Gage said nothing for a long moment. "You know, for a man who works so hard to be seen as the reckless rake, you have a very inconvenient conscience."
Kit smiled. "Don't tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation."
A knock at the door interrupted them and one of Gage's employees entered. "Mr. Gage, sir. The Duke of Ashworth has arrived. He's asking for a private table."
The temperature in the room dropped.
His father was here. The Duke of Ashworth, that paragon of respectability, was patronizing a gaming hell.
Of course he is.
"I wasn't aware the duke was a member," Kit said.
Gage's expression was carefully neutral. "He's been in twice before. He plays deep but settles his debts promptly." A pause. "I don't turn away paying customers."
"I'm not asking you to." Kit stood and straightened his coat. He donned an easy smile. "I should go."
Kit found his father in the main room, already seated at a corner table, examining a set of cards. The Duke of Ashworth was silver-haired and impeccably dressed. He looked very much like a duke.
Which, despite the years, still felt wrong. The duke's brother, his Uncle James… Now he had been fit for a dukedom. Not because he looked the part, but because he was a good leader. He'd set a fine example for other men, both in his private life and in parliament.
He'd been good. Plain and simple.
His father, on the other hand. Well, he played the role of duke to perfection. But it was all for show. His moral tirades, his precise appearance…
On the surface, he could not be faulted. But dig any deeper, and one could see the rotten core.
"Father." Kit approached with his easiest manner. "What a pleasant surprise."
The duke barely looked up. "Christopher."
Kit’s jaw ticked. No one called him by his full name but his father.
"I didn't know you frequented this establishment," Kit said.
"I've come on business." The duke's gaze swept over Kit, a quick, assessing inventory. "You, on the other hand, seem very much at home."
He lifted a shoulder. "Gage is a friend."
"Gage is a gaming hell proprietor. Not fit to be an acquaintance, let alone a friend." The duke set down his cards. "I've heard you've been making a spectacle of yourself."
Years of practice had Kit maintaining a smile. "I've been attending social events. As my aunt requested."
"With that Whitfield girl." His father said it flatly, as though naming a disappointing investment. "The one they call?—"
"Lady Clarissa." Kit's voice was pleasant. But he held his father's gaze fixedly. "Her name is Lady Clarissa."
The duke regarded him for a moment. "An earl's daughter," he said. "Not bad. Perhaps you're finally learning your place."
An earl's daughter. That's all she was to the duke. Just a pawn in his ongoing game. If it wasn't for his need to maintain their ruse, he'd tell the old man right here and now that he'd never marry a girl like Clarissa.
He'd never give his father the satisfaction, first of all. And second…
He tried to picture warm, funny, kindhearted Clarissa surviving in his cold, calculating family.
No. He would never do that to her.
"Don't get too attached to the idea, Your Grace," he said. "She's a friend of my aunt's. That's all."
