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“You didn’t really gamble, did you?” asked Nick.
His father cast his gaze to the carpet. “I did.” He clutched Nick’s hand. “It was you or Sunderland. Had to make a choice, you see?”
The aging duke loved Sunderland House with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a scrap of driftwood—the house was his last, tenuous link to sanity. Here, in the familiar surroundings of his childhood, with his orchid conservatory and his son to care for him, the duke remained relatively tranquil and his malady harmed no one.
“Easy now.” Nick unclenched the duke’s gnarled fingers. “We’ll speak of it in the morning,” he said lightly, steering his father up the stairs.
The duke leaned heavily on Nick’s arm as they climbed the stairs. “Lost you to Sir Alfred Tombs. Had the devil’s own luck...” He yawned. “Daughter’s name is Alice. Hear she’s... pretty at least...”
His chin nodded near his chest and Nick propped him up, half carrying him to his chambers.
Sir Alfred—wealthy shipping merchant. Reputation for ruthlessness.
Nick had even met the daughter once at an art exhibition. He remembered her perfectly.
Miss Tombs was pretty, Nick would give her that. On the tall side for a female, with a fine complexion, deep dimples, and sparkling turquoise eyes.
Nick had been contemplating a seductive portrait of a gauze-draped woman when Miss Tombs had suddenly appeared, a vision of virginal white lace and rosy cheeks. Very sweet and wholesome... until she opened her mouth.
For some reason, she’d decided to beguile him with a gory description of how the portrait artist had died of a putrid fever. She’d described the entire course of the putrefaction in lurid and gleeful detail, with no agonizing or malodorous aspect spared.
Good God. The ghoulish Miss Tombs was as far from a prospective bride as Nick could imagine.
Not that he ever imagined marriage.
That venerable institution was the snare waiting to trap unsuspecting gentlemen into allowing one lady to ruin them for all others, as it had done to his friends the Duke of Harland and the Duke of Osborne, who were foolishly, irretrievably in love with their wives.
Nick was the last man standing of their disreputable band of ruffians and rogues.
Speaking of ruffians and rogues, where were his so-called servants? Not a one to be found when he needed them.
The duke roused slightly as Nick helped him remove his coat and cravat. “What time is it?”
“Bedtime.”
The duke held out his hand to Nick with a befuddled expression. “I think I have a splinter.”
Nick plucked a small painted slice of boat from his father’s palm. “Good as new. Into bed with you.”
Obediently, the duke snuggled under the coverlet. “Nicolas?”
“Yes?”
“I gambled you away.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Oh.” His father was silent for a moment. “Well, marriage might do you good.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “You need someone... to love. But find someone strong. Not delicate, nor easily crushed.”
“Go to sleep now.” Nick tucked the covers tighter around his father.
As soon as the duke’s breathing grew slow and steady, he left to go find Stubbs. The man had many questions to answer.
You need someone to love.
He tried to shake his father’s words away but they stuck like a splinter in his mind.
It wasn’t that Nick didn’t believe in love. He just didn’t believe in tomorrow—or in any kind of permanence.
