“Makes no bones to me. You do me favours and I always pay my debts.”
The Prince set booted foot upon buckskin knee and quaffed with relish the exceedingly fine whisky that Casper had poured him.
Most gentlemen would be horrified to have this reprobate lolling in their study as this Prince knew too many secrets, owned too many of the Ton’s gambling debts, wore a ghastly scar that made women shiver and was rumoured to murder a man at least once a week.
Surely an exaggeration, as the scar wasn’t too bad close up.
His Highness did, however, own three gambling hells: a lowlife cave in the stews, a modest establishment in Lambeth for merchants and an elite mansion close to Pall Mall. He lived off all scions of society – half regarded him with awe, half with admiration. All were terrified of him.
Except for Casper, of course, as he made sure to know some of the Prince’s deepest secrets. His moniker, however, remained an enigma. Some ventured that he’d once been the Prince of St Giles Rookery, others that he was an illegitimate child of royalty.
Casper merely considered him highly astute.
“Next Wednesday, as usual?”
The Prince uncurled with savage grace, nodded, straightened the black feather pinned to his lapel and buttoned the elegant scarlet tailcoat he forever wore.
Rumours abounded as to the why.
Men fearfully whispered it was to hide the blood of those who’d crossed him. Women shuddered in delight that it was to mask the black heart that beat within.
Effective, either way.
And without further ado, the scoundrel departed.
Casper threw the wager to the desk. Sighed. Clenched his fists. Roared, “Ernest!”
“Hmm?” A blond head poked around the door.
“Who the hell did you think was going to marry an irresponsible loiter-sack such as yourself?”
Ernest wandered in, book in hand. “Well, to be fair, Harry is no oil painting an–”
“I’m sending you to the estate.” Casper raised himself to his feet and folded his arms.
“To manage the stables? I can–”
“No. To think upon the error of your ways.”
Ernest’s eyes glittered with blue ice as he thumped the book to the desk. “Like a cub sent down from Eton, you mean. Which is how you treat me, Casper. Doling out lectures and funds like a penny-pinching miser of a father.”
“If I were Father there would be no money to dole out. And if you showed the slightest bit of responsibility, I would–”
“How can I?” Ernest yelled. “Copperhouse is given more responsibility than me.”
“You take after Father with your wenching and wagering. What do you expect?”
“I expect the brother I remember when we were young. Trusting and fair. Instead you refuse to listen to my ambitions, deny me a future. You tell me I take after Father and so I shall.”
Ernest stormed out, the door slamming and miniature toppling flat to the desk once more.
Damn it all, and Casper sank into the leather of his chair.
The wager sat mocking him.
He remembered how desperate the estate had been for money upon Father’s death, how he would have sold his soul for those thirty guineas. He could have invested them for a future return, paid the servants who’d been forced to leave or purchased wheat seed for the neglected lands.
The first inkling that anything had been substantially awry in the Rothwell coffers had arisen when the third-generation family lawyer had resigned after reading Father’s will – a last act of kindness. He’d not been paid for twenty-two months and knew the state of affairs only too well to expect any forthcoming payment.
