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PROLOGUE
London, England
“I’m late. I’m never late.” James sighed as he descended the stairs, moving from his lodgings to the gambling hall he owned. This late, the candles were glistening brightly. He knew if he passed through one vast door, he’d walk straight into the gambling rooms.
On one side, he’d see the hungry men, greedy for money as they leaned over the tables. Like dogs at their feeding bowls, ravenous, the men tried to grab the money, offering feeble cards and bets to try to win from him.
James smiled slightly as he looked at that door, adjusting his tailcoat before he turned his back on it.
Not tonight. Tonight, I have somewhere else to be.
He was choosing to be late. An invitation from his younger brother to a ball was so rare that, ordinarily, he never would have chosen to be late, but tonight, it was necessary. One of his gambling customers had not just asked to see him, but it had become imperative.
Making his way across the hall, he turned to another door, this one much smaller than the last and placed between two marble busts, bearing the faces of eighteenth-century philosophers. James opened the door, stepping into the room. The candles were lit here too, with some placed in sconces on the walls, creating the appearance of stars following him down the corridor as he walked.
Eventually, he heard voices. They came from an open doorway at the far end of the corridor through which he could see a friend of his pacing. Michael Hawkins, known by many as the Viscount Thorne, was clearly losing his patience. With a hand rubbing his temple and his pacing relentless, their guest had to be pushing the Viscount’s limits.
James held himself back for a minute, hovering in the doorway and watching the meeting that was taking place.
As Michael paced, their guest, Mr. Jeremy Waters, was sitting in a chair, visibly shaking. His fingers trembled so much, it was as if he’d suffered some sort of shock.
“You cannot expect me to pay, My Lord,” Mr. Waters was saying repeatedly to Michael, his voice squeaky with desperation. “I have given everything I have to this establishment.”
“Ha! You make it sound as if you were a benefactor rather than a gambler.” Michael’s words made James smile as he hovered by the open door. “You are in great debt to this gambling hall, and neither I nor the proprietor can continue to maintain your debt. You know the rules, Mr. Waters; you must pay your debt.”
Mr. Waters shook his head and bent forward as if he had been punched in the gut by those words.
“Oh, oh, I do not feel well,” he wailed then placed a hand to his chest. “I believe I am having heart trouble, palpitations. Oh no!”
“A fine actor you are, sir, but I need to point out that your heart is placed in your left-hand side of your chest not your right.” Michael calmly stopped walking and pointed at Mr. Waters’ chest, showing he was clutching at the wrong part of his torso. Mr. Waters moved his hand to the correct side, but it was too late. His attempt to garner sympathy and possibly an escape from this meeting had failed.
No control, that was the man’s problem.
James kept the thought to himself as he watched through the open door, seeing the orange light from the candles flicker so much that the light and shadows danced across Mr. Waters’ face. He’d seen such weaknesses many times since he’d opened the gambling hall. No man had good control of himself, at least none as good as him.
My rules are simple and should be any man’s rules. No liquor, no gambling, and nothing that can threaten my discipline.
He’d adopted these rules long ago, and they had served him well. After his father had passed, and the dukedom faced ruin, James had opened the gambling hall with Michael coming in to work for him. Through his discipline and hard graft, James had seen the business grow to the resounding success it was today.
The dukedom was profitable once again, and he’d never need to fear losing money, or dread a debtor’s prison, but it had come at a price. Many suspected what good there could be in a man who owned a gambling hall. His reputation had been torn into tatters by the scandal sheets, and his younger brother barely spoke to him, fearing what association could do between them.
Despite the damage, James would not change things. He was content, happy as he was, and that was all down to one thing.
I keep to my rules.
“I beg of you, sir, I must see a doctor,” Mr. Waters pleaded with Michael again.
“You’re no sicker than I am. Your only sickness is of your wallet, not your body.” Michael gestured to the man, watching as Mr. Waters’ hands lowered from his chest.
James had had enough and pushed the ajar door wide open, revealing his presence. At once, silence fell in the room. Michael turned to face him with a small smile, revealing grey eyes that looked tired and a mop of dark blond hair that was tangled, for he had pulled at it in stress many times.
Mr. Waters said nothing, yet he audibly gulped as he looked toward James. Slowly, James stepped into the room, aware of the power that had shifted toward him at that moment. It always seemed to be the same. Either men feared him or his influence, for they frequently fell quiet in his presence, and they became obedient like young, newly weaned pups.
“Mr. Waters,” James’ voice was deep as he approached and stood in front of the gambling man. “I’ve had enough of listening to your quarrels with my manager, and I’ve equally tired of the credit we have given you in this establishment.”
“I will pay, Your Grace, I will!” the man said desperately, leaning out of his chair. He looked ready to stand and paw at James’ tailcoat with his hands outstretched. One hard glare from James’ dark blue eyes was enough to keep the man in place.
“What money do you have to your name now? Hmm?” James asked. His voice was quiet, but the depth was enough to make the man’s trembling worse. It was a rare thing indeed for James to need to shout.
