."
Sebastian frowned. "From whom?"
"A Mr. Gage, my lord. From the—" The butler cleared his throat and stepped forward with a missive. "From an establishment in Covent Garden."
Sebastian frowned. He had only had business with one establishment in Covent Garden, and it had been on behalf of Estella’s father.
The handwriting was a rough scrawl.
Blackwood—
Thought you'd want to know. There's a young lady here asking questions about Viscount Hale's debts. She's brought a friend who keeps asking about my accounting methods.
I’ve kept my mouth shut, but she's stubborn. And she's not leaving.
—Gage
Sebastian was out of his chair before he'd finished reading.
16
The gaming hell was not what Estella had expected.
She'd imagined something dark and sinister. Low ceilings, smoke-stained walls. That sort of thing. What she found instead was a surprisingly well-appointed establishment with good lighting, clean floors, and a proprietor who looked less like a villain and more like a good-natured young lord.
Mr. Gage was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a crooked smile that seemed to be second nature. Though, up close, she realized the smile was at odds with the quick cleverness in his eyes as he’d studied her.
He'd shown little surprise when two young women appeared at his gaming hell.
The servant who’d opened the door, on the other hand, had blinked down at them, clearly at a loss as to what to do with them. So he’d called for his boss.
Mr. Gage had merely flashed that amused little smirk as he’d taken in Estella and Thea and the footman who’d insisted on tagging along behind them. "Well. I suppose you'd better come in, then."
Now they sat in his office, which was a small, orderly room behind the main floor, and the gaming hell owner staunchly avoided answering every one of her questions.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. He’d answered a good many questions—particularly, Thea’s inquiries about the logistics and odds at play in various card games—but not the main question. The only question that Estella actually cared about.
