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Chapter Two
Dashiell Louis AlexanderWest, the Earl of Beldon, leaned against the wooden chair and took a slow draw on his cigar. His nonchalant posture belied his interest in the activities around him. The smoky club rang with the shouts of victory and dismay and the manufactured giggles of the women. The harsh cacophony was background noise for a seasoned gambler.
Haversham, the bastard son of the Duke of Leicester and the owner of the club, was engaged with a customer by the stairwell. He used his impressive bulk and misshapen nose and jaw to full effect on the frightened mouse hovering against the wall. The balding second son of a viscount, Armfield worked in a department of His Majesty’s Navy, making him a man of interest. Armfield pulled at his knotted cravat, nodding dramatically before he sat at a table. Running his hand over his shining pate, his shoulders slumped and his neck bent with the weight of his worries.
Haversham was an intimidating man to go up against after the years of battering his opponents in the ring. The owner had spent his time as a bare-knuckle boxer before he had the funds to open the club. Where he had acquired the funds was of great interest to Dash, as well as how Haversham used his powerful position over the highest nobility of the realm who frequented the club.
Dash glanced back at his fellow players’ cards spread on the table before him. Seated to his left was a newly titled baron. Oblivious to the tension between the serious gamblers, Breville bantered on. “Did you hear that Lady Otford has run off with a footman?”
Dash ignored the young fop. With too much liquor and too much blunt to lose, Breville was a welcome pigeon to pluck for Vinson, Yardley, and Weber. All three men spent nights playing and had lost a portion of their wealth to Haversham. Dash knew exactly what else they had forfeited to Haversham.
Counting the played cards and running the probabilities of winning this hand of Vingt-et-un, Dash made the doomed gesture with a flick of his hand to keep in the play. His chances of winning this hand were less than eight per cent.
Sweat beaded on Weber’s forehead and upper lip at the throw of a jack of hearts, worth ten points and most likely pushing him over the winning twenty-one. The portly gambler was reportedly one of the financial backers of the club. Weber, like the others, believed that fortune was in the next roll of the dice, the next flick of the card. Chasing the thrill that turned into a burning need that men couldn’t fight kept Haversham in business.
Yardley, a contemporary of Dash’s father, blinked away a right eye tic, and a very subtle smirk flashed on his lips. Dash threw back the exquisite brandy, allowing the heat to warm his innards, and waited for the play to unfold. Haversham delivered the best French wines and brandy, exquisite women, and French fare. It was all part of his plan to attract gentlemen to the less than reputable club. Haversham’s boxing connection to the criminal element provided a seediness for the thrill-seeking gentlemen of theton.
Yardley raised the ante, pushing them all to lose more money. Foolish Breville asked for another card, not paying the slightest attention to the cards dealt or the behavior of the fellow players. Breville didn’t need to care about either. Dash remembered the days when there was no limit to money and the future shone bright. Not liking the turn of his thoughts, Dash threw his cards down and stood. It was time to leave. He had plans to attend to.
“Dash. It’s taken me all night to find you. I thought you gave up this place?”
Dash winced hearing the disappointment in the familiar voice. He knew it was inevitable that Roddy would come looking for him. Dash thought he had more time before his friend attempted to save him from himself. Again.
Roddy, in his spotless, dun breeches, polished Hessians, and dark blue superfine wool jacket, epitomized the Earl of Clifton and respected statesman perfectly. His disheveled blond curls were at odds with the image of the serious man with serious responsibilities.
“You’re back from playing hero?”
Roddy’s head snapped back, giving Dash satisfaction that he had delivered the blow that he intended. “I’ve been back for months. Not that you would have noticed. You’ve obviously been distracted.”
Dash had followed all the news of Roddy and knew his friend had been at his country estate for the last months. What Dash didn’t need right now was to have his perceptive friend interfering. Dash had made sure his friend was shielded from the dark side of diplomacy in this snake pit. Haversham’s was no place for England’s upcoming and much needed honorable peer.
Roddy’s brief glance took in the entire scene—Dash’s enormous losses on the table, the smell of alcohol on Dash’s breath, and his unkempt, unshaven, and wrinkled clothes smelling of smoke and cheap perfume. “Come home with me. It’s been too damn long.”
How easy it would be to leave this club to enjoy the company of one of the few good men in his life. But Dash had other business tonight.
“I’m busy, Clifton.” Roddy didn’t react to Dash’s use of his title or the dismissal.
“But we have so much to catch up on.” Roddy placed his hand on Dash’s arm. “I want to hear all the news.”
“News?” Dash stepped back from the contact. “I have none. You see before you ‘my news.’” He spread his hands to encompass the raucous haze filled with scoundrels, rakes, and ladies who weren’t ladies.
Dash wished he hadn’t seen Roddy’s look of pity before his friend forced his stiff upper lip and chippy voice. “Dita would like to see you. We are hosting a grand ball and you must attend.”
If Perdita was a smart woman—and she was—she had no desire to ever see the likes of him again—unless Dash was tethered to a horse and being dragged through the street for public ridicule. Dita was a passionate woman who wouldn’t forgive easily. He didn’t want to think of Dita and her passionate nature. He had blocked out his past. It had all been an illusion where it needed to stay. And damn Roddy for hunting him down. He didn’t want to remember. He was committed to forgetting and not revisiting thewhat-ifs.
Dash crossed his ankles and leaned against his chair. He had hoped that Roddy’s younger sister would have been married by now with a passel of children. There would have been a line of men wanting to marry the stunning, spirited woman if she hadn’t been so blasted stubborn and left to her own devices too long.
“I won’t take no for an answer. You must attend Dita’s debut ball. It’s the first that she and I are hosting since my father’s death. It would mean a great deal to us to have you attend.”
After what Dash had done and had become, Roddy couldn’t possibly still harbor hope that Dash and Dita had a future together. Hadn’t negotiating with the French dampened Roddy’s belief in the goodness of mankind?
Her brother should be concentrating on a match with a respectable man. A man who would have to be strong and patient to handle Dita. A man with a firm manner who would protect her from her tendency to run wild. The image of a firm hand on Dita’s body had blood rushing through his veins, stirring a desire he hadn’t acknowledged in years. Damn Roddy again for showing up and igniting his need to speak with her. She had grown into a beautiful vivacious woman over the last three years, fulfilling the promising potential. From his many sources, he knew she remained a hellion on the brink of disaster.
Her father had provided very little supervision in his daughter’s activities. He had packed Perdita off to a finishing school quickly after his wife died. The bastard’s attention had been focused on his heir, to Roddy’s detriment. Clifton had ignored all his responsibility, including presenting her to society when the period of mourning for his wife was finished, and then the bastard died and Dita had to mourn again.
Roddy had escaped his father by taking a position with Lord Hawkesbury in France as a special envoy to negotiate the Treaty of Amiens. What was to be a few months took over a year to negotiate a peace deal between Britain, France, Spain, and the Batavian Republic. Roddy hadn’t returned with Hawkesbury and taken up his title after his father died. Roddy had lingered on the continent, avoiding all his responsibility to his sister. All the men in Dita’s life had failed her. Dash, in the shadows, had done his best to keep both safe.
“Go home, Clifton.” Dash didn’t want any further mention of Perdita in front of these men who were indebted to Haversham.
