Ezra leaned back in his chair, a grim satisfaction settling over him. This was exactly what he wanted—information, even if limited.
Because, goddamn it all, he was going to find out what had caused that fire. He was going to find out what had killed three of his uncles and left his poor father riddled with scars that had plagued him for the rest of his life.
He was going to discover the truth, come hell or high water.
“Now,” he cooed to the gentleman, because Tilford might be piteous, but his trouble was entirely of his own making. “Was that so hard?”
There was a moment of relief on Tilford’s face. “So, that’s it, then? I told you what I know, and we can forget the debts from tonight’s play?”
Ezra did not even feel bad about crashing the man’s hope.
“Of course not,” he scoffed. “It was a fair game. You will give me your vowels tonight, and I will expect the money by the end of the month.”
Tilford went paler and paler with each word. “But I… I don’t have those kinds of funds,” he protested.
Ezra was unmoved. “Then you should not have gambled it, should you?” he asked, getting to his feet and crisply tugging down his coat until it hung just right. “Consider that next time, Tilford. The staff will see to your note of promise.”
Ezra nodded to one of the solemn-faced club workers, who gave him a brisk nod in return. Clubs like these lived and died on enforcing members’ debts. That would have been true even if Ezra wasn’t related to the proprietor.
Almost as if his thoughts had summoned the man, Ezra emerged from the private gaming room to find his cousin, Hugh, waiting for him, his arms crossed, his expression irritable.
This latter bit wasn’t surprising. Looking irritable was Hugh’s usual state. He appeared this way even when engaging in activities that Ezra knew his cousin enjoyed. He only shifted his expression when looking at his wife, children, or the three nieces he’d adopted.
God only knew why Hugh was so cheerful around these last two categories. Persephone, Hugh’s wife, was friendly enough, but the children were always making a lot of noise. They shrieked when they were happy. They shrieked when they were sad.Sometimes, they just seemed to shriek because it was shrieking time.
Hugh seemed to love it. Ezra loved his own quiet home even more because of the times he visited Hugh’s, especially when he could not avoid doing so.
“Good evening,” Ezra said curtly, trying to brush past his cousin.
It didn’t work, not that he had really expected it to.
“Why are you terrorizing my clientele?” Hugh asked, falling into step beside him.
“Is it terrorizing them to gamble with them in a gambling hell?” Ezra asked lightly. “Besides, I thought they were scarcely your clientele any longer. I thought you turned over operations to your man, so that you could be completely domesticated.”
Hugh huffed out a puff of air, but gave no other notice to the taunt.
“I am rarely here,” he allowed. “But I came to talk to you.”
Oh, bollocks andshite, then. No good ever came of one of his family members seeking him out.
Ezra wanted nothing more than to return to his own—private and blissfully quiet—home and ponder this new informationhe’d learned. But Hugh was as broad as a goddamned bull, and Ezra wouldn’t be able to push past him, as nice as the thought might be. Still, he could not resist just a little jab in Hugh’s direction.
“If your wife has thrown you out and you need a place to stay, I am sure there are still rooms here,” he said, clapping a hand on Hugh’s shoulder, as if in consolation. “You don’t need to come begging at my door.”
Hugh scowled and knocked off Ezra’s arm.
“Don’t be an arsehole,” he said. “And don’t talk about my wife. I am here to talk about Xander.”
Ezra groaned. If there was one member of his family that he wanted to associate with even less than any of the others, it was high and mighty bloody Xander.
If Ezra felt like taking a step back and looking at things objectively (which he did not), he might say that Xander had stepped up admirably when he’d been unceremoniously thrust into the role of head of the family after the fire that took their fathers.
But that success was part of the problem. Xander had done well for himself. Hugh had done well for himself. Even Aaron, Ezra’s cousin and the last Lightholder-affiliated duke, had managed it eventually, after Peter had gone off and gotten himself killed, like the idiot he was.
They had all thrived. Ezra’s father hadsurvived, but he had not accomplished more than that.
Jeremy had never quite recovered from that night in the fire. He’d been brutally scarred, and those scars caused him pain. And Ezra’s cousins had never given their uncle the respect he deserved, even though he was their elder.
