“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 notveryclose,” 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?” Hetsked, 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 aterrible thing,it would have killed nearly a dozen children, as all of thenextgeneration 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 Tilfordbecausethe 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.ThatmoveGrandfather had reserved for other dukes—andonlyother 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 onthat.
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 wedidtalk 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 waswhat?” 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!”
