***
“Trevane, you are a scoundrel of the first water! To secure a third hand in such rapid succession is a feat as remarkable as it is suspicious.”
Rhys Langford, Duke of Trevane, gathered his winnings with smooth efficiency, every movement suggesting long history of practice. The pile of coins and notes before him represented approximately three months’ wages for a skilled tradesman, won in less than two hours through a combination of skill, luck, and the happy circumstance that Lord Petersham is so utterly transparent that he could not carry off a ruse in a room where he was the only occupant.
“Luck favours the dissolute,” Rhys said, offering the table his most charming smile. It was a smile he had perfected over fifteen years of rakish living, a smile that promised mischief and delivered nothing of substance.
“Another round, gentlemen? Or have I emptied your pockets sufficiently for one evening?”
The card room at White’s was thick with smoke and the particular desperation of men who had more money than sense. Rhys fit in perfectly, he always had. The Duke of Trevane was welcome everywhere and belonged nowhere, a walking scandal wrapped in excellent tailoring and charm so practiced it had ceased to feel like effort years ago.
Lord Petersham threw down his cards in disgust.
“I’m finished. My wife will have my head if I lose another shilling.”
“Then you should not have bet another shilling.”
“Easy for you to say. No wife to answer to.”
“A state I intend to maintain indefinitely.” Rhys signaled for another drink, though he’d barely touched the one before him. Appearances mattered. The Duke of Trevane was expected to drink, to gamble, to stay until the small hours surrounded by men who called him friend but knew nothing about him.
“Matrimony is for men with responsibilities.”
“You have responsibilities. You have an entire dukedom.”
“The dukedom runs itself. I merely sign papers and make occasional appearances in the Lords to remind them I exist.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “To irresponsibility. The only honest way to live.”
The table laughed as they always did. Rhys could say almost anything in that particular tone, the one that suggested he was letting them in on a private joke, and they would laugh and feel privileged to be included.
It was exhausting.
But it was also necessary, in ways that none of these men would ever understand. The rake was a role he had built over years, a fortress of scandal and charm that kept the world at precisely the distance he required. Inside the fortress, he was safe. Inside the fortress, no one asked questions he could not answer.
The evening continued as such evenings always did. Cards gave way to conversation, which gave way to the exodus toward whatever entertainments the night offered. There was a ball atthe Marchioness of Thornbury’s, Rhys had been informed, and his presence was expected if not demanded.
He went because he always went, because the Duke of Trevane was expected to appear, to dance, to charm, to give the gossip sheets something to write about that wasn’t quite scandalous enough to require defending.
The ballroom was ablaze with candles and hummed with the particular energy of a successful crush. Rhys made his entrance with perfect timing, commanding attention without appearing to seek it, late enough to be noticed, early enough to seem as though he cared.
Within moments, he was surrounded.
“Your Grace, how delightful.” Lady Forsythe materialised at his elbow, her fan moving in the complex semaphore of a woman who considered herself a player in games she did not fully understand.
“We were just discussing your absence from Lady Hasington’s musicale last week.”
“I was indisposed.”
“So we heard. Indisposed at Mrs. Hartington’s card party, according to Lord Bexley.”
“Lord Bexley has a vivid imagination and very little discretion.” Rhys offered his arm smoothly, the gesture so fluid it appeared effortless.
“Shall we take a turn about the room? I find myself curious about the refreshments.”
They walked, and Lady Forsythe chattered, and Rhys listened with exactly enough attention to provide appropriate responses while his mind wandered to places it should not go. To a house in Cornwall and three small faces he would see in two days’ time, if he could extract himself from London without raising questions.
The monthly visit was approaching. It always crept up on him like this, a growing tension beneath the performance, a clock counting down to the moment when he could shed the rake and become something closer to himself.
He danced with Lady Forsythe, then with Miss Carrington, then with the Thornbury girl whose name he immediately forgot but whose mother watched the proceedings like a woman mentally calculating asset values. He said witty things. He smiled his practiced smile. He was, by all accounts, the most entertaining man in the room.
